I am thinking about translation, and about Richard Pevear's accent. I am
wondering how Tolstoy can be both delightfully wry and a supreme drag
in the same sentence, and about what makes the difference. I wonder what
Radiolab would sound like in Spanish, and what it would feel like to
see a New York street through your tongue. I am wondering at the fact
that the first story in Putas Asesinas, the first story I am reading in
my adoptive language, has sent me back to India, and whether Bolaño can
telescope me through the imaginative possibilities of another language
back to a native truth. I am curious about what would happen if I were
to photocopy 'El Ojo Silva' and begin to translate it for myself, elbows
deep in the wet clay of Spanish, into overbearing English. I
wonder if there exist Hindi subtitles for Chico y Rita, and how you
might caption the subtleties of Chak De! India for Mexico.
Showing posts with label Culture-crossed. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Culture-crossed. Show all posts
17.11.14
29.5.12
Rollin' Mama Blues
What is it about America that obscures all other places
almost to the point of erasure? And how is it that it can
reach you anywhere you are? Irritating, but once you've
found roots in America, all your noble aspirations toward
globalness* become severely compromised.
Yet there is life outside America, folks. It doesn't quite
sound like Kate McTell, but it's there, and it's beautiful
and it's got its own kind of blues.
I, for one, am quite pleased at the prospect of life in
a reachable elsewhere.
Every elsewhere is here to somebody.
*If you are unable to comprehend in the author's tone a fair amount
of sarcasm and self-mockery, kindly step away from this blog.
I fear it will do you no favours.
11.2.12
Good Intentions
So are you succeeding in saving India?
Actually, I believe "India" is helping me save myself.
*
It is always the way, isn't it, that the decent, bright kid sets out to untangle a good, meaty problem and, somewhere along the way, finds he's pulling his own threads apart.
The thinking traveler travels to Tangier, say, as an exercise in demystification, but the greatest upheaval he experiences is looking out the window and unpacking his absurdly composed suitcase.
The writer attempts to reveal something about the world but ends up repeatedly revealing himself.
*
Whatever man, anthropology blows.
Nobody wants to be explained in a textbook.
Actually, I believe "India" is helping me save myself.
*
It is always the way, isn't it, that the decent, bright kid sets out to untangle a good, meaty problem and, somewhere along the way, finds he's pulling his own threads apart.
The thinking traveler travels to Tangier, say, as an exercise in demystification, but the greatest upheaval he experiences is looking out the window and unpacking his absurdly composed suitcase.
The writer attempts to reveal something about the world but ends up repeatedly revealing himself.
*
Whatever man, anthropology blows.
Nobody wants to be explained in a textbook.
5.11.11
Fish Don't Fly (Karma Cola 2.011)
Hands full of glasses, lungs full of smoke, large laughs, little skirts, high heels, big dreams. It scares me when people look this good and stand so tall, confident taking up space and conducting their lives, zero jhijak, full throttle. Empty bottle. Khali botal, masti total. The scene has gone beyond the hotal, and spilled out across Delhi's spacious periphery. Dust blows back from under their wheels into the city's interior as they emerge from it, unscathed, unfazed, freshly bathed at midnight. Like a compulsive calorie-counter, I begin silently to compute how many hours went into that make-up, that hair, that outfit. Not just tonight; years of practice until the right shade, the right style, the right fit. Every one of them self-trained in a highly evolved curatorial art.
I bite. I am mesmerized. I stare at the women and even peel open an eye for the men. How did these people happen, and where have they been? Are they the same kids I went to school with? I didn't see it, but they must have grown past routine considerations of social etiquette, likeability, glamour; past even bravery, to blossom into a realm of pure, unselfconscious being. How did they do it? How do they do it? I simmer, humiliated that the implicit altitude of my high road hasn't actually allowed me to transcend anything. Here I am, craning my neck, watching these strange beings casually stand around on my glass ceiling. I experience a sort of myoclonic jerk, and almost fall. When I realize the ground is still beneath my feet I feel euphoric with relief.
They must always have been around. They must have looked different before now. Or maybe I wasn't paying attention. Now I am, and here they are. Groomed. Lipsticked. Perfumed. Pleated. Yelling one more song. Shelling out bills like handfulls of confetti. Air kissing on both cheeks. Talking to each other like they have something to say. They must do. But what is it? I am aware of a web of knowledge being spun and respun all around me. But what is it transmitting? They all know something I don't. They are serious about it. They understand the importance of trading this information. I don't know what it is or why it's important. I'm full of questions. I can't tell if they're good ones. I think they started out rhetorical, but now I don't know my own answers.
Does it mean something when a kid hoots about holding MDMA during a drug-satire? Why am I drawn to the one man in a Fabindia vest? Why does the word fuck seem to have an echo? Is there something to say about the blond girl weaving intensely in front of the blond boy, both sets of pupils exploding? The lead singer's wig, the musicians clothes; the drunk Tibetan girl throwing up in the loo; the posh Delhi club and the reference to Frantz Fanon; the tiny top-hat in the hair of a girl from Lucknow---are these things noteworthy?
The taxi driver plays Sai songs. He introduces himself with his name, followed by the focus, location and progress of his education. He's at the same college as my Dad. I went to the same college as his cousin. He plays cricket and goes home to eat his mother's homecooked food. His brother owns a cab company of thirty cars. He's an extra for the night. He drives like a mosquito flies; a mosquito propelled by jet fuel. He calls me ma'am. For the first time ever, I don't protest. I lock the gate, go upstairs, call my mother to let me in. Pixie-cut still perfect, she comes to the door. I debrief briefly, and say goodnight. Five minutes later, she calls me to say hi. Ten minutes later, I have my face in a navy blue silk sari that once belonged to my grandmother. Three hours later, ma'am is asleep.
I bite. I am mesmerized. I stare at the women and even peel open an eye for the men. How did these people happen, and where have they been? Are they the same kids I went to school with? I didn't see it, but they must have grown past routine considerations of social etiquette, likeability, glamour; past even bravery, to blossom into a realm of pure, unselfconscious being. How did they do it? How do they do it? I simmer, humiliated that the implicit altitude of my high road hasn't actually allowed me to transcend anything. Here I am, craning my neck, watching these strange beings casually stand around on my glass ceiling. I experience a sort of myoclonic jerk, and almost fall. When I realize the ground is still beneath my feet I feel euphoric with relief.
They must always have been around. They must have looked different before now. Or maybe I wasn't paying attention. Now I am, and here they are. Groomed. Lipsticked. Perfumed. Pleated. Yelling one more song. Shelling out bills like handfulls of confetti. Air kissing on both cheeks. Talking to each other like they have something to say. They must do. But what is it? I am aware of a web of knowledge being spun and respun all around me. But what is it transmitting? They all know something I don't. They are serious about it. They understand the importance of trading this information. I don't know what it is or why it's important. I'm full of questions. I can't tell if they're good ones. I think they started out rhetorical, but now I don't know my own answers.
Does it mean something when a kid hoots about holding MDMA during a drug-satire? Why am I drawn to the one man in a Fabindia vest? Why does the word fuck seem to have an echo? Is there something to say about the blond girl weaving intensely in front of the blond boy, both sets of pupils exploding? The lead singer's wig, the musicians clothes; the drunk Tibetan girl throwing up in the loo; the posh Delhi club and the reference to Frantz Fanon; the tiny top-hat in the hair of a girl from Lucknow---are these things noteworthy?
The taxi driver plays Sai songs. He introduces himself with his name, followed by the focus, location and progress of his education. He's at the same college as my Dad. I went to the same college as his cousin. He plays cricket and goes home to eat his mother's homecooked food. His brother owns a cab company of thirty cars. He's an extra for the night. He drives like a mosquito flies; a mosquito propelled by jet fuel. He calls me ma'am. For the first time ever, I don't protest. I lock the gate, go upstairs, call my mother to let me in. Pixie-cut still perfect, she comes to the door. I debrief briefly, and say goodnight. Five minutes later, she calls me to say hi. Ten minutes later, I have my face in a navy blue silk sari that once belonged to my grandmother. Three hours later, ma'am is asleep.
6.4.11
Here is just as strange...
...as everywhere else.
(Well, yes, I do think I am able to adapt to a wider range of elses than most, thank you for asking, and this, forgive me, was not my experience. But thank you. And forgive me, but may I have another doughnut? No sprinkles, thank you.)
(Well, yes, I do think I am able to adapt to a wider range of elses than most, thank you for asking, and this, forgive me, was not my experience. But thank you. And forgive me, but may I have another doughnut? No sprinkles, thank you.)
19.2.11
Revealing
Here's what I wrote in response to a rightfully angry, yet slightly off-kilter Salon article, regarding it's confusion on the point of Nir Rosen's controversial tweets in the wake of early news about Lara Logan's assault during celebrations in Tahrir Square last week:
Because let me be very, very clear: that she is blonde, attractive, a celebrity, was allegedly promiscuous, might have made an arguably 'bad call' getting into the thick of riotous celebrations, and 'was in the Middle East, after all' are not and should not be cited as excuses for the assault on her. Any form of "she was asking for it" is unacceptable--no woman is ever asking to be forced upon. In any setting. No matter how she looks or what she wears or what she has done in her past. No aspect of her conduct or personality or appearance should be license for her violation.
The incredibly sad truth, however, is that her appearance might actually have had something to do with why she specifically, over other women in the square, was assaulted. And she is still not to blame. Her assailants probably had no idea that she was a pro-war reporter, but it is possible they took her to be a symbol of what angered them. Anti-American sentiment does exist, some of it highly misguided. Misguided enough, perhaps, to imagine that it is reasonable to exact historic revenge from one woman because she looks American. Just as misguided as those who deliriously took her assault to be confirmation of the bad-character of all Arabs or all Muslims, no matter how insistent on democracy. For it is equally likely that this was an isolated incident. Still, one cannot ignore that this is what someone, somewhere took the opportunity to do at a moment of great political import.
Conflict--cultural, moral, political, historic, "civilizational"--has always been played out on the bodies of women. That is the material point. That is why Lara Logan gets sexually assaulted during a victory celebration at the end of peaceful protests demanding fair government. And that is why Lara Logan is refracted through tabloid tragedy and turned into Exhibit A for the case against the Arab world.
All of it boils down to the same crappy fact: women's bodies are still not respected as absolutely being their own. A fact highly visible these days in the Republican party's charming efforts to redefine rape, and restrict reproductive rights to the point of complete illogic. It is the woman's body: she decides whether it is rape. She decides whether to have sex. She decides whether to use birth control. She decides whether to continue the pregnancy. She decides her appearance, her apparel, her profession. Somebody else may disagree with her choices, call them selfish or foolish or risky. But nobody else is entitled to pronounce judgment on what she may or may not do to her own body.
Saying that someone's tragedy caught the media's attention because she looks a certain way is not the same as saying that that someone deserved her tragedy for looking that way. Nir Rosen, I believe, was making the former point. He chose a highly inappropriate time to make that point. There is no good time to make that point. He should absolutely be criticized, chastised, even ostracized, what have you, for publicly withholding his sympathy, for implying that her "war-mongering" reportage somehow balanced out the offense against her, and for being such an ass about making his point. But his point, underneath all the insensitive rhetoric, was still not that she deserved the assault, but that her assault would provoke a unique (and in his opinion overblown) media reaction--one that would not exist were it not for the way she looks. This nuance is crucial to me. Victim-blaming is a terrible, sick thing, far worse than being unsympathetic or insensitive, and we should take care in accusing someone of it.Unquestionable crime, questionable media.
"And your opinion of how she does that job, the religion her assailants share with a few million other people, or the color of her hair has nothing to do with it."Nothing to do with the heinous crime, certainly, but EVERYTHING to do with the western media's coverage of it.
Which, by the way, is the point Nir Rosen was attempting, in an admittedly crass way, to make. A person's belief in the validity of that point need not necessarily be interpreted as an apologia for the assault perpetrated on Logan.
That people so adamantly interpreted (it) as such smacks of defensiveness. Nobody wants, after all, to admit that the horrible abuse of a white woman celebrity is more worth reporting than the similarly horrible abuse of anonymous non-white women.
Because let me be very, very clear: that she is blonde, attractive, a celebrity, was allegedly promiscuous, might have made an arguably 'bad call' getting into the thick of riotous celebrations, and 'was in the Middle East, after all' are not and should not be cited as excuses for the assault on her. Any form of "she was asking for it" is unacceptable--no woman is ever asking to be forced upon. In any setting. No matter how she looks or what she wears or what she has done in her past. No aspect of her conduct or personality or appearance should be license for her violation.
The incredibly sad truth, however, is that her appearance might actually have had something to do with why she specifically, over other women in the square, was assaulted. And she is still not to blame. Her assailants probably had no idea that she was a pro-war reporter, but it is possible they took her to be a symbol of what angered them. Anti-American sentiment does exist, some of it highly misguided. Misguided enough, perhaps, to imagine that it is reasonable to exact historic revenge from one woman because she looks American. Just as misguided as those who deliriously took her assault to be confirmation of the bad-character of all Arabs or all Muslims, no matter how insistent on democracy. For it is equally likely that this was an isolated incident. Still, one cannot ignore that this is what someone, somewhere took the opportunity to do at a moment of great political import.
Conflict--cultural, moral, political, historic, "civilizational"--has always been played out on the bodies of women. That is the material point. That is why Lara Logan gets sexually assaulted during a victory celebration at the end of peaceful protests demanding fair government. And that is why Lara Logan is refracted through tabloid tragedy and turned into Exhibit A for the case against the Arab world.
All of it boils down to the same crappy fact: women's bodies are still not respected as absolutely being their own. A fact highly visible these days in the Republican party's charming efforts to redefine rape, and restrict reproductive rights to the point of complete illogic. It is the woman's body: she decides whether it is rape. She decides whether to have sex. She decides whether to use birth control. She decides whether to continue the pregnancy. She decides her appearance, her apparel, her profession. Somebody else may disagree with her choices, call them selfish or foolish or risky. But nobody else is entitled to pronounce judgment on what she may or may not do to her own body.
11.2.11
A tweet worth blogging / Social media is so meta
If you don't know what "some cartoons" refers to, see this, and please also understand that a friendship between us might be difficult.
3.12.10
A sense of humour about India...
...is not something I am generally understood to have.
Then again, that's probably because no American
humourist has ever gotten knee deep in dye.
Then again, that's probably because no American
humourist has ever gotten knee deep in dye.
8.8.10
More talk of harmony and cultural understanding.
One Ms. Vijaykar has just made me aware that the reason Indians reacted so adversely to Joel Stein's July slice of bigotry-lite is because we're embarrassed of our "heritage". Because we supplant it with "bland American customs". Because we don't take the time to explain our culture to them.
Oh! That's why they call us dotheads and ask us if we own elephants and if we have roads in India and if we're 'promised to a landlord or something'. Because we do so little to "patiently illuminate them".
Tch. All this time I was just being defensive, when I should have been spending my time hosting "get-to-know-India" events. My bad.
Oh! That's why they call us dotheads and ask us if we own elephants and if we have roads in India and if we're 'promised to a landlord or something'. Because we do so little to "patiently illuminate them".
Tch. All this time I was just being defensive, when I should have been spending my time hosting "get-to-know-India" events. My bad.
10.7.10
Warning: Brown Anger Below
For those who have been peaced out from the real world this past week, because of summer, or Country Fair, or heartbreak, or whatever, here's what you missed:
Time Magazine published an opinion/humour piece by Joel Stien about Indian immigration in his hometown of Edison, New Jersey. Full of nostalgia and recycled clichés, there isn’t much in it worth talking about. Except that it unveils in spectacular fashion the rhetoric and logic that still lies beneath the sexy, suit-jacketed face of Post-Racial America. ("Post" in the sense that it exists beyond any awareness of what it is to be “racial”.)
As though it weren’t enough to dislodge yourself from the familiar for the promise of something the world insists is “the good life”. As though it weren’t enough to scrounge together an identity and carry it with you in a suitcase ten thousand miles to a place where you must remake home from fragments, against an entirely unfamiliar backdrop. As though it weren’t enough to have no idea who you are and where you fit and how to BE in the world. As though it weren’t enough to deal with the dissolution of self and dreams. Let's also take on the responsibility of ruining the landscape of American nostalgia.
Sorry, Joel. We totally disturbed your past in pursuit of our futures.
The malls in India really are "that bad".
Alanis Morissette may have thanked us, but we never got a chance to thank YOU, America. Thank you. Thank you for all that you have allowed us. Thank you for your jobs at desks or in cabs or behind counters, slingin’ donuts or ringing up Slurpees. Thank you for trying so hard to decipher our accents when you’re trying to get your laptop fixed, and for putting up with the overwhelming curry smell we bring with us everywhere we go. Thank you for the eight Oscars, for the occasional pop-culture nod, and for the polite literary applause. Thank you for recognizing our skills, and for telling us what we lack. Thank you for advertising yourself to us, and then withholding. Thank you for luring us away from ourselves, and relocating us in a nowhere. Thank you for letting us lose ourselves trying to be good enough for your left-overs.
Please let me know the next time you need to watch soft-core porn or steal and I'll get my shit out of your way. It's the least I can do for someone who has figured out "why India is so damn poor." And do accept my apologies on behalf of my fellow countrymen who have flooded you with violent emails. It seems we can’t even be relied on to play Gandhi anymore. What ever happened to bending over and turning the other cheek? Tch.
[Slightly altered version published in Brown Girl Magazine.]
Time Magazine published an opinion/humour piece by Joel Stien about Indian immigration in his hometown of Edison, New Jersey. Full of nostalgia and recycled clichés, there isn’t much in it worth talking about. Except that it unveils in spectacular fashion the rhetoric and logic that still lies beneath the sexy, suit-jacketed face of Post-Racial America. ("Post" in the sense that it exists beyond any awareness of what it is to be “racial”.)
As though it weren’t enough to dislodge yourself from the familiar for the promise of something the world insists is “the good life”. As though it weren’t enough to scrounge together an identity and carry it with you in a suitcase ten thousand miles to a place where you must remake home from fragments, against an entirely unfamiliar backdrop. As though it weren’t enough to have no idea who you are and where you fit and how to BE in the world. As though it weren’t enough to deal with the dissolution of self and dreams. Let's also take on the responsibility of ruining the landscape of American nostalgia.
Sorry, Joel. We totally disturbed your past in pursuit of our futures.
The malls in India really are "that bad".
Alanis Morissette may have thanked us, but we never got a chance to thank YOU, America. Thank you. Thank you for all that you have allowed us. Thank you for your jobs at desks or in cabs or behind counters, slingin’ donuts or ringing up Slurpees. Thank you for trying so hard to decipher our accents when you’re trying to get your laptop fixed, and for putting up with the overwhelming curry smell we bring with us everywhere we go. Thank you for the eight Oscars, for the occasional pop-culture nod, and for the polite literary applause. Thank you for recognizing our skills, and for telling us what we lack. Thank you for advertising yourself to us, and then withholding. Thank you for luring us away from ourselves, and relocating us in a nowhere. Thank you for letting us lose ourselves trying to be good enough for your left-overs.
Please let me know the next time you need to watch soft-core porn or steal and I'll get my shit out of your way. It's the least I can do for someone who has figured out "why India is so damn poor." And do accept my apologies on behalf of my fellow countrymen who have flooded you with violent emails. It seems we can’t even be relied on to play Gandhi anymore. What ever happened to bending over and turning the other cheek? Tch.
[Slightly altered version published in Brown Girl Magazine.]
1.4.09
On the Radio
The only person who agrees with me about the latest Bond film is a prolific, hyper-passionate, forty-something national nuisance, ten thousand miles away.
17.3.09
Speak deliberately, and carry a big camera.
I have stumbled upon a late-night screening of "Rick Steves' Iran" on OPB. Watching cultural perception be remade is fascinating. Not to mention amusing: A jovial, unabashedly touristy white gentleman in khakis and button down shirts strolling through the alleys of an intricate red-stone village in the Iranian countryside. Up with the times, he points his SLR at himself and young Iranians he chats with; men about being Iranian, women about being women in Iran. He talks tentatively with a young woman about religion and politics and their mixing. The girl disapproves, which he seems to approve.
He seems interested in establishing a separation between Iran's people and its politics. He gets quotes to support that. He represents culture, history, heritage, modernity, Islam, politics, architecture, infrastructure, and other compositional elements of a nation in ostensible balance. He acknowledges the widespread "resentment" of foreign interference and influence. Still, I feel unsettled.
His intentions certainly seem good. During a soliciting/promotional break, he utters the following:
"I just wanted to humanize the place."
"They don't want their kids to become Britney Spears; I tell them I don't either! They're afraid that their kids will be turned into little sex toys and drug dealers and materialists."
"I just believe you have to KNOW people before you bomb them."
And still, I feel unsettled.
Perhaps it's the curious accent westerners get when they travel to exotic lands and attempt to converse in their language with natives who they fear aren't fluent. Or perhaps it is the fact that, no matter how good the intention, an attempt to demystify always turns into a bid to defang. From scary other to cozy ethnicity (Thanks, Assia Djebar).
All of this sudden attention is not surprising, considering America is finally considering holding hands with Iran. It may help to know they have a "modern sensibility and seem well-educated" and that they love America. That they wear designer sunglasses, and travel by subway. That under their chadors, beneath the many, superficial (and therefore irrelevant) layers of political tension, civilizational conflict and cultural differences lies the fabled universal humanity which will inevitably transcend and reconcile everything else. That 'they' aren't really that different from 'us' after all. That they ultimately want the same things.
So there he is, the translator-traveler-envoy of the West, on a reconnaissance mission, dealing in similarities and differences, positing understanding as the flipside of fear. Engaging in what is undoubtably a noble and increasingly necessary endeavour.
And still, I feel unsettled.
He seems interested in establishing a separation between Iran's people and its politics. He gets quotes to support that. He represents culture, history, heritage, modernity, Islam, politics, architecture, infrastructure, and other compositional elements of a nation in ostensible balance. He acknowledges the widespread "resentment" of foreign interference and influence. Still, I feel unsettled.
His intentions certainly seem good. During a soliciting/promotional break, he utters the following:
"I just wanted to humanize the place."
"They don't want their kids to become Britney Spears; I tell them I don't either! They're afraid that their kids will be turned into little sex toys and drug dealers and materialists."
"I just believe you have to KNOW people before you bomb them."
And still, I feel unsettled.
Perhaps it's the curious accent westerners get when they travel to exotic lands and attempt to converse in their language with natives who they fear aren't fluent. Or perhaps it is the fact that, no matter how good the intention, an attempt to demystify always turns into a bid to defang. From scary other to cozy ethnicity (Thanks, Assia Djebar).
All of this sudden attention is not surprising, considering America is finally considering holding hands with Iran. It may help to know they have a "modern sensibility and seem well-educated" and that they love America. That they wear designer sunglasses, and travel by subway. That under their chadors, beneath the many, superficial (and therefore irrelevant) layers of political tension, civilizational conflict and cultural differences lies the fabled universal humanity which will inevitably transcend and reconcile everything else. That 'they' aren't really that different from 'us' after all. That they ultimately want the same things.
So there he is, the translator-traveler-envoy of the West, on a reconnaissance mission, dealing in similarities and differences, positing understanding as the flipside of fear. Engaging in what is undoubtably a noble and increasingly necessary endeavour.
And still, I feel unsettled.
11.3.09
Comedy of Ignorance
All of a sudden, India is all over the American pop-cultural mindscape. Case in point, The Colbert Report. Tonight, for instance, Stephen Colbert made joke about Bollywood dancing, and then about India's space program, including a breezy reference to poverty and a graphic of one of the turrets flying off the Taj Mahal as a rocket. All in the space of about five minutes. And this isn't a one off. India's getting more face time on The Daily Show as well. (Yes, I do realize that this one hour of TV is not the sum of all American pop culture, but I think it's an interesting sample.)
What's going on here? A few years ago, India mattered very little to anyone, as far as I could see. And now it's all cows and Bollywood and the Taj Mahal floating about everywhere. Is it all because of Slumdog? Is that what's put us on the map? Suddenly we're interesting? Suddenly we're relevant enough to be a subject for political comedy? That's it, though. That's the extent of it. Interest in India doesn't seem to have been expansive; just more reductive.
Maybe this is just a result of my increasing disenchantment with the Colbert/Stewart universe. Monday morning, I had a brief conversation about comedy with someone I think knows it pretty well. I asked what he thought made good comedy, and if it was a difference between laughing at and just laughing. He said that laughing at can often be cruel, especially when alienating the subject of comedy as in the case of these shows, but it doesn't have to be, as long as the person (place or thing) that's being laughed at, is laughing as well. I'm not sure I am anymore.
Perhaps there's some sort of rule of proportionality involved. You enjoy comedy increasingly in proportion to the amount you know about its subject, but you get to a certain point when you know enough and, more importantly, CARE enough that the reductive nature of the comedy really begins to bother you. I, for one, no longer have a sense of humour when Uzbekistan is just goats, and Iran is just anti-modern ayatollahs (which it barely is AT ALL).
I know somebody will turn around and tell me I'm hypersensitive, but I'm not okay with the appropriation of fragments of a culture so that somebody who knows nothing about it can have a giggle at its expense. It's lazy and condescending and I don't think I should have to get over myself and laugh.
What's going on here? A few years ago, India mattered very little to anyone, as far as I could see. And now it's all cows and Bollywood and the Taj Mahal floating about everywhere. Is it all because of Slumdog? Is that what's put us on the map? Suddenly we're interesting? Suddenly we're relevant enough to be a subject for political comedy? That's it, though. That's the extent of it. Interest in India doesn't seem to have been expansive; just more reductive.
Maybe this is just a result of my increasing disenchantment with the Colbert/Stewart universe. Monday morning, I had a brief conversation about comedy with someone I think knows it pretty well. I asked what he thought made good comedy, and if it was a difference between laughing at and just laughing. He said that laughing at can often be cruel, especially when alienating the subject of comedy as in the case of these shows, but it doesn't have to be, as long as the person (place or thing) that's being laughed at, is laughing as well. I'm not sure I am anymore.
Perhaps there's some sort of rule of proportionality involved. You enjoy comedy increasingly in proportion to the amount you know about its subject, but you get to a certain point when you know enough and, more importantly, CARE enough that the reductive nature of the comedy really begins to bother you. I, for one, no longer have a sense of humour when Uzbekistan is just goats, and Iran is just anti-modern ayatollahs (which it barely is AT ALL).
I know somebody will turn around and tell me I'm hypersensitive, but I'm not okay with the appropriation of fragments of a culture so that somebody who knows nothing about it can have a giggle at its expense. It's lazy and condescending and I don't think I should have to get over myself and laugh.
28.2.09
Medicate with Mendacity.
I have been thinking about this.
For a long time, India has been the imagined repository for social evils far away from the western world: the caste system, sati, child marriage, child labour, dowry, poverty, and so on. It has also managed, somehow, to be the epicenter for various exotic positives: yoga, meditation, textiles, the vedas, the Kama Sutra, curry, Krishna, "that elephant guy", and other assorted gods. It could take hours to unravel the mystery behind this cultural composition, so I will desist. What I will say is that the above list does not represent my India. My description would look substantially different, furnished with different images.
But here's the thing: you rarely get to pack your own cultural suitcase. And when you travel, you discover, item by item, what you have been arbitrarily, often carelessly, assigned. You don't dress yourself, but people read every aspect of your appearance as ethnography.
What worries me is the possibility that we, that is Indians, have failed to describe ourselves to the world, and so are being described according to its fancy. I realize it isn't quite as simple as that. After all, it's not like there's a vaccuum where indigenous cultural witness should be. There are plenty of self-produced, nuanced representations of India. If they don't get seen, or if they are forgotten, ignored, dismissed, rejected or reduced, perhaps there isn't much we can do about it. Is there?
As always, we come back to Slumdog Millionaire.
In the end, what bother me is this: it must take very little to create convincing cultural representations, if this manipulative, platitudinous film can manage it. Just garnish with pretty people and a climactic kiss to make it go down easy. Glaze with a shabby bit of choreography and a slogan at the end to retain the ethnic flavour and set the hopeful message. Is this all it takes? Or perhaps I should ask if this is what it takes. Not too harsh, not too chirpy: just the right degree of grit.
Show me what I want to see, and I'll stick a dollar bill in your choli. Dance for me, India. Dance for me.
(Incidentally, if you're interested in more than the self-indulgent musings of one more blogger, you might want to check out this piece on the film by Tarun Tejpal, editor of Tehelka Magazine. It put the matter more or less to rest for me. Read it. It's excellent.)
For a long time, India has been the imagined repository for social evils far away from the western world: the caste system, sati, child marriage, child labour, dowry, poverty, and so on. It has also managed, somehow, to be the epicenter for various exotic positives: yoga, meditation, textiles, the vedas, the Kama Sutra, curry, Krishna, "that elephant guy", and other assorted gods. It could take hours to unravel the mystery behind this cultural composition, so I will desist. What I will say is that the above list does not represent my India. My description would look substantially different, furnished with different images.
But here's the thing: you rarely get to pack your own cultural suitcase. And when you travel, you discover, item by item, what you have been arbitrarily, often carelessly, assigned. You don't dress yourself, but people read every aspect of your appearance as ethnography.
What worries me is the possibility that we, that is Indians, have failed to describe ourselves to the world, and so are being described according to its fancy. I realize it isn't quite as simple as that. After all, it's not like there's a vaccuum where indigenous cultural witness should be. There are plenty of self-produced, nuanced representations of India. If they don't get seen, or if they are forgotten, ignored, dismissed, rejected or reduced, perhaps there isn't much we can do about it. Is there?
As always, we come back to Slumdog Millionaire.
In the end, what bother me is this: it must take very little to create convincing cultural representations, if this manipulative, platitudinous film can manage it. Just garnish with pretty people and a climactic kiss to make it go down easy. Glaze with a shabby bit of choreography and a slogan at the end to retain the ethnic flavour and set the hopeful message. Is this all it takes? Or perhaps I should ask if this is what it takes. Not too harsh, not too chirpy: just the right degree of grit.
Show me what I want to see, and I'll stick a dollar bill in your choli. Dance for me, India. Dance for me.
(Incidentally, if you're interested in more than the self-indulgent musings of one more blogger, you might want to check out this piece on the film by Tarun Tejpal, editor of Tehelka Magazine. It put the matter more or less to rest for me. Read it. It's excellent.)
23.2.09
Slumdog Slamdunk.
While Slumdog was winning eight Oscars, I was in the library reading about Afghanistan, Pakistan, the Taliban, the giant military blunder to come, and what the rest of the world is thinking as the United States gears up for another round of "Doing Whatever We Bloody Well Please, Even If We Haven't Thought It Through And It Isn't Good For Anybody, Including Us."
So, having discovered this joyous news online, I suppose I should go and hide my head somewhere. And while I'm at it, perhaps I should subtly correct my casual opinion that the film's success has less to do with the film as a film, and more to do with the film as a cultural artifact in the current global context. After all, as so many educated young writers for the New York Times and such have pointed out, the widespread dislike among the Indian middle-class for the film is merely embarrassment and reluctance to admit to the terrible poverty they routinely ignore. And while I stew in my easily accessible, privelidged-Indian guilt at not being more compassionate and active about the evils consuming my fellow countrymen, I suppose I may as well ignore the something fishy in the global media's undoubtedly skewed focus on this little piece of poverty relative to the vast sea of which it is a part.
Too much perspective is never good, is it? It keeps you from feeling the guilt/shame/joy/sympathy/pity appropriate for a two hour experience of the world.
So, having discovered this joyous news online, I suppose I should go and hide my head somewhere. And while I'm at it, perhaps I should subtly correct my casual opinion that the film's success has less to do with the film as a film, and more to do with the film as a cultural artifact in the current global context. After all, as so many educated young writers for the New York Times and such have pointed out, the widespread dislike among the Indian middle-class for the film is merely embarrassment and reluctance to admit to the terrible poverty they routinely ignore. And while I stew in my easily accessible, privelidged-Indian guilt at not being more compassionate and active about the evils consuming my fellow countrymen, I suppose I may as well ignore the something fishy in the global media's undoubtedly skewed focus on this little piece of poverty relative to the vast sea of which it is a part.
Too much perspective is never good, is it? It keeps you from feeling the guilt/shame/joy/sympathy/pity appropriate for a two hour experience of the world.
27.1.09
Playing Hide and Seek with Poverty
The world seems to be having some trouble looking at poverty. Accusations of 'selling', 'using', 'disrespecting', 'glorifying', and 'neutralizing the gravity of' poverty are regularly leveled at the few who attempt to examine, or even simply portray it.
Granted, we may have gotten to a point where poverty can no longer be talked about with less than a very high level of complexity or activism. Which is difficult, even for the very best minds wading bravely through layers of social structure and meaning.
Arguably, there are those who do recognize the marketability of poverty, the sell-power of a distant sad-story to a consumer base composed primarily of liberal westerners (but not just westerners) who have come to feel guilty enough about their privilege that they can no longer live with themselves if they do not look something ugly or unfortunate in the eye.
I would suggest that portrayals of poverty (presumably for first-world audiences) are popular because they are tamer, and therefore preferable versions of the third-world. They help ease, or perhaps balance, the subterranean fear of mysterious, raging death-mongers who rise from mobs shouting "Death to America", with a passionate mission to destroy freedom and democracy and everything else the first-world holds dear. The mythical fanatics who "hate us because we're beautiful" are balanced by the pathetic poverty-stricken innocents who admire the west for the same reasons.
This is the benevolent third-world, where people can be rescued from poverty using the West's superior civilizational tools, as opposed to the malevolent third-world where the same tools are unsuccessful in rescuing people from hatred. It's reassuring. Happy poor are easier to reconcile with, and deal with, than angry enemies. Especially if we manage to convince ourselves that those poor are, in fact, happy.
And what better place to embody this sort of benign, resolvable poverty than India? Unlike the war-zones of the Middle-East, India doesn't evoke a reluctant sense of responsibility. Nor does it inspire the odd combination of economic and moral competition that the vast, presumably godless working class of China does. And, unlike the sweeping desperation of Africa, there is hope for India. The shining bits may just be able to polish up the dull ones; the prosperous may pull up the poor. It appears to embody the holy ideals of democracy, free market, meritocracy. It makes for the perfect scene for a success story.
If nothing else, Danny Boyle certainly has excellent timing. Unplanned though it was, his film managed to become the west's homage to Mumbai, a city which had recently been host to what some have called "India's 9/11". (Nothing like a corresponding catastrophe to create an automatic ally.)
Having been asked by several of my American friends for my thoughts on Slumdog Millionaire (which, in some cases, seemed requests for validation), I finally went to watch it. I stepped out with one, very vague opinion: There are things portrayed in the film that I wish I could deny, but are probably true; and there are things that I wish I could affirm, but are improbable at best.
More important than what I thought, though, was the question I have taken to asking everyone I know who liked the film: Why do you like it? This is what's interesting to me. Why is this film popular with those who do not know, love, or have any kind of relationship with India? Or, more specifically, why is this particular portrayal of India the one that people bought?
Several answers had to do with the technical, aesthetic aspects of the film, which I too am mostly a fan of. I particularly enjoyed the narrative-structure and the cinematography. Other people implied that their like of the film has to do with the sheer hope of the story, the way in which even the worst of circumstances are/can be transcended with the help of idealism and good fortune. This makes sense. Hope is so in vogue in America right now. For obvious reasons. Maybe that's why an underdog story was so much more successful than, say, a depressing drama about mid-century American society.
Is it a guilty conscience thing? Is it the gratifying sense of having revealed something long-hidden? (There's always the classic: "This is the part of India you don't see." To which I say: "That's only true if you don't want to see it.")
What's clear is that portrayals of poverty are not always comforting. I come back to last summer's global-media outrage surrounding the infamous photoshoot in Vogue India's August issue, which showed high fashion accessories being carried by 'ordinary Indians'--lower-middle to middle class people in mostly small-town India. (You can find the NYTimes article at http://www.nytimes.com/2008/09/01/business/worldbusiness/01vogue.html)
The two words most often used in describing the shoot were "obscene" and "vulgar". But they weren't applied to the gratuitously expensive items; they were intended for the portrayals of poverty. What people took exception to was the juxtaposition of 'poverty-stricken' people with things that cost more than their annual income.
Passing over the gross misinterpretation and mythologizing of what, precisely, was contained in those pictures (because whether or not it was, in fact, poverty, that's what people thought they were seeing) let me just say this: Are miserable poverty and $10,000 bags okay as long as you don't mention them in the same breath, see them in the same frame? We don't seem to have a problem as long as one remains in National Geographic and the other in Vogue; one in Africa and one in Europe; one on sidewalks and the other on catwalks; one in our guilty conscience and the other in our unconscionable indulgence. Keep them separate, and we'll be fine. Don't allow them contact with each other. God forbid someone actually sees the injustice or feels the guilt.
A major point of contention was the anonymity of the people in the photographs. As if those very people aren't otherwise totally ignored. How dare we pretend we could do right by them simply by mentioning their names in a magazine? Would that have made up for their place in the world? Would it have apologized sufficiently for using them to advertise something they couldn't ever afford? Do we not use them routinely, in text books and on donation boxes, as the posterchildren of poverty?
Poverty is one of the biggest problems facing humanity. And faced with it, what do we do? Congratulate ourselves on being able to bear it, convince ourselves it's not all that bad, or bury our heads in the sand.
(An excellent article on the Vogue controversy can be found here.)
Granted, we may have gotten to a point where poverty can no longer be talked about with less than a very high level of complexity or activism. Which is difficult, even for the very best minds wading bravely through layers of social structure and meaning.
Arguably, there are those who do recognize the marketability of poverty, the sell-power of a distant sad-story to a consumer base composed primarily of liberal westerners (but not just westerners) who have come to feel guilty enough about their privilege that they can no longer live with themselves if they do not look something ugly or unfortunate in the eye.
I would suggest that portrayals of poverty (presumably for first-world audiences) are popular because they are tamer, and therefore preferable versions of the third-world. They help ease, or perhaps balance, the subterranean fear of mysterious, raging death-mongers who rise from mobs shouting "Death to America", with a passionate mission to destroy freedom and democracy and everything else the first-world holds dear. The mythical fanatics who "hate us because we're beautiful" are balanced by the pathetic poverty-stricken innocents who admire the west for the same reasons.
This is the benevolent third-world, where people can be rescued from poverty using the West's superior civilizational tools, as opposed to the malevolent third-world where the same tools are unsuccessful in rescuing people from hatred. It's reassuring. Happy poor are easier to reconcile with, and deal with, than angry enemies. Especially if we manage to convince ourselves that those poor are, in fact, happy.
And what better place to embody this sort of benign, resolvable poverty than India? Unlike the war-zones of the Middle-East, India doesn't evoke a reluctant sense of responsibility. Nor does it inspire the odd combination of economic and moral competition that the vast, presumably godless working class of China does. And, unlike the sweeping desperation of Africa, there is hope for India. The shining bits may just be able to polish up the dull ones; the prosperous may pull up the poor. It appears to embody the holy ideals of democracy, free market, meritocracy. It makes for the perfect scene for a success story.
If nothing else, Danny Boyle certainly has excellent timing. Unplanned though it was, his film managed to become the west's homage to Mumbai, a city which had recently been host to what some have called "India's 9/11". (Nothing like a corresponding catastrophe to create an automatic ally.)
Having been asked by several of my American friends for my thoughts on Slumdog Millionaire (which, in some cases, seemed requests for validation), I finally went to watch it. I stepped out with one, very vague opinion: There are things portrayed in the film that I wish I could deny, but are probably true; and there are things that I wish I could affirm, but are improbable at best.
More important than what I thought, though, was the question I have taken to asking everyone I know who liked the film: Why do you like it? This is what's interesting to me. Why is this film popular with those who do not know, love, or have any kind of relationship with India? Or, more specifically, why is this particular portrayal of India the one that people bought?
Several answers had to do with the technical, aesthetic aspects of the film, which I too am mostly a fan of. I particularly enjoyed the narrative-structure and the cinematography. Other people implied that their like of the film has to do with the sheer hope of the story, the way in which even the worst of circumstances are/can be transcended with the help of idealism and good fortune. This makes sense. Hope is so in vogue in America right now. For obvious reasons. Maybe that's why an underdog story was so much more successful than, say, a depressing drama about mid-century American society.
Is it a guilty conscience thing? Is it the gratifying sense of having revealed something long-hidden? (There's always the classic: "This is the part of India you don't see." To which I say: "That's only true if you don't want to see it.")
What's clear is that portrayals of poverty are not always comforting. I come back to last summer's global-media outrage surrounding the infamous photoshoot in Vogue India's August issue, which showed high fashion accessories being carried by 'ordinary Indians'--lower-middle to middle class people in mostly small-town India. (You can find the NYTimes article at http://www.nytimes.com/2008/09/01/business/worldbusiness/01vogue.html)
The two words most often used in describing the shoot were "obscene" and "vulgar". But they weren't applied to the gratuitously expensive items; they were intended for the portrayals of poverty. What people took exception to was the juxtaposition of 'poverty-stricken' people with things that cost more than their annual income.
Passing over the gross misinterpretation and mythologizing of what, precisely, was contained in those pictures (because whether or not it was, in fact, poverty, that's what people thought they were seeing) let me just say this: Are miserable poverty and $10,000 bags okay as long as you don't mention them in the same breath, see them in the same frame? We don't seem to have a problem as long as one remains in National Geographic and the other in Vogue; one in Africa and one in Europe; one on sidewalks and the other on catwalks; one in our guilty conscience and the other in our unconscionable indulgence. Keep them separate, and we'll be fine. Don't allow them contact with each other. God forbid someone actually sees the injustice or feels the guilt.
A major point of contention was the anonymity of the people in the photographs. As if those very people aren't otherwise totally ignored. How dare we pretend we could do right by them simply by mentioning their names in a magazine? Would that have made up for their place in the world? Would it have apologized sufficiently for using them to advertise something they couldn't ever afford? Do we not use them routinely, in text books and on donation boxes, as the posterchildren of poverty?
Poverty is one of the biggest problems facing humanity. And faced with it, what do we do? Congratulate ourselves on being able to bear it, convince ourselves it's not all that bad, or bury our heads in the sand.
(An excellent article on the Vogue controversy can be found here.)
10.12.08
Hypersensitivity/Cultural Sieving
Last night, situated in a nexus of internal and external chaos, some part of me figured it would be a good idea to watch American television. This may seem to reveal a masochistic tendency, because, judging by past encounters with the medium, the likelihood of increased intellectual anguish is high. On the other hand, there was the slim possibility of distraction. After some trawling through reality television and overdone re-runs, I spotted dry land.
The Daily Show and The Colbert Report are the only indisputably positive outcomes of living in a house with cable. They haven't yet become a part of my routine, but I suspect regularity is close at hand. Witty, handsome men with a passion for politics and parody? Yes please.
So there I am on the dreaded couch, watching Jon Stewart and the British correspondent chap argue over whether Canada should be under the Queen's jurisdiction or not, when Aasif Mandvi shows up as the Indian correspondent to persuade the Canadian correspondent to, well, 'kick 'em out', essentially. At one point, adding an emphatic punch to his argument, he says something to the effect of: "Even if India had traffic lights they wouldn't function because the streets are so full of cows. And we still managed to get rid of the British."
While it is amusing to watch India get more and more attention as it moves toward greater and greater global relevance, and while I know this was most likely an entirely self-aware joke, instances like these always shake me awake to the inadequacy and incompleteness of knowledge about India, not to mention the incredible reliance on cultural sterotypes. I think it has something to do with the suddenness of India's importance to the west. Too little time to play catch up means old knowledge persists for the sake of convenience. Of course, The Daily Show is not nearly as problematic as so many other 'agents of information'.
Later, Colbert was interviewing a gentleman named Matthew Alexander who has just written "How To Break A Terrorist", a book about the effectiveness of non-violent interrogation techniques. He explained that he believes the best way to get information is to establish a relationship of trust and mutual respect with the detainee. There was a moment, after Colbert decided to be mildly serious, when the sense of revelation in their conversation struck me. "You've just gotta respect 'em," he said. Or something to that effect. There were definitely a lot of 'them's. Pretty soon, the word started pounding in my ears and I had to turn off the television and go to bed.
Maybe it's all the Edward Said I've been reading, but my thought was (and is) this: "Centuries after the West 'discovered' the 'Orient', having attempted war, conquest, indoctrination, subjugation, anthropological curiosity, stereotyping, fetishism, and condescension, it finally occurs to them to try respect as a strategy to 'deal' with this dangerous other. Well Merry fucking Christmas." It's as if the entire rest of the world is some sort of unidentifiable species, and the West (and I use this term loosely) has, for the last millennium (at least), been conducting some sort of elaborate experiment in which various stimuli are posed to the mysterious creature in order to provoke responses, which are then recorded and analyzed to come up with some sort of conclusion about what it is and how it works. The entire 'Orient' has been placed in some sort of academic petri dish; prodded, provoked and problematized, pending identification.
What is it about the unknown that scares us so much that we feel compelled to seek refuge in the distant safety of third person? 'Them'. As opposed to 'Us'. 'The Other' as opposed to 'It'. God forbid we make the mistake of inclusion or, worse, oneness.
The Daily Show and The Colbert Report are the only indisputably positive outcomes of living in a house with cable. They haven't yet become a part of my routine, but I suspect regularity is close at hand. Witty, handsome men with a passion for politics and parody? Yes please.
So there I am on the dreaded couch, watching Jon Stewart and the British correspondent chap argue over whether Canada should be under the Queen's jurisdiction or not, when Aasif Mandvi shows up as the Indian correspondent to persuade the Canadian correspondent to, well, 'kick 'em out', essentially. At one point, adding an emphatic punch to his argument, he says something to the effect of: "Even if India had traffic lights they wouldn't function because the streets are so full of cows. And we still managed to get rid of the British."
While it is amusing to watch India get more and more attention as it moves toward greater and greater global relevance, and while I know this was most likely an entirely self-aware joke, instances like these always shake me awake to the inadequacy and incompleteness of knowledge about India, not to mention the incredible reliance on cultural sterotypes. I think it has something to do with the suddenness of India's importance to the west. Too little time to play catch up means old knowledge persists for the sake of convenience. Of course, The Daily Show is not nearly as problematic as so many other 'agents of information'.
Later, Colbert was interviewing a gentleman named Matthew Alexander who has just written "How To Break A Terrorist", a book about the effectiveness of non-violent interrogation techniques. He explained that he believes the best way to get information is to establish a relationship of trust and mutual respect with the detainee. There was a moment, after Colbert decided to be mildly serious, when the sense of revelation in their conversation struck me. "You've just gotta respect 'em," he said. Or something to that effect. There were definitely a lot of 'them's. Pretty soon, the word started pounding in my ears and I had to turn off the television and go to bed.
Maybe it's all the Edward Said I've been reading, but my thought was (and is) this: "Centuries after the West 'discovered' the 'Orient', having attempted war, conquest, indoctrination, subjugation, anthropological curiosity, stereotyping, fetishism, and condescension, it finally occurs to them to try respect as a strategy to 'deal' with this dangerous other. Well Merry fucking Christmas." It's as if the entire rest of the world is some sort of unidentifiable species, and the West (and I use this term loosely) has, for the last millennium (at least), been conducting some sort of elaborate experiment in which various stimuli are posed to the mysterious creature in order to provoke responses, which are then recorded and analyzed to come up with some sort of conclusion about what it is and how it works. The entire 'Orient' has been placed in some sort of academic petri dish; prodded, provoked and problematized, pending identification.
What is it about the unknown that scares us so much that we feel compelled to seek refuge in the distant safety of third person? 'Them'. As opposed to 'Us'. 'The Other' as opposed to 'It'. God forbid we make the mistake of inclusion or, worse, oneness.
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