Racism, Identities and Diamond Studded Bikinis

Back in the summer of 2005, I went to Tochni, Cyprus as part of a UW, AUB and AUC group course on American and Arab Identities in Tension. The premise was to group 30 or so young adults in one tiny village for two weeks to discuss how much Americans and Arabs hate each other. Sort of like I'm A Celebrity without the Z-list fame and fortune status and no cameras documenting our every ass scratch. 

According to our professors, we were by far the most tension-filled, kamikaze samurai fighter, bitchslap till kingdom come group ever to go to Tochni. The natives still run and hide under rocks whenever they hear our names. Or so it is rumoured. I've seen my fair share of Gucci corner drama, but this course was ridiculous. Imagine Lindsey Lohan and Sam Ronson in a death match and throw in some Chuck Norris roundhousing on crack. Then add some major rich Arab attitude and country/mother-dissing. That doesn't even cover the good mornings. What should have been a learning experience about the 'Other' turned into two weeks of the Americans hating on the Egyptians for being rich and the Egyptians (15 poli sci students) really laying it hard on the Americans for Bush's shitty foreign policy. I wrote a 12-page paper on the drama and barely covered it.

Snippets of spiteful negativity include:

 

-       An American boy to me: "are those real diamonds on your bikini?" 
Me: "no, why would you think that?
Boy: "I figured since you’re wearing a Rolex and everything’s designer, your bikini would have real diamonds on it as well"

-      Another American: "I don't hate you because you're you, I hate you because you're Egyptian"

-      American-Mexican girl: "I work two jobs and pay taxes for my country to send you Aid. That's why you have the Gucci bags and I don't”

-       The Egyptians weren’t much nicer. We called them everything from world terrorists to trailer trash. We took to flaunting our wealth because it bothered them. We spoke Arabic and laughed loudly because they thought we were making fun of them. We interrupted them, used our mobile phones and did everything we could to make them rue the day they crossed our paths.

Basically, rather than use our two weeks to learn about the ‘Other’ and maintain a constructive and wound-healing discourse, we fucked with each other’s heads. And that finally brings me to the point of this story. The other day I received a message from one of the quieter and more misunderstood American boys in our course asking me some questions about racism and what I got out of our two weeks in Tochni. Apparently, the way things played out still bothered him. One of the questions he asked was “Do you feel like you BETTER understood the problems between the American identity and the Arab identity because of our seminar? If so, how?”

I responded with what I think is at the root of so many problems in our global society: because of our preconceived notions or expectations of the ‘Other’, we did not create the space to understand the truths behind our and the ‘Other’’s identities. Essentially, our ingrained racism – be it conscious or otherwise – barred us from even trying to dialogue.

I felt that because of the personal conflicts that arose in our course, we had little time to discuss the conflicts stemming from our country-based collective identities. The majority of our time was spent bickering over personal differences, which shed a negative light on both the American and the Arab identities. I believe this is rooted in the conflicting course descriptions provided by the respective professors. The Egyptians and Lebanese came as they were told this was a political course, as was also reflected in the assigned readings. The Americans were told this was a sociological course, and so were not emotionally, mentally or academically prepared for in-depth political discourse. Because each side came expecting different things, the communication that needed to occur broke down because it could really begin.

 

This premature breakdown in communication is a problem not just for the Tochini course participants, but in how every forum for debate is set up. Expectations or preconceived notions or any sort of racist perception of the ‘Other’ stop us from listening. They stop us from accepting. They stop us from really trying.

 

I’m not saying that it is humanly possible for one to clear one’s mind from all preconceived ideas of the ‘Other’. But it is important for us to be aware of these thoughts and to try to work past them. I know I learnt that the hard way. Even though we all ended up having a blast on that trip, we didn’t achieve as much as we could have if we’d just kept a more open mind. Maybe my talking it out with the quiet American might help make amends for our indiscretions in 2005. 

Dream Pets are Weird

Grapers recommends that I try to write every day in order to keep my flow going, regardless of quality. So, apologies for the sheer stupidity of the following post, but here goes:

A few nights (or was it early mornings?) ago I had a disturbingly surreal and vivid dream. In this dream starred six-year-old Eureka who was searching for her pet bunny. Note that real-life six-year-old Eureka never had any pets, let alone a bunny. Dream pet bunny was a regular brown bunny. However, regular brown bunny was not regular at all as he was a talking bunny. Apparently, six-year-old Eureka is aware of her pet's sex. Don't ask. The strange part is still to come.

Eureka, frowning her signature frown of concentration, finally finds bunny chilling under her bed. I must note that Eureka's room was very sunny and light. I quite enjoyed the dream room. Six-year-old Eureka drags brown male talking bunny out from under the bed and scolds him for hiding. Six-year-old Eureka then introduces male brown talking bunny to his new roommate, male fat cat. Note again that Eureka dislikes cats. Don't ask. The strange part is still to come.

Brown talking male bunny proceeds to freak out and dashes behind hitherto non-existant couch in six-year-old Eureka's room (who knew a six-year-old needed such a large and well-furnished room?). Fat male cat magically appears behind couch and proceeds to lazily anally rape male bunny, who apparently saw this coming. Previous experience? Cruel and unsual punishment? Would a six-year-old even understand rape? Don't ask. The strange part is still to come.

Male brown bunny repeatedly screams, "BOY CAT! BOY CAT! BOY CAT!" and grown up Eureka wakes up, not knowing what happened to her dream pets.

Seriously don't know what I ate/drank/smoked before going to bed that night.

Blog Woes

Back when I started this blog, blogging was at what must have been the peak of interest / activity. People from all walks of life were into it: from bankers to pundits to strippers. People blogged all the time about countless topics. The blogs I follow(ed) were updated almost daily, with consistently funny or interesting posts that kept readers engaged. 

Over the last six months or so, I've noticed a steady decline in the number of people still updating (myself included), the number of posts being put up each week/month (mine included), and the effort put into or interest given to blogging in general (this blog/blogger included). What began as a respite from life's chores has become a chore itself. Not just for me, but for many of the blogs listed on the right-hand side of this page (save for the bloggers who blog professionally, such as Andrew Sullivan and Heather Armstrong). 

What is it about blogging that's changed? What is it about bloggers that's changed? Were our lives so much more exciting a year ago? Have we run out of things to say? Is there some anti-blogging virus piggybacking (pun intended) on the super influenza strains crisscrossing around the world attacking all forms of non-profit blogs? 

I find that being creative and witty has become increasingly difficult, but for absolutely no reason whatsoever. But strangely enough, I'm still funny on BBM. I'm still funny when texting my friends about how I've rechristened myself Pranjib at work. I'm still funny when I cram my point into 46 characters on Twitter. Why can't I make time to be funny here? 

I've been offered a bunch of suggestions on how to keep this blog alive. DFS said to turn it into a review blog. Too bad I barely get through one book every three months now. I tried to do the whole music thing. We all know how that worked out. 

I learnt that my favourite blog was in danger of being shut down by the author. I'll be very disappointed if it is. I understand that my lack of blogging could instill the same sort of disappointment in you, my 6 and a half readers (if you're still there). I don't claim to be anywhere near as good or interesting as graceundressed, but hell if you're still reading then you must see something here. 

So what do you guys think? What can I do to start blogging properly again?

Remembering I'm 22

I have a tendency to think that I am above asking for help. When I am sick, I'd rather tough it out than wake someone up to bring me medicine. When I am struggling to do something, I'd rather research, work at it and figure it out on my own than ask someone to show me the easy way out. When I'm really sad or frustrated I will rarely speak up; I'd rather get over it on my own and in my own time. 

I think I prefer to do things on my own because of the learning experience that comes with working things out for myself. I make mistakes, I struggle and I eventually (most of the time, at least) succeed on my own terms and in my own time. The added sense of accomplishment that comes with that fight makes it worthwhile. 

But I know what you're thinking. That's all great, but there is of course a downside to not asking for help when I need it. What if I can't help myself? What if I'm in over my head? What if reaching out to someone is a necessity rather than an option? What will I do then? I asked myself that question today and I don't know the answer, to be honest. 

Roonies and Bambi are apparently concerned by my lack of enthusiasm for my social life. They think - and I agree - that I'm much too young to renounce all social interaction for the sake or because of routine. You and I know that I've been feeling that way for a while. But I never asked for help to get out of my rut. It never crossed my mind to call Bambi and say, "hey, I need help getting my lazy butt out of the house, would you please help motivate me?" I just figured it would happen when it happened. 

And the result? It did happen, but it could have happened so much sooner had I just let my stubborn little ego-guard take the night off and reached out to my friends. I had a genuinely good time in forever this weekend. The mile-wide ton of flesh following me around jiggled to the beat, my rusty social skills were put to good use and I even went for a 4 am post-clubbing McDonalds run; I never say no to free food. I felt good loosening up with real people instead of the lovely folks on TV. I felt my age again. Even if I did wake up after only 5 hours of sleep with the beginnings of a hangover. Don't worry, caught it with a big ol' breakfast. Nothing works better than an egg yolk to stop a hangover in its tracks. 

Moral of the story: let your guard take the night off every once in a while and ask for help, even if you think you can handle things on your own. Sometimes, the helping hand will treat you to a steady flow of Moet and vodka-cranberry. 

Mourning What I Never Really Had

I miss having something to write about. 

I miss thinking that I could write. 

I miss that feeling of a deep and ardent need to get what was floating around in my head out on paper or screen as quickly and eloquently as possible. 

I miss feeling that if I didn't get that thought out I'd go mad because the thought would keep permeating every nerve cell in my brain until my mind either exploded or my whole body just ceased to function entirely. 

All that remains is a nagging disappointment at my inability to formulate a decent semi-interesting idea to share with my notebook, my laptop, Blogger, or you. 

All that remains is frustration and self-disgust. What kind of person who reads and is continually enamored by varied and celebrated literature, who loves the act of writing for its own worth as an art-form, who can argue the merits of a semicolon and who is genuinely heartbroken when a book is mistreated or *gasp* unread cannot find something - anything - to think or say or write? Why can I only complain about my inability to write? 

I don't even read as often as I'd like to anymore. I don't even make the effort to. I don't make the effort to do anything at all anymore. It isn't even the problem of being stuck in a routine. I don't even feel like making an effort to make a change to the routine. I'm 22 years old and I have subconsciously given up on life. What is wrong with this picture? What is wrong with me?

A Study in Music

It is neither Monday nor Thursday, but let us not limit good (yes, a relative term - don't hate) music to a predetermined date for the moment. 

Ch-ch-ch-ch-check this out. The original is an electropop doozy of a song that is pretty awesome. The remix is, well, you listen. Amazing what can be done with one song. 

If you like La Roux, check out 'Quicksand' as well. 

Tip jar: Fruitcake. Thanks for the eye-opener buddy!

In for the Kill (Original Mix):

In for the Kill (Skream's Let's Get Ravey Mix):

Thumping Thursdays #1

Haven't gotten round to this blog much of late, nor have I gotten round to a thumper on here.  

However, I have a fun one in store for all your teeny-boppers out there.  

Allow me to introduce my girl crushes: Girls Aloud.

I heart them. And if you ignore the fact that they are commercial pop, some of their songs are a lot of fun with some decent music in there. 

Indulge me in my moments of girlcrushdom. They are worth the scorn.

Here are some of my favourites:

Something Kinda Oooh:

Call The Shots:

Sexy, No No No: