Why I Can't Write A Blog

“Oooohhh!” was a fairly common refrain I got when I mentioned I was leaving for fieldwork to Guatemala.

“Keep a blog.”  Common advice that we can’t get or give enough of in the western world when someone is going to to travel off somewhere.  

“Put up pictures!  We want to know what you are up too.”  So I dutifully plug a few snaps into facebook every few days.  Afterall, I have essentially placed my social life on hold for the better part of a year.  The least I can do is give those I am lucky enough to call friends, a glimpse into why I am (yet again) dropping everything and everyone to move.

And now, for almost three months, I’ve been trying to sit down and write a post. To say something about tortillas, or mangos, or eating beans three times a day.  To somehow convey the shape of the mountains rolling off into the distances in the Alta Verapaz; the way they are anchored deeply within the earth, a landscape so powerful it feels alive.  To adequately describe the sounds of the birds complaining for rain and the smell of the smoke drifting on the air as the undergrowth burns in preparation for the planting of the corn.  I’ve been sitting down and trying to write a blog about the dichotomy of living in a country whose history my government has littered with atrocities, while I am blessed enough to feel completely at home with a family I have loved as much as I love my own for almost a decade.  I have been sitting down, trying to write a blog, and I come up short even when thinking about the trundling mini buses I sit in every day, crawling across mountainsides to towns and houses perched on the edge of believability.

I stumble when it comes to wondering whether the stories shared with me are ones I am allowed to pass on. The strength of community health workers who, at times, are left only able to help people die with dignity at home.  A $500 test is too expensive, let alone the treatment that might follow.  The universality of the words a woman says about her husband who hits her “only when he’s drinking.” I can almost mouth along “He doesn’t really mean it”, I’ve heard that phrase so many times back home. The inevitable reminders as I work through basic Q’eqchi’ language classes that colonialism is alive and well here, its ongoing impact rooted in the very structure of the language.  A language shaped by the conquest of its land, even as its people and culture somehow hung onto their identity through over a half a millennium of assault. I struggle when thinking about whether or not to write about the hummingbird that hung out on the patio, or the frustrations of struggling through a bureaucracy I do not understand. Would anyone care that “la tortuga” (that is its name) circled the patio 12 times one Friday, or that I counted and took photos of the epic journey?  How does one write about commitment to family, and community squabbles when that family and those communities are not, and never will be, one’s one?

How am I proposing finishing a PhD, 80,000 words, on a subject that I can’t even manage to stumble through 650 words on, day after day?  

It’s something that I am still trying to sort out. Whether I like to blog, whether I can blog.  What exactly it means to blog. In the meantime I meander through the internet, looking for examples of blogs or websites or facebook posts that navigate the roles of researcher/tourist/outsider/friend/storyteller with the sorts of grace and awareness I can’t quite seem to muster, and I write blogs about politics back home. A subject I feel I can fully claim as my own.

In the meantime. Here’s a picture of the turtle.

Put a Berd on it...or why I voted for Bernie

I go to juice bars. Willingly.

I feel like I need to throw that out there before I can really dive in.  Just so you understand exactly how much of a yuppie I have become.  I am white, aspiring to middle class and wildly educated beyond what is even vaguely beginning to be good for me--and certainly beyond my wildest dreams. I read The New Yorker and feel like I have a legit reason for enjoying Malbecs more than Sauvignons. I have a strategy for the Friday Crossword in the NYT.  I have a career, not a family, and believe in effective politics.

But despite the juice bars. I voted for Bernie.

So here’s the thing. I don’t have to be against Hillary to vote for Bernie.  In fact, I like Hillary, I (in some cases) adore Hillary. My respect for Hillary Rodham Clinton is as deep-seated and unmovable as the bedrock underneath New York City. If Hillary is the Democratic Candidate for President you can bet your bottom dollar that I will be phone banking like you would not believe for her.

But I still rocked up to my primary (in this case Democrats Abroad) and threw my hat in for Bernie. Because guess what?  I do not have to dislike Hillary to vote for Bernie. I’m not voting for Bernie because my other option is a bad option, or because I hate women. Or the poor. Or my mother.

Nope. My preferred political party (of the WHOPPING *two* choices I have) happens to have fielded two excellent candidates.  Mine is the one with a bird on the podium.  

I voted Bernie because I, like so many Americans who have lived before me, really really do believe in an American dream, not an American nightmare or the continuation of a deeply flawed American reality.  And it’s a damn good dream too..  A dream about equality and opportunity and liberty and freedom.  A dream about a nation that seeks to be the best it can be. A dream about an America that has yet to be realized, but a dream that Americans have not forgotten and are willing to fight for every day. An America defined not by what is, but by what can be. Not by poverty and inequality, and degradation of human rights—our past as a species—but a nation that seeks to imagine a future better than the past.

And yes. We have fallen flat in seeking out that dream. We have succumbed to warmongers and the purse strings of billionaires.  We have caved to economic interests and sacrificed human rights (and lives) on the altars of racism, sexism and inequality.  We have trampled our own citizens and those of other nations underfoot in the pursuit of economic and military dominance. We have torn that dream to shreds time and time again, only to pick the tatters up from the blood-stained ground where they paved the way forward for sociopaths and narcissists who made us forget the best in ourselves, and we have pieced them back together. We have failed. But we have not given up.

And I am voting for Bernie not because I distrust Hillary or believe that she has some secret plan to destroy liberal values. Quite the opposite in fact. Hillary has a career behind her of pushing for a better world. No. I am voting for Bernie not because I have abandoned my feminist principles, and not because Hillary has a bigger Super PAC.  I am voting for Bernie not because Hillary isn’t a good candidate—in the current system she is perhaps the best candidate.  But I am voting for Bernie because I believe America is at the cusp of a crossroads. We are facing the spectre of fascism and the utter destruction of what our shining Statue of Liberty stands for. I am voting for Bernie because placating the conservatives in our political system over the last twenty years has gutted the middle class, threatened women’s rights and allowed racism to flourish.  We are at a juncture where a presidential candidate is capable of essentially endorsing the KKK and then still comes out on top in the Republican Super Tuesday Primary. Where his supporters pepper spray women for defending themselves from sexual assaults in his rallies.  Where anyone who is not white is forcibly removed.  America is choosing between the worst it has ever been, and a better future than we have ever known. Hillary represents a continuation of today, rather than a regression to the past.  But Bernie represents a future that hopes to fulfill what we as a nation have always stood for. Equality, liberty, freedom and opportunity---for ALL.

I respect Hillary deeply. And my heart aches at the misogyny that has been spewed at her as a candidate.  And I think she’d actually make a damn good president. I just know that today wealth and privilege of all stripes are destroying the American I dream of, and I am ready to fight to get that America back. HiIlary has not promised me a fight.  She promises that things will get a little bit better, and she has promised an effective government.  Those are promises I am confident she can deliver.  

And Bernie?  Bernie has promised me that fight. Maybe he can't win. Maybe it’s a risk. But it’s one I am ready to take.

Internet Cafe Excitement

On my last day in Antigua, someone left me a present.  A computer, in an internet cafe, left wide open with quite a few pages open, includnig an email account.  I, of course, could not help myself.  Yes, I logged out of his account.  But not before taking note of a few things, and sending this email:

Dear William,

I logged into a computer at Conexion Internet Cafe in Antigua to send a quick note home, and as I opened gmail, it loaded to your account.  While you do seem to have quite a few unread emails, you are clearly not adequately using the 'tabs' function in Gmail to help sort and manage those unread emails.  I am in a bit of a rush today, so I was able to refrain from adding those tabs, sorting your inbox, muting group conversations or setting up a bookmark system which would enable you to more easily sort and store emails per your preference.  As I decided that prying might be a poor choice, I was unwilling to find and use your mobile number to set up remote log-out, something I'd highly recommend.  Particularly if you share computer access with any roommates or family members.

I did however log out, wipe the browser history and would recommend that you do the same in the future.

Fellow traveler, Internet Cafe User and Useless Spanish Speaker

C.

Yes.  I was sunburnt and bored. And yes, I really really really hope I get a response email from William. And that he changes ALL of his passwords into a totally unsolvable jumble.

Cheryl & Jules

Today, Cheryl and Jules, an American couple I met traveling in 2010 have finally been unseated from their long-held spot at the top of my not-so-short list of ‘travelers’, ‘backpackers’ and ‘gap year peeps’ whom, I deeply loathe and who ensure that the stereotypes about western travelers remain truer than true year to year.

Cheryl and Jules, well into their sixties bled America. Even without being cut. They also seemed to bleed money, but without the added effect or benefit of appreciating the output of their expenditures. I was staying (for one night) in a mid-range hotel in Antigua. The project I was working on had a budget the like of which I had never before experienced (it would be considered ‘modest’ in the business world, but for little NGO focused me at the ripe old age of 23, it was amazing. I’d had my own bathroom the whole trip and we ate three meals a day).  We were just wrapping up, and preparing to leave the highlands for California. This last night was a chance to do goodbyes, risk amoebas by buying one last bag of mango slices, nab a handful of bracelets from the market for my sister, etc. The hotel, situated near the centre of Antigua, like so many of the old colonial style houses, was a brightly painted adobe/stone affair with a series of rooms around a large central courtyard, filled with flowers.  There was, of course, a fountain and it was home to a pair of very vocal little Lovebirds—whose names, Juan and Juanita were posted on a sign next to the cage, along with the note that “they bite”.  And it was through the little Lovebirds that I met Cheryl.

I’d settled myself outside my very very very very lovely room at a small table near the garden (also very lovely) to do some writing, get a postcard or two off before my flight and to enjoy the Antigueno sun, when I heard her.

“OOOOHHHHHHHH” not quite a squeal, not quite a scream. “AREN’T YOU JUST LOVELY!” Her accent had a hint of New York and before looking over in annoyance I could have told you that every item of clothing she was wearing was both brand name and brand new.  Sure enough, from her blue tinted, slightly permed hair down to her Gucci bag and Pedro Garcia stiletto heels, Cheryl looked like money. Obnoxious, horrible, money. She wore an off-white silk button-up blouse underneath what can best be described as a ‘Steve Irwin’ style vest over light tan trousers. “ARE YOU PARROTS?”  She asked, poking her finger into the cage where the two, now significantly less vocal lovebirds were potentially considering taking action (biting).  

“ARE THEY PARROTS?” Cheryl turned, shouting at one of the Guatemalan employees who had been moving from room to room cleaning out the recently vacated spaces for the next round of obnoxiously moneyed guests.  The woman smiled rather politely at Cheryl and kept moving on.

“I ASKED YOU A QUESTION DEAR. ARE THEY PARROTS?”  The cleaner kept cleaning. I can only wonder at how many Cheryl and Juleses she’s encountered working in the tourist sector over the years.  

“I SAID ARE THEY PARROTS????”  At this point Cheryl had completely abandoned the Lovebirds and was staring directly at the hotel staff member, 15 or so feet away from her and *clearly* busy with her work.

“AAAAARRREEE THEEEEEEEY PAAAAAUUURROUUUUTS.?”

“IN THE CAAAAGEEEEEE?”

“THE BUURRRDSS?”  

At this point Cheryl had doubled her volume and taken to drawing out each of the vowels, adding diphthongs where there were none and pausing between questions to stare back and forth expectantly from the employee to the Lovebirds.

The cleaner was only saved from whatever level of volume Cheryl would have been able to produce next in her quest to understand the nature of exactly what the Lovebirds were as Cheryl’s husband, Jules, appeared in the door of a room just a few down from the cage.  

“Dear.” At this juncture I had I some hope that Cheryl was simply very very animated and interested in parrots. That would not last long. “Dear.” continued Jules in a his own not quite New York accent—head to toe decked out in safari gear. Including a hat. “They aren’t educated here. She may not know what a parrot is, or be able to differentiate it from another type of tropical bird.”

It should be noted here that Antigua is not located in a jungle. Of any kind. Nor is there anything resembling a jungle in the immediate vicinity of Antigua, or the immediate vicinities of the immediate vicinity of Antigua.  Sitting at just under 6,000 feet above sea level, Antigua is in no danger of ever becoming a jungle. Of any kind. Jules (whose name I did not know at this juncture) seemed utterly unaware of that as he took a seat and pulled a giant orange bottle of Deet from one of his plethora of safari pockets and started spraying it liberally over his clothing and person.

“DO YOU THINK?”  Cheryl turned away from the cleaner towards her bug-spray obsessed husband, her stiletto heels tapping loudly on the tiled floor of the hotel as she crossed. “WHY DON’T THEY HIRE SOMEONE KNOWLEDGEABLE ABOUT THE LOCAL WILDLIFE?”

“Now dear, you know we aren’t in the developed world.” Jules started every sentence to his wife with the word ‘dear’, and while that in and of itself was sweet and potentially endearing (pun intended) his clear dismissal of the ‘non-developed world just got more and more charming the more he talked.

“You just can’t hold them to our standards. You know that.”

This was the juncture that I began packing things into the canvas over the shoulder bag that served (and continues to serve) as a purse. With no idea how much longer Cheryl would ask about he parrots, and Jules would dismiss any non-Americans as idiots, I had decided that, no matter how lovely, this particular courtyard was perhaps, not for me.

“OH HELLO!”

You know when a deer freezes in a pair of headlights? When it has basically two choices, one of which ends happily, and the other which ends with it smeared across the front of a semi going 88 down the Interstate 84?

“ARE YOU AMERICAN?”

Had I been a deer, I’d have ended up lodged in a grill.

“HELLO?”

“Yes. Hi. I am….I was just heading out to meet a friend.” Lying through my teeth isn’t something that I do often, but if there were a time to have some immediate reason to not be in the vicinity of the hotel, this seemed to be it.

“IT’S SO NICE TO FINALLY MEET ANOTHER AMERICAN. WE’VE BEEN HERE TWO WEEKS AND YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE HOW FEW AMERICANS COME TO GUATEMALA.”

I sank back into my chair slightly, still pushing the last of my writing supplies and postcards into the bag.

“Huh.” I responded.

“Oh yes.” Jules had tottered up to join Cheryl, the smell of Deet wafting off of his person and filling the patio with it’s rather specific perfume.  “And just to think, it’s like Mexico’s back garden!”

“Oh.” I wasn’t sure a) how to handle the scent of Deet, b) how exactly one responded to an entire country being titled ‘Mexico’s back garden, or c) how to extract myself as quickly as possible.

“MY NAME IS CHERYL, AND THIS IS MY HUSBAND JULES.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“HAVE YOU BEEN TO THE LAKE? THEY HAVE MONKEYS.”

“Oh dear, I’m not sure everyone is as interested in the outdoors or trekking as we are.” He turned to me, “however, if you are, there is a lovely wildlife refuge near the Hilton in Atitlan.”

I should clarify. There are exactly three monkeys at a ‘refuge’ (read private park) near Panajachel at Lake Atitlan.  At least there were in 2010.  One is blind and one throws it’s food at things. They live in a contained space.  A big contained space, but a contained space. The ‘trek’ to see the monkeys is just over ¼ mile. On a circular, flat, paved trail.

“Not much of a ‘trekker’” I answered. The smell of Jule’s Deet was starting to get to me in a fairly impactful way and I forcefully shoved the last of my things into my purse in hopes that Jules or Cherly might get the hint.

IT WAS JUST WONDERFUL. Chimed Cheryl in her unforgettable, unmistakable trill of a voice. THEY ARE NATIVE YOU KNOW, HOWLER MONKEYS.

Oh. I let my reply slide.  No one, least of all Cheryl and Jules would give a flying rat's ass to know that despite being ‘native’ very very few wild Howler Monkeys still live in Guatemala.

I ran into Jules and Cheryl three more times before I took a shuttle into Guatemala City for my San Francisco flight and learned that:

• SOME BIRDS HERE ARE GREEN
• You can’t put toilet paper in the toilet because people ‘refuse to insist on better infrastructure’ and Jules intended to contribute to Guatemala’s development by clogging up the toilets.
• Tipping non-English speakers is pointless because you must ‘earn’ a tip, and how can you ‘earn’ a tip if you aren’t speaking English?
• THERE WAS A COCKROACH IN THE HOTEL IN MONTERRICO AND THEY REFUSED TO REFUND US OUR MONEY EVEN WHEN JULES KILLED IT FOR ME AND WE BROUGHT IT TO THE FRONT DESK.

Suffice it to say, on Sunday morning when I was boarding a tourist shuttle from Copan Honduras back to Guatemala City, while I might have had some trepidation about my company, I’d never in a thousand years have dreamt up ‘Jason’ from “Strayly.”  Despite having spent 11 months traveling from Argentina on up could speak no Spanish, managed four racists sentences out of his first six in the vehicle.  When two full seats to himself wasn’t enough--talk about man-spreading--he made a nest for himself out of everyone’s backpacks (besides mine, which I rescued) in the back of the van. The driver tried to insist he sit in a seat and wear a seatbelt, but that discussion ended along the lines of the phrase “well, I won’t have to clean it up if a truck hits us.” He spent a good chunk of the trip, in that nest, where he loudly watched ‘Family Guy’ on a giant touchscreen tablet until it ran out of battery and he got bored.  But that’s a story for another day.

My Mountain.

I went up to my mountain to look at my stars.

Each blazing sun a tiny pinprick of light.

Every one sitting, just where it belongs.

Grains of shining sand, suspended in the velvet empty.

Closing my eyes, my fingers trace the lines.

Constellation to constallation. Virgo, Leo, Pisces.

Midnight to Dawn.  Autumn to Summer.

A mobil suspended just beyond reach.

A map of where I stand on our shining sapphire sphere.

So I went out on the heath.

I walked to the edge of the forest canopy.

Then I wandered the shores of an unfamiliar lake.

And I went up another mountain, to look for my stars.

Orion, four inches from where he belongs

Counting by finger lengths from the horizon.

At the edge of sunset. An hour before dawn

He rides high in a sky that is not my own.

But I remember. More familiar than words

Knit closer to my soul than the smell of the pine air on my mountain

My mountain where I go up to look at my stars.

On nights when the air is colder and clearer than ice.

Each blazing sun. Each tiny pinprick, right where it ought to be.

But here, with the desert air dry as a bone.

The tiny pinpricks, line tracing to line of Taurus' flickering face,

It is mobil map of how far I am from home

I do not laugh.

"Oh come on Callie, we both know you like pain"

I know what happens next. There are 7 or so of us standing in a circle chatting.  The coach that's supposed to whisk us off to a brewery tour hasn't appeared, and September is treating us to one of the UK's rare perfect days. I haven't worn a t-shirt in weeks, and I can feel my arms burning in the sun.

What happens next is that I laugh, giving the group permission to titter awkwardly at the idea of quiet, socially inept, Mormon-raised me, in some kind of tryst with the speaker, John, a suave older man who's just wrapping up his PhD, discovering pleasure and guilt in some long-repressed desire to be dominated and hurt.

There's social currency here.  For both of us. I have the chance to reject any idea that I might be a 'prude', to demonstrate that I am 'game' and 'modern' to a group of people whom I will ostensibly spend a good chunk of the next three years with. John gets to make a joke that asserts his sexual identity and prowess.  I get to be 'fun;' he gets to be funny. I acquiesce. Become the 'other' in a narrative I never asked to join.  What happens when I laugh is that I give the tacit, expected, permission for a statement about my body, my sexuality, my interests to become the butt of an uncomfortable joke. What happens next is that I laugh, and all of us standing in the September sun waiting for the coach to arrive, move from that moment to the next.  I laugh, and the conversation can then drift away from the joke and it's underlying narrative about power and desire and agency and control. That underlying expectation of availability. Of interest. Of submission.  I laugh and the very idea of my sexual interests become part and parcel to someone else's story. My sexuality becomes an object of amusement in order to boost someone else’s sexual self esteem, and build their sexual narrative.

I know what happens next. But I do not laugh.  I simply stare, with the breeze coming off the lake and rifling its fingers through my forever-stray hair.

Yes.  Sexuality is funny. And charming, and awkward, and wonderful, and sometimes dark, and goofy and seductive and overwhelming and fulfilling.  Yes, sometimes sex jokes are the best jokes. But this is not a social currency I am currently willing to trade, my dignity for your pride. We walk in the same social circles, John and I, but we are not those sorts of friends. Where I trust beyond the shadow of a doubt that the human inside me is visible and real and valued. Where we laugh at escapades and share secrets. Where jokes about sex or desire or love are used to wonder at the improbable nature of it all, leaving neither person exposed, alone or used.

Yes. Sexuality is funny. Everything is wonderfully funny. But I never offered my interests up to a sacrificial altar so someone else could use a joke to prop their own internal story into view. I never offered my desires up as a stepping stool.

So I did not laugh. I did not let the conversation drift away from that joke or that narrative.  I let us stand, suddenly silent, suddenly awkward.

"Oh come on" says John, his smile tightening just a bit, "you know what I mean."

I live in a world where what I desire extends beyond what is desired of me. I am not an character actor, flitting from the story of one protagonist to the next. I am my own. Whole and complete. Whether or not any of these people now fidgeting in the sun see me as 'fun' or as a 'prude' is not important. Your joke is not worth my discomfort.

"Nope." I say. Staring back. My gaze unflinching as steel. The shining golden sun ripping through the leaves at the edge of the parking lot, making them as red-gold as my hair, as dappled as my freckles.  And so we stand. Silently, uncomfortably. Because I do not give my permission. I refuse to laugh.

Kim Davis divorced or dogmatic?: What We Should Really Be Focusing On.

Since Kim Davis first refused to offer marriage licenses to same sex couples after same sex marriage became legal across the United States on June 26th 2015, a mini media storm has been brewing.  Lauded by some as a protector of 'traditional' marriage, Davis--and as a result Rowan County Kentucky--has held her ground.  Claiming that she is acting under "God's Authority", Davis has continued to violate federal law, and deny couples marriage licenses, for almost three months waiting for a ruling on whether or not she as an individual could be compelled to follow federal law.

As the case trickled forward, so too did her internet fame, breaking into a full fledged twitter storm in the last few weeks when a U.S. District Court Judge affirmed that yes, she did have to follow federal law as a federal employee. Davis continued to refuse.  Within hours she hailed as a hero and hissed at as a villain.  By today, whens he was held in contempt of court, the case had gone international. One person's bigotry had become the talk of the nation.

Then our attention shifted. Rather than discuss how and why Davis has been able to allow her bigotry to control a Kentucky County, or to have a national debate about what we can do to make sure elected officials follow the federal laws they are appointed and elected to serve, we have instead fixated on the fact that Kim Davis has been married four times.  Oh, and she's 'fat'.

Yup.  It's not enough for us that Davis holds bigoted views and that those bigoted views are hurting law-abiding Americans.  It's not enough for us that Davis is contributing to a culture of hatred, or that her views are directly impacting American couples wanting to become American families.  Nope.  That's not important to the twitter feed.  The twitter feed is joking about making Kim Davis halloween costumes out of large blue t-shirts.

And I just don't get it. Why does it matter what Kim Davis looks like or who she has married? We have some damn good reasons to criticize Kim Davis, and those reasons have nothing to do with whether or not her jeans have elastic in the waistband or which husband fathered her kids.

None of this matter.

And if Kim Davis were a 50 year old man with pepper-grey hair, a P90X workout habit that made Scott Walker sweat with envy, and a high-school girlfriend turned wife who stayed home and raised their two blond kids, it still wouldn't matter.

Because Kim Davis' personal life, looks and history aren't what matters.  What matters is Davis' bigotry.  And that bigotry exists all across the United States.  It lives in trailer parks and 5th avenue penthouses, and when we fixate on Davis divorces, rather than on her views we reinforce the idea that only people we don't like, only people we can hate, only *other* people are bigoted.

We distance ourselves from Davis by holding her hypocrisy up to the world on a giant shiny banner, when we should be asking ourselves if we, like Davis, contribute to hate.  We should be fixating on how on earth bigotry is allowed to stand in a government office, and what we can do fight it in whatever form it takes.  Davis' personal life isn't the problem. And Davis' personal life isn't what should piss us off.  The problem is that bigotry is alive and well in the 21st century in a myriad of forms, and that's what should piss us off.

We don't *NEED* to be angry at Davis' for her looks, and her clothes and her husbands.  We have plenty to be angry about.  She broke federal law in order to deny people civil rights.  Who she is, how she looks and how she behaves doesn't matter.  We don't need to hate Davis for any of that.  It's enough that she was bigoted.  We don't need another reason to criticize her, and when we look for one, we undermine the severity of what she did--she denied the humanity of the people she ostensibly serves.   What Kim Davis has done in allowing her personal bigotry to continue to exist, and to impact her ability to serve effectively as an elected official is more than enough of a reason for us as a society to criticize her. When we refocus on the hypocrisy, her looks or her life, we lose out on what really matters. What really matters is that she let hate define her behavior, and that is unacceptable.