Texas

Now is not exactly the time I would have predicted for me to develop an interest in my native roots: Texas. Distance has a way of healing old wounds, and soothing inflamed emotions of childhood. Not that I am suddenly enchanted with the state, nor do I have some overwhelming desire to reside there in the near future. But for once I can step back from it and see more nuance in its flavors and offerings.

There are things about me that are still "Texan," in spite of the fact that I did my best to obliterate the markings of my origins when I attended UCLA. Every now and again, particularly when tired or intoxicated, the old twang will come out. And then there is a certain vocabulary and cadence of speaking of which I was not fully aware until later in life. And by the time that I knew of its presence, it seemed somewhat original and interesting to be a liberal, Arabic-speaking, naval officer from Texas. In other words, there was no need to expunge it from speech.

Texas frustrates me. Being from Texas, especially while living abroad, is perhaps even more frustrating. The American stereo-type abroad is the gun-slinging, Wild West, open-plains, horse-riding, cowboy. Texas conjures this image on steroids. It baffled people when I used to exclaim that I did not even own a pair of cowboy boots--a declaration I could make until this past Christmas when my family decided it was high time to give me a pair (and I admit, they are classic, stylish, and gorgeous). Being from Texas while abroad was particularly stressful during the era of George W. Bush. "Oh Texas! Like Bush!" No, not like Bush...though yes, I am from Midland.

But I do not live abroad now. I have lived in the United States for two consecutive years. It is the longest I have resided in my own country since I left in 2009. Maybe this fact has something to do with my new interest in Texas and even America at large. I am a Middle East historian, but for whatever reason it has been interesting to turn my now trained historical eye to all that American history and mythology of my grade school education. Of course, I questioned the myths long before. But, this was my reactionary time--where anything that was part of my origin story I considered to be soiled, immoral, and not something worth being explored. I still have many of these feelings now...but the search for greater depth and understanding now accompanies these other sentiments. Americans are neither more nor less evil than any other people on earth. So why is it that we behave the way that we do?

Lawrence Wright, the author of The Looming Tower, recently published a book about Texas that has provided an epiphany-moment for me. God Save Texas explores parts of Texas that I know well, and other areas that I never noticed nor understood. In the audible version, he reads the book himself, still carrying a slight Texas accent even though he admits that he too was an ashamed Texan who tried to obliterate any accent after he left the state for college. Funnily enough, he too lived in Cairo for a few years--teaching English at AUC. His book is not just an interesting read, it evokes a gut reaction in me. It conjures pangs of understanding Texas as my home, but also suddenly seeing what is familiar in a new light. It is as if someone has finally nailed down in words the sensations that I could never (or have never tried to) put a finger on. It scratches an itch.

But the book goes deeper. I was never really cognizant of the deep literary scene in Texas. Nor, the liberal politics of the region--something the conservatives have done a good job at concealing, especially with redistricting a few years back. I did not realize that Houston was an epicenter of diversity or that it had such a high standard of living. I never understood Dallas's deep reaction to the Kennedy assassination and how it developed over the decades. Apparently, Dallas is one of the most successful cities in the country when it comes to having a low rate of shootings by police, particularly of African Americans. Texas was not even close to being one of the first states to pass open-carry gun laws, even though you might think that it led the charge on such a matter. I know now that I was previously over-convinced by the mainstream narrative that Texas tells about itself--which also feeds into the stereotypes produced and reproduced by non-Texans.

But I have no doubt that Texas is also that place that I ran away from--the one full of crack-pots like Alex Jones and his bombastic Infowars. It is a land with a streak of proud ignorance, no-nothingism, rugged individualism, and paranoia about government that goes one step too far. It is the boom and bust of the oil industry, with money coming fast and furious, producing smug self-assuredness from a bit of luck. Texas, in many ways, resembles the *rentier* economies of the Middle East. Or at least, perhaps Midland does. Or, maybe I am making a sloppy comparison. But I can't help equating all those Latino laborers and man-camps with imported Pakistani workers and others in the Gulf states.

Texas is a place where women's reproductive health is in danger, in spite of anomalies like the fact that Cecile Richards, the daughter of former Texas governor Ann Richards, is the President of Planned Parenthood. It is a place where the lax laws allow me to blaze down roads with 80 mph speed limits. Though mesquite-covered, oil-well spotted, Midland is generally hideous by daylight, I enjoy watching the sunsets over the plains--there are perhaps none prettier. Texas is a land that produces questionable and overtly biased textbooks for schools, and because of its relative size, influences what books will be available in smaller states. It is a land with amazing cuisine, my favorite being that deeply influenced by Latino culture. But, the same white cowboys who eat daily at their favorite Mexican restaurant will continually complain that whites are no longer (or soon to be no longer) the majority. Or they are threatened by the amount of Spanish spoken in their area.

Texas is a land of contradictions. My feelings about it are contradictory and blended. For me, Texas is, and probably always will be, a bitter-sweet conundrum.  But my interest, at least for the moment, is peaked.

Vagabond Again

Iced Caramel Macchiato killed in 5 minutes.
#ITriedToRestrainMyself

I am a vagabond again. I am without a house and my things are on their way, across the sea, to a new destination. Picture this: a lone woman sitting in a coffee shop (Starbucks, no less), writing on her Macbook, drinking an iced coffee- just so very original and interesting- sorry, excuse my moment of mild self-bashing…

I’ve had a lot of moments in my life like this one- in between the finish line of one thing and about to start another. I was racing towards this particular finish line harder than I have for just about anything. I wanted this phase of my life to pass as rapidly as possible. And now that I am there…

Of course I am happy. Of course things are going the way that I want them. But when life slows down for a moment, it leaves open all this time to think. Time for cliche things like “reflection.” Ugh. When you are in a demanding and tiring job, you have an excuse for not feeling overwhelming happiness. When you have what you’ve always wanted, and time to relax and piece yourself back together, there is little excuse for feeling unhappiness or darkness- feeling such a thing means that you can trace all of that sentiment to one place: yourself.

I am actually quite good at being a vagabond. I’ve been one for multiple occasions in my life. It is the time “in between.” This  transient time marks the end of about seven years of living abroad, aside from a brief 9-month period stateside. I am coming home to a US that I am not too overwhelmingly familiar with and intending to live there indefinitely. I suppose that does cause me a little bit of anxiety. I am moving into a life where I will no longer be living alone. I have lived alone for most of my adult life- it is really the only life that I know after 15 years of “adulting.” Of course, I get to live with my best friend and the man that I love- what I have been aggressively trying to get back to for the entire duration of this tour. But of course, realizing that I intend to never live alone again causes a little anxiety as well. We humans, no matter how adventurous we claim to be, are really not very comfortable with change.

My hopes are that now, since I am blessed with time on my hands to think, I put my thoughts together to come up with something more substantial to write. Or, who knows, maybe I will just write about why I don’t understand the Japanese usage of liquid forms of sugar, or how much I hate the trash sorting regime in Japan (even if it is for a good cause). I have to say, the biggest relief in leaving Japan may be that I no longer have to track days of the week to dispose of my four or five different categories of trash. Give me America! Give me the big American dumpster where I can dispose of all my consumerism in one place without any thoughts or cares. I swear that some of my therapy was spent on discussing the anxiety I experienced from sorting and disposing of trash in Japan. Eff the environment. I am freeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Hats Off

I have no idea what I am about to write. I just know that I need to. Death is probably the most written about topic in the history of man. Everything that there ever is or was to be said about it has probably already been said.

Casey was someone who exuded so much life. Always funny, always the center of attention, the light in the middle of the room.

Hit by a train. That doesn’t even sound real. That’s supposed to be a figure of speech. Not something that actually happens.

He lived an extraordinary life- there is no questioning that fact. You could find him in South America or Africa, trekking in Nepal, standing in the middle of Tahrir square during a revolution. It was a life well lived, Casey. Hats off to you. It was standing-ovation worthy.

We are all left stunned. I even catch myself feeling angry that he would manage to let that happen. I want to yell at you, Casey! But those are only the sentiments of those who have been left here, sadly without your devious smile. I don’t know who else is going to dance around to M.I.A. in my Cairo apartment or get me into the craziness that is Nicki Minaj. Who else will walk through Tahrir square, when it is full of Islamists, buy a walking stick and then start acting like they are Moses? And countless other ridiculous stories…

Well, here we are, trying to put some words to how we feel. Trying to understand something that is not understandable.

It is probably just as simple as this: I love you Casey. And I am going to miss the hell out of you. 

This is Supposed to be about Bora Bora

Ok, so it has been about one and a half years since I wrote in this blog. It just sat up there in cyber space, still in existence, waiting for some attention. Wanting to be something worthwhile for me to spend my time on. Hoping to not be another abandoned project.

Well, I have been busy- soul crushingly busy- where your mind is always too tired to wrap around anything significant for an extended period of time. What did I do with my spare time? Play Final Fantasy. Watch Downton Abbey, Game of Thrones, and Sherlock. Stare at the wall. Wait for the days to pass. Aside from a personal journal that reads more like a laundry list of activities, I haven’t had the desire or energy to write anything about anything.

But that time has ended. Things have happened. Tables have turned- I won Willy Wonka’s golden ticket. I’m actually going to get to do everything that I want- fuse a military career with academia and spend the rest of my career in the ivory tower. My other half and pack of puppies should be joining me in the same household at some point this year- something we have been wanting now for three years. There is finally a light at the end of the tunnel. Now, my biggest decision is trying to figure out whether to accept my admission into George Washington or American for my History MA- do I keep with the Middle East, Arabic, and Egypt and stay in my swim lane, or do I branch out into something totally different? But enough about all this. What I really wanted to write about was Bora Bora:

I am writing at the Bora Bora airport, where you can sit on the dock or lay at the beach as you wait for your flight. There is no parking lot here because the only way to get here from the main island is via boat. When you arrive, the hotels pick you up in their personal boats, put lays around your neck, and drive you to your lodging in utter paradise. I’ve never seen so many shades of blue in the ocean- but this is of course what everyone knows about Bora Bora- it is as dope as it gets really.

On to more interesting topics- like what exactly is the relationship between French Polynesia and France? I mean, it is literally on the other side of the world but still listed under some interesting title that translates as “overseas collective.” They have their own currency, own flag, and apparently representation in French parliament. So is this another country or is this France? Ah, delicious colonialism. And, of utmost importance, does this count as another country on the travel log? After my 6 days here, the issue still seems as ambiguous as it was when I arrived.

During your time in Bora Bora (ours was predominantly spent at the Sofitel private island) you are immersed in pure beauty and luxury- which meant that after 24 hours I was itching to discover what lay beyond the walls of the resorts. It was as expected- the developing world smell of burning trash and poverty hits you as soon as you exit the oasis. It isn’t terrible by any means, but there is a stark disparity between the lives of the locals and the resorts in which they work- then you notice the lack of diversity amongst the hotel guests- who is it in the world that predominantly has the ability to vacation to Bora Bora? Obviously, right? Moving on- stray dogs and chickens are scattered alongside the one main road and houses that line it. The dogs seem content and friendly enough. We wonder amongst ourselves if every person born in Bora Bora ultimately goes into the tourism industry. How many people have never left the island? What kind of education do the kids get here? Is this entire place actually immoral when it comes to pure economic disparity? There is nothing new about these questions- I have asked some form of them countless times in countless locations. I wonder if I will ever come to my own satisfactory answer about it all. But I know, underneath the layers of all the conflicted emotions, that there is something fundamentally wrong.

All this being said, it does not mean that people seem unhappy or angry. Actually, I am not sure I was there long enough to determine anything about what they are or how they feel. Humans are complicated. People wave to eachother as their boats cross in the lagoon. The hotel boat captain swerves the boat so that the local kids can play in its wake on their canoe. Everyone laughs and seems moderately content with the world. I mean, this isn’t Cairo where you have thousands of people who literally live in graveyards. The seasons never change. Every day in Bora Bora is much like the last- to the ire of the foreign hotel employees who sound like they regard their time working in Bora Bora as a sort of deployment. Unless you are engaged in some sort of water sport very little recreational activities are available. As far as we could judge from our ventures “out into town,” a lot of sitting around seems to be the thing.

So, yes I went jet skiing, snorkeling in amazing coral, diving, read a couple books, ate delicious French and island cuisine, and spent time at the spa. My tan is excellent and I feel far more relaxed than I have in some time. The vacation was nothing short of astounding and lived up to every expectation that we had for it- but that doesn’t mean I still don’t wander about with my usual ambivalence. That’s just me. :)    

East Meets West, Part I

My MA thesis dealt with this theme with respect to Egypt- How America is represented in Egyptian media in modern times (while also tracing out the history of the Arab encounter with the US). Much of what I found was the articulation of the same age old stereotypes found within Western or American dominant discourse. In many ways, the way ‘America’ was portrayed caused the Egyptians to ‘orientalize’ themselves so to speak: there are such things as East and West (the classic binary), America is stronger, imperialist, supposed to representative democracy and diversity, yet hypocritical in its actions abroad due to pursuit of ‘strategic interests.’ While the Egyptians are stuck to their old ways, unable to resist strong America, authoritarian, a part of an old and dying world. Thus we also step into the world similar to that of the ‘native informant,’ or the ‘native’ who has incorporated the dominant discourse and can inform upon his or her brethren to the world (or Western, dominant, universal, world) as an affirmation that the dominant discourse is indeed an accurate reflection of the state of affairs- the West is indeed the shining city upon the hill and the ‘others’ the Arabs, etc. have some sort of inherent trait- be it Islam, tribalism, or something else that makes them somehow unable to “catch up” or embrace the modern world. Barbarians, of course. 

Enter South East Asia. Here I am, caught in this supposed pivot towards Asia. And who is the monster to tame? China, of course. Being much less familiar with the dynamics of South East Asia, aside from some studies on how capitalism does NOT necessarily lead to democracy (Exhibit A: China), I decided to embark on my quest in a similar fashion to the one I previously undertook: How did/does ‘China’ experience America? And I put China in those cute little marks to show that I really mean an idea or an articulation- for there are many Chinas, right? Many variations on what China is- some of those articulations represent China as a homogenous entity ready to pursue battle with a just as solid, and homogeneous articulation of ‘America.’ But surely China gets to be more complicated than that- the communist party, the Chinese Navy, the private sector, etc.

Step one of my journey has been the book, China’s America by Jing Li. Not surprisingly, many of the same themes occur. China used to be a powerful empire that was eventually subject to the imperialism of technologically superior Western powers. In steps the questioning of “why did we get left behind?” Much of the initial encounters with the US were in the form of missionaries who set up multiple schools throughout China, just like the Middle East. And the US wasn’t seen as bad of an entity when it wasn’t as bad compared to other European powers- only minor jerks. 

"The U.S. did, in 1900, join seven other powers in an allied expedition to China to
suppress an anti foreign uprising raging in China then, the Boxer Rebellion.
But it was also at this time that Washington put forward the famous Open Door Doctrine, calling upon the foreign powers to respect China’s territorial, if not sovereign, integrity. Under this arrangement, China could continue to exist as one country while the Western nations would maintain and expand their privileges in the eastern land. This was far from ideal for the Chinese; but, given their lot at the time, many Chinese were relieved to see that, partly due to U.S. intervention, their country would avert partition or total colonization, for the time being at least" (13).

So, just not as big of assholes as everyone else. American movies were fascinating but American meddling in China’s domestic affairs was more than irritating. Ambivalence would be the right descriptor.

The book continues to elaborate on the experience through the 2000’s, and there are a variety of them. But I think the more distant past is of the greatest interest. Americans seem to have a forgetfulness about the fact that their country has, in fact, been greatly involved in the fates of other countries for well over 100 years. There is often a forgetfulness that this past experience may shape modern day perceptions and relationships. In any case, my exploration of China’s encounter begins, as best it can in the English language.

Mandatory Social Gatherings

I have often asked myself what the point of mandatory social gatherings might be. I know the company line: it brings people together “outside of work” and in a “relaxed environment” and promotes a feeling of “family” and “team.” Really? Is it really that relaxed of an environment or a complete game of showmanship? 

I was forced into such an occasion yesterday evening. My job requires that I attend these tedious functions and pretend that I really want to spend my precious time outside of work with my boss and co-workers. It requires me to engage in the most terrifying and utterly confusing act of “small talk” with people that I have never met or rarely interact with- and act utterly exhausting and draining for an introvert such as myself. I wonder if I am somehow moulding myself more into this entity called “team” as I stare into space trying to think of some sort of triviality to discuss next. 

I arrived in style, of course. Bottle of beautiful California Zin wrapped in a brown paper bag so that I could dull my senses as quickly as possible to ease getting through the event. Maybe it would even inspire something to say to someone. Everyone is generally more awkward at these events anyway- spouses are present and a whole different dynamic invades the room. As a female in a predominantly male environment, I have to calculate every conversation I have with my male coworkers, boss, and subordinates, lest the spouse read too much into it. And of course there is constant, delicious, judgement and assessment going on- between co-workers, between spouses, between everyone. “Relaxed environment.”



My friend: Seghesio Zin



The “family environment” reminds me that I am alone right now, awkward. And as a lone female, I am somehow stamped as “threat” or something that doesn’t quite fit with the scenery. No significant other is by my side- he’s thousands of miles away. It’s lovely to have that accentuated. The hostess of the event- my boss’s wife- can’t talk to me about my kids- I have none and I intend to have none. There’s nothing to say to me about the wives issues or anything in that genre because I am not the wife of an officer. I am an officer. She might make a remark that I look nice, but that is as far as our conversation is ever really going to get. There is the pregnant silence, she smiles, and attends to her easier guests. And I confess, I probably don’t instantly invite easy conversation and warmth. I put my coat in a closet, find the kitchen, rummage through drawers, and find a wine tool. I am “making myself at home.” I won’t lie, I chug half a glass rapidly before I pour myself an appropriate glass with which to emerge into “public.” Ah, that is a damn good Zin. 

Before I go too far down a negative line, I do not mean to suggest that I dislike everyone at the engagement- or even anyone there for that matter. There are people I would pick and choose to hang out with in a smaller gathering- one that doesn’t have the taint of work all over it. But even my interaction with these people at this gathering is calculated, measured, restrained- because, in actuality, we ARE at work AND in the direct presence of bosses, subordinates, spouses- and being completely at ease is entirely out of the question. Then, what exactly is the point of the entire exercise?

Food is the next event. Now there is some comfort. Everyone will stuff their faces, less conversation will ensue, and thankfully the food will provide some source of conversation. And I can definitely talk about food. Step one: ask where the maker of the tiramisu was able to find lady fingers in Japan.  

Then come the public speeches. People are leaving and we are all supposed to have something to say to them. But what if I really have nothing to say? There’s nothing there to inspire me to make a public announcement in front of all…so I say nothing. Then I berate myself for saying nothing because I should say something- I mean, these people were all good at their jobs and contributed a great deal. By my saying nothing am I somehow slighting them? But my words can’t form and I stay in the back of the room. Where is the Zin? 

Two and a half hours after the event began, it reaches its conclusion. There are no more official moments to behold. I find my coat and slip out the front door as quickly as possible. And I mean, within two minutes of speech conclusion. It is a relief to be hit by the cold crisp air and I nearly run to my car- all along wondering if the goal of the occasion, whatever it was, was actually met.

The Joys of International Air Travel

International air travel is one of my least favorite activities. It’s unpleasant and down right painful when you take into account sitting for hours on end. People smell, your lips chap, your gastrointestinal track has fits, your ankles swell, your head is muddled. It’s all generally not good- all for the convenience of being able to get to the other side of the earth in just a day.

Today’s flight is no exception to crappy international air travel. As usual, my flight was delayed for nearly two hours. While waiting I was told that United was basically unsure of when the flight would actually take off. Being my usual irritated self, I expressed my discontent possibly a little too aggressively. I didn’t really expect anyone to respond. Well, oh well. 

United responds to tweets apparently...

For the plane itself, I doled out an extra $200 to sit in a coveted Economy Plus exit row. Yep, enough to buy a family food for a month in many places- just to have the ability to unbend my legs for 13 straight hours- to hurt less during this not very inspiring journey, the end of which will culminate in my dreaded return to work. I live in a different world than the majority of people on earth. The world opens its doors to me- I have the right passport and it’s financially feasible. I can go just about anywhere when many people can and will never leave their own situations- never have access to where they actually want to be. Borders are less formidable for me. That is our international system- the current state of the global-political economy- the world order that I work for directly. Keep the sea lanes open. Or, in other words, keep the money flowing between the certain “right” people and the “right” places. 

Air travel is a great people-watching experience. You can really get in touch with your stereotyping and judging game. Sitting right next to the access or the lavatories grants me a front row view of people in some of their greatest moments of need...while I watch them jealously regard my stretched out legs, attempting to not step on my feet. But I feel justified in claiming every inch of this $200 worth of precious space. I observe them all: The elderly Japanese woman. The overly attentive mother. The curiously dressed European male. The haggard flight attendant with pursed lips who acts deeply offended if you ask for a cup of water. It’s all such a lovely parade of humanity. How many times have they gotten up? How long do they stay? Will they choose the lavatory that now has a long trail of toilet paper coming out of it because it unrolled and no one bothered to pick it up? Who will be the person who picks it up? What are their motivations? Yes, these are the thoughts that plague me as my ass goes numb in my seat and I wonder when the next “feeding” of the passengers will occur.  

Then I wake up from a hazy snooze, my head rolled onto my shoulder, neck bent in an awful position and I wonder if I’ll be able to pick my head up. The tops of my feet are puffing out of my ballet flats, my sinuses are going crazy and irritating film covers my teeth. At this point, I am cowed into submission and will probably do anything that anyone tells me in order to make the dreaded experience end. Ah, first world problems. 

And finally, Tokyo. You stampede with the herd to immigration and customs- I got to stand in line twice after filling out my immigration form in an unsuitable color of pen but, other than that, it is easy to cross into Japan. 

“Passengers coming from Sierra Leone, Liberia, and Guinea please divert over here.” Nope, not me. But how can you be so sure that I have not been exposed to Ebola the past couple days of airport travel? 

Finally it’s the Narita Express train to Yokohama. I have been riding this train back and forth from Narita for over a year now and the same commercials still play- the man with a thick eyebrows and a mustache dressed like a young school girl advertising wifi. JR Line and the Police Department would still like you to know that they are on high alert for something suspicious (and they have been for the entire time I have been riding this train). 

High Alert!!

What does “high alert” mean? When are they not at “high alert?” These are the things I ponder as my backside spends another hour and a half sitting. 

And tomorrow: work. Ugh, my reward for completing this lovely journey...