Category: new york

flying back

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(war, by the way, in between) 

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the morning light is beautiful. while yesterday the Washington bridge was disappearing in the fog and pouring rain, this morning the sky and the sun were just so bright. it is very early when we leave the house. a man at the subway entrance distributes newspapers, announcing good deals and sales. i forgot, this is black friday, christmas shopping should begin. i enjoy the busride to La Guardia, Queens, the ride through Harlem, the beautiful views on the city once we cross the water. and some time later, breathtaking views on the city from the sky.

i booked this ticket quite late; what made it affordable was travelling on the friday after Thanksgiving, a time when obviously many people are taking a long weekend. but i discover that there was more that kept the price down – two overlays: New York – Chicago – San Diego – San Jose. in the clear sky and with window seats all along the way, i was all happy again to cross this country and watch it with a bird’s eye. the new part was flying all the way down to San Diego – a different landscape, i caught a glimpse of Mexico. the last stretch, from San Diego to San Jose, is amazing. the whole of Southren California, the ocean, the entire coastline. i saw Big Sur. the very last part of the journey moves me: i recognize Monterey Bay with its small towns of Monterey, Salinas, Watsonville, Santa Cruz. by the time we fly over the Santa Cruz mountains, the sun has set behind us and we fly into a maze of lights – the south end of Silicon Valley and the city of San Jose. i already felt it went it left for this trip – this piece of earth is starting to feel familiar.

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thanksgiving

be careful what you wish for. after much complaints, sighs of disbelief and exclamations of not-so-friendly things about americans, we end up having two thanksgiving dinners with everything-as-it-should be. the point was: we wanted a dinner with turkey and stuffing and gravy and potatoes and pumpkin pie and all that it should have. we were not willing to cede – the idea of a potluck, with sahar making tahchin, a most decilious iranian dish, was not acceptable (after all the occassions over the past year in which sahar made tahchin for new friends in the new country). we wanted to get invited to a traditional american dinner, nothing more or nothing less. when sahar’s resistance had perhaps started to crumble just a tiny bit, i was still ranting. yesterday in a supermarket in Jackson Heights, Queens, it struck me that we should just get a turkey. sahar insisted on checking with the friend who had invited us – he convinced her not to buy the turkey. but perhaps the point was clear enough. when this evening we arrived at his place, everything what we wished for, and more (including setting up the christmas tree, which turned out to be the queerest christmas tree ever), was there for us. and after one party there was still a second one to go (sahar had really been checking out the scene…) to, hosted by lebanese friends, with… turkey and stuffing and gravy and potatoes and pumpkin pie… too much of a good thing.

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at one of the parties, i meet a columbia graduate student who spent a good number of years at UCSC. he gets carried away by sweet memories, seminars with donna haraway and angela davis, interesting conversations with jim clifford, susan harding and anna tsing, animated discussions with chris connery about anarchism. and the people of the compound, the people who live in trees. when he got round to ask how i liked santa cruz, i try to get across why i don’t like it (“What?!? You don’t like it?”). clearly there’s a bunch of inspiring people around, but is place is made out of so much more than that. the white priviliged bubble – he doesn’t really get it (beyond an obligatory acknowledgement). the de-politization – he doesn’t really get it (as he quickly moves into political texts). then i mention that i encountered a political community that i like a lot, in Watsonville.”In Watsonville…?” he’s kind of in shock. “And you’re not afraid to go to Watsonville?” i give him a mocking smile. “I mean, i don’t know of many people in Santa Cruz who dare to go to Watsonville,” he says, with a small voice. that is precisely it. six years of studying in Santa Cruz, with amazing people, reading a long list of critical texts, yet the dominant white discourse on “dangerous Watsonville”, the latino city where so many of the nocturnal care-takers of the university in Santa Cruz live, remains an untouched and unquestioned part of his nerve-system. can count as a symptom of what is so terribly wrong with this place that prides itself on its liberal and progressive attitude.

secret life of bees

secret_life_of_bees_2.jpg i sit all cuddled up at the table in sahar’s kitchen. witnessing a very rare event – sahar sound asleep throughout the entire morning, into noon, after that pleasant party at murat’s place. time feels still this morning, and silent. i’m reading the last chapters of The Secret Life of Bees, the book that found its way into our house when i arrived back in this country in autumn, and then disappeared on morning, i had to chase it. its story touches me a lot, i’m enchanted by it but also disturbed. tears fall on the kitchen table, a meager reflection of the rain that is pouring down on New York.

Honeybees depend not only on phyiscal contact with the colony, but also require its social companionship and support. Isolate a honeybee from her sisters and she will soon die. (The Queen Must Die: And Other affairs of Bees and Men)

The whole frabric of honey bee society depends on communication – on an innate ability to send and receive messages, to encode and decode information. (The Honey Bee)

broadway

walking from central park to Times Square before, a glimpse of the city in the late afternoon before we get ourselves to Chinatown and the bus to Boston…

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harlem

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a journey into Harlem, to follow traces of pieces of Black American history and in particular Afro-American Islam. Masjid Malcolm Shabaz, the Nation of Islam mosque which Malcolm X once lead. the story of Betty X Shabbaz, Malcolm X (Shabbaz)’s widow, who died in the late 1990s when her home was set on fire by her teenage grandson, Malcolm, leaves us with a taste of the desintegration of that political legacy. we talk briefly with some people sitting outside of the mosque, to get a sense of what the mosque does (real estate! at first we laugh with how “american” this is, but of course in a city like new york this is crucial to a community…) and who the community is today, but we don’t get much of an idea. the image of the grandson Malcolm setting the house on fire dominates my thoughts. when later on we go to find Harlem’s Liberation bookstore – the store closed down, the building in scaffolds. such a sad sight. the struggle to survive, the pressure, the burn out (ay, the grandson pops up again…)…

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a delicious meal at Amy Ruth’s Home-Style Southern Cuisine, eventhough we definately get many things wrong – the belgians ask for mayonnaise (hm, just for the record, i was perfectly happy with ketchup, its the other one who insisted…) and the non-southerners eat their fried chicken with fork and knife…

arriving in the city

arriving late in New York city. the drive through the city at night from La Guardia to Washington Heights is a gentle announcement of more familiarity to come. sahar picks me up at the Presbytarian Hospital. in her new home i find nadia all sleepy on the couch.

buzzing with the story of nadia’s entry into the country, earlier today…
– “What kind of name is this?”
– “Arab,” she says, with pride. (must have been the first red flag in the guy’s mind)
– “What is the purpose of your visit?”
– “I’m going to present a paper at a conference.”
– “What kind of conference?”
– “About the Middle East.” (oops, second red flag…)
– “What will you talk about?”
– “My research on religious experiences of second generation Moroccans in Belgium.”
– “Are Moroccans Muslim?”
– “Yes.” (hm, third red flag…)
– “So tell me, what do you think of jihad.” (yep, the question that inevitably, let’s say logically, follows the red flags…)
– “Well, I understand jihad as an inner struggle…”
– “Yes, I know (!!), but most people understand it as killing people.”
– “It’s a complex notion, we would need some time to sit down and discuss more…”
– “We’ll have this discussion right here and now, because I have to decide to let you in the country or not.”
– “Oh. Well, if by jihad you mean the killing of innocent people, I am against it.”
– “Good. Enjoy your stay in the US.”

it’s funny how quickly one gets used to quotidian environments, and how a visiting friend makes one’s eyes widen once more. the high securitarian character of the country that strikes and repulses nadia. and then, of course, the refrain of her first-day-of-NYC stories: “juist zoals in the film!” (just like in the movies).

silence

IMGP3213.JPG Back to this (or the other) side of the Atlantic, back in London. This need to go back, to find out what “going back” does with oneself, how it yet again re-arranges inner landscapes and other things…First impression: how silent and grey (spring hasn’t arrived yet), this jungle, compared to the NY one. More than 40 minutes of underground between Heathrow and Manor House, an hour or so after the morning peak, and almost nobody spoke a word. We were loud though; we played New York and didn’t shut up.