The Star in the Apple, and Other Lessons

  1. The Apple

Happiness is an apple orchard. Juice drips down eager chins; sticky fingers clamber into the green ventricles of the trees. I am six years old. I have lost my shoes, and other irrelevant information. My first-grade teacher is a benevolent femininity watching over us as we fill little baskets with crimson treasure. She calls us over, an apple cupped in her hands. As sunlight bathes this sacred moment, my teacher slices the apple in half, but not in the traditional way, not downward from the stem through the core. Instead, she guides the knife sideways through the apple’s smooth flank, slicing the core horizontally. The big reveal: inside that apple is a perfect star.

The orchard shifts. Indeed, imperceptibly, the whole world shifts, like a giant adjusting in her sleep. I have learned something elusive about the order of the universe, and I don’t know what it is yet because I’m small and new. But inside every apple is a star, and that will have lasting consequences

2. Don Melharmino

I am nineteen years old doing research in the indigenous village of Boruca, Costa Rica. Already I know this is wrong. I sleep in the bed of those I am complicit in marginalizing; I accept their coffee and their gallo pinto and their offers to visit the sacred waterfall. I want to know what they believe about folklore and Christianity. I want them to tell me what God means to them, and myth; I want these people to reveal themselves to a stranger whose only real objective is a good GPA.

I am nineteen years old, sweating and sunburnt, clutching my notebook as I hike to another interview. Red roads, blue sky, greenery bursting with oranges and pinks. It’s so hot that the air pulsates.

Don Melharmino is an old man in a bamboo hut. His hands are callused, his teeth decayed and his eyes brimming with enthusiasm. I mean enthusiasm in the old way: ­en-theos, with that of God(s) in him. Like most men in Boruca, Don Melharmino carves wooden masks that tourists gobble up, often ignorant of the masks’ historical significance. But Melharmino isn’t offended, and he’s not bitter about it. Melharmino wants me to know about his sacred healing stones, and about the contradictory nature of belief in Boruca, and about the rocks in the mountains that are carved with Boruca’s native language. As far as anthropology knows, Boroca doesn’t have a language.

This is the most terrible thing that has ever happened to me. I know I shouldn’t be in this village, asking questions I have no right to. Now I’ve been given this knowledge I have not earned. I know something very few people know, and I don’t deserve it. There are stars inside of apples, and I know the deepest secret of an indigenous community. Maybe Ms. Silvio shouldn’t have cut open that apple in the first place.

3. The Gamboller


I am on my way to get drinks, sputtering up 80 Foot Road in an ornery rickshaw, anticipating the turn onto CMH Road in Indiranagar, Bangalore. I am thinking small thoughts. Bangalore sputters by, and I absorb none of it.

Until I see her.

It’s impolite to compare humans to animals. But there she is, a woman my own age, gambolling on all fours between two parked cars. She lopes like a dog, her wrists curled in so she walks on the tops of her hands, and her legs malformed. She moves confidently, and it’s clear she’s been living this way her whole life.

My rickshaw moves on quickly, and I’m glad it does. I wanted desperately to look away.

She shakes me from my self-absorbtion; I see her in my mind’s eye for days, loping about on all fours in her pink and yellow sari. It’s not so much the sight of her that shook me, but my reaction to it: I am viscerally disgusted. And I am disgusted that I feel that way

4. The Apology


There are wounds inside all of us. Sometimes the wounds manifest loudly; they cause us to repeat destructive patterns, to sabotage ourselves, to seek out destruction in ways that others can see. Other times our wounds stay hidden, like pebbles in our shoes, heaviness we feel but cannot bring ourselves to acknowledge. I think we refuse to acknowledge the heaviness in others because to do so is to rub up against our own barriers. It’s easier to live with unacknowledged heaviness, to pretend it’s all alright, than to accept the pain of just being.

I am twenty-one, living in South Africa, attending into a workshop on feminism in Sub-Saharan Africa, and the workshop has devolved into misogyny and heteronormativity. Women of all races yell at the few men in attendance: you don’t understand! Womanhood is pain. Motherhood is pain! Wifehood is pain! The men, all of them Black, yell back: You don’t know what Apartheid felt like! Your complaints make light of our suffering! Attacks become personal. This was supposed to be a productive, practical workshop, and instead it is hours and hours of tears and raised voices, where the only gendered analysis is of woman = wife = mother, man = breadwinner.

The pain is a dark knot that kneads my insides. I don’t want to derail the conversation with my angst, but to remain silent would be to let that dark knot devour me.

So I come out. I speak for probably five minutes about how painful it feels when women are articulated only in relation to men, and only in terms of their sexual or reproductive relation to men. I tell that assembled group of South African men and women, plus my peers from LIU Global,  how I have been afraid of getting gay-bashed in this country, which is maybe a little bit racist of me and I’m working on that, but that I hurt, and it’s hard, and I want them to think about the ways in which their conversation might be hurtful to gay South Africans. I speak/cry/gesticulate for far longer than is appropriate, but when I’ve finished, the room is different. The group is different.

Some hours later we have all aired our pain, from places of vulnerability. People speak about abuse, addiction, jealousy, fear and hope. We talk about how we understand our duty on this earth, that which we are obligated to do with this lifetime. Up til now we’ve been sitting or standing in a broad circle, but not we sit together on the floor in a comfortable clump. In a moment of silence, an older woman Apologizes. Capital-A Apologizes.

She says, we all carry hurt within us. We’re all waiting for an apology, maybe several. We all feel wronged. And she’d like to say sorry to each of us. From whoever, for whatever hurt, she is sorry. And then, also, she forgives us. From whoever, for whatever hurt we caused, we are forgiven.

I cry for the hurt this group caused me pain. I cry because I didn’t know I needed to be forgiven, for a lot of things, but also for looking away when I saw that woman gamboling on all fours down 80 Foot Road in a pink and yellow sari.

Then I speak again.

“When we were talking about our missions,” I say, “I figured out what mine was. It’s to witness. So often we feel like nobody sees us, really sees us how we want to be seen, without judgement, from a place of radical love. I want to do that. I am on this earth to bear witness, and to love, and not to look away.”

5.  Amy


I’ve witnessed a lot and I need to take a break, so I come home to New York. I do schoolwork and spend hours savoring cups of coffee. I learn how to make perfectly fluffy eggs, how to slow down enough to proofread a novel, how to stay sane in this kind of city. I also spend a lot of time thinking about what I’ve seen. I’ve stared into the eyes of a woman dying from AIDS. I’ve watched a dead body float past me on the Ganga River. I’ve prayed to so many gods. I’ve witnessed extreme poverty, extreme wealth, malevolence, misguided benevolence, domestic violence, utter selflessness, the most astonishing natural beauty, true love, addiction, corruption. I’ve nearly died, nearly been raped, nearly decided never to come home. But here I am, on the most average of days, sitting on a roof with a woman named Amy, deciding whether or not we will be friends.

Amy is twenty-six. She has pigtails and two bruises under her eyes. She plays guitar and speaks German and likes girls, and we should have lot in common but we don’t. Every time I voice my opinions she jerks away from me, as though something I’ve said hurts her, and finally I confront her about it.

“It’s just that you’re so young,” she says. “I did a lot of really stupid things when I was your age, and being around you reminds me of that. I guess I’m just not so naive anymore.”

I never hang out with Amy again after this, but I think of her as one of my great teachers. I vow to hold on to my naivete, to cultivate it. I know that it makes me seem childish. I know it’s an insult to the pain I have witnessed traveling this world. And. But. Also. I refuse to shut down. I refuse to turn away because it’s too hard. With radical naivete, with radical empathy, openly and honestly and with the innocence of a child, I will look that pain in the eye. Because there is a star in every apple, and there is a wounded child inside every stony glance.

6. Ohana


So I come to Goa. Twenty-two years old, tired, my edges frayed into a greater tapestry of being. I came here with seven friends in the trunk of a car made to seat four. For a long time, I will think of this week as the best few days of my life. We, the intrepid youth, venture to the beach, and I strike out on my own far out into the low-tide rocks. There is a breeze blowing here, on this piece of the Arabian Sea, a breeze that is one with every other breeze on every other beach. I think big thoughts. I think about apple orchards and notable strangers. Maybe I lose track of time a little, because Arundhati ventures after me onto the rocks. She grabs my arm.

“Come back to us,” she says. She quotes a Disney movie. “Ohana means family, and family means no one gets left behind.”

7. Diploma

In a few days, some very important people will mail me a diploma. A few days after that, I will tear through the envelope and slide out that flaccid piece of paper. Maybe I will hang it up. Before I wrote this, I knew that paper wouldn’t reflect what I’ve truly learned. Now, what began as an arbitrary framing device for a reflection essay I didn’t know how to write becomes a real way to conceptualize my education: a star inside an apple. Invisible, wrapped up in other things, like a simile for a metaphor. I don’t quite know what that means, because I’m small and new, but I think I’ll figure it out.

5 Year Plan

Buy grande iced lattes and hurry to catch the subway, sensible flats tiptapping an urgent staccato. High-speed/low intimacy. Shower at the gym; learn to cook for one. When a friend visits from out of town, a friend you haven’t seen since graduation, make plans and then cancel them, saying “So sorry, stuck late at work! Next time!” Feel glamorous on Saturday; spend Sunday curled up in bed, despairing at the lie that is your adulthood. Buy pretty dresses on bad-body-image days, then scrape by in order to pay back student loans. Keep a few important friends; forget their birthdays. Fall in love. Convince yourself it’s infatuation. Get out while you still can. Operate under the assumption that you are doing something good in the world. Don’t bother to recycle.

When you feel the city closing in on you, go for a walk in a park or on a bridge. Try to control yourself; end up ugly-crying right there in public. Cultivate your social media presence: you are happy, confident, and surrounded by other happy, confident people. You are going places. Develop a rainy day fund. Work hard for a promotion you think you want. Work on a novel; delete it; start another one. Remember to buy dish soap, finally; celebrate yourself as a functioning adult. Forget to do laundry for a week too long; curse yourself as a perennial infant. Stare a little too long at other people’s happiness.

Reminisce about your traveling days. Remind yourself how miserable you were on interminable rides on uncomfortable public transportation, when all you wanted was the comfort and familiarity of home. Fail to convince yourself you’re happier now. Make your escape: a plane ride, a new job in a favorite city, falling into old/new friendships like you just left yesterday. Get a gym membership; buy grande iced lattes; continue to cook for one.

Sydney Writes Fiction: “No Such Thing as Free Pizza”

This is a thing I wrote.


Dan would have gotten so much pussy out of Mr. Pizza’s motorcycle if there wasn’t a massive pizza carrier strapped to the back of it. It was still pretty sexy though, weaving in and out of traffic, unimpeded by the clogged arteries of post-rush-hour Manhattan’s tachycardic rhythms. Even if bitches were turned off by the pizzacycle, it made Dan feel like Brad Pitt circa 2003, so it was pretty much worth it.

Someone had ordered a large sausage pizza, extra sausage, to a warehouse in TriBeCa. Probably some artists celebrating the launch of their post-postmodern art exhibit of blank canvasses with dicks graffitied on them. Dan hated one-pizza deliveries. Fuckers thought it was an excuse to tip like fifty cents, which was just a dick move no matter how you slice it.

The warehouse was on a cobblestone lane between two paved streets. This was an alleyway of loft apartments for the formerly powerful, those who got off on making interns come all the way down to lower Manhattan to pick up donations for biannual fundraising galas. The rate of classy alcoholism must be twice the national average on this alley alone. Dan hopped up the five stairs to the door and buzzed for Anderson.

This half-naked blond dude came to the door. He was wearing a towel, and there might as well have been an a neon speech bubble over his head saying “You just caught me between my third and fourth fuck of the day.” No need to show off, asshole, seriously. Some people would kill for abs like that.

“Sixteen fifty.” Dan said.

The guy handed him a fifty dollar bill and took the pizza. “Keep the change,” he said.

That wasn’t the point. So this one dude had millions in disposable income to make himself feel powerful by doting on greasy pizza delivery guys. It was what he represented that was really wrong with this country. Dan improvised.

“Hey wait! Listen!”

The guy, who had already begun to shut the door and go back to his languorous evening of pizza and sex, gave Dan another moment.

“You’re our one millionth delivery. If I could just come in and take down your information, we’ll send you a free pizza, uh, ASAP.”

“I’m not interested,” Towel Dude said. The door began to shut once more.

“Wait!” Dan yelped.

“Dude, are you hitting on me?”

“What? No!” A shiver of familiar homoerotic angst shot through Dan’s middle. “I’m not gay. It’s just… don’t you want your free pizza?”

The blond Abercrombie model gave Dan the most condescending look. “Sure. Whatever. Bring it by tomorrow night.” As the faux-industrial metal door slammed shut on his face, Dan pondered how many years’ salary it would cost him for just the fucking doorknob. There was a tire iron stowed under the pizzacycle’s seat.

Back on the pizza-cycle, he cut out through the maze of alleyways that made up TriBeCa until he came out onto 10th Avenue. This he rode all the way up to 23rd Street, taking perverse pleasure in the drops of city-water that splattered his face. An old homeless guy had called it that, the strange liquids that accost a person in New York. Is it bird shit? Is it air conditioner pee? The sweat of the fornicators on the seventh floor? Usually a spattering of city-water could turn Dan’s day sour, but tonight it confirmed the suspicion that was growing inside him like an alien fetus. TriBeCa Towel Man had provided Dan the perfect opportunity to tell the universe exactly who it was fucking with.

The following night, Dan’s internal monologue verged on the megalomaniacal. As he delivered two medium cheese pizzas and eight garlic knots to the sickeningly romantic couple on the sixth-floor walkup on the Lower East Side, he cheerfully contemplated bashing their heads in. The medium veggie pie came with a spitball none of its vegetarian (and probably socialist) purchasers would know about. But none of that was the point. It was all an amusing precursor to 8:30, when Dan left the pizzacycle on the street in front of the restaurant and stole a random box of pizza from the to-be-delivered pile. The floor manager did not interrogate him on the location and amount of his tips. The hot waitress made eye contact. Literally everything was an omen: Dan was doing the right thing.

He zipped in and out of traffic as Manhattan’s million lights brightened against the dusk. Peering up at the sky around the rim of his helmet, he even thought he saw a star. It was a beautiful night to eagerly anticipate committing his first felony. He mounted the five steps the to the metallic front door, pizza in hand, and buzzed for Anderson.

The person who came to the door, however, was not the slick, muscular schmuck Dan had been fantasizing about ganking for the past twenty-four hours. Rather, it was a girl. She was young, maybe nineteen, with one of those tasteful cursive tattoos on the side of her neck. Breathe. She had a nose ring on a cute button nose and the kind of tasteful cleavage the slutty waitress from Mr. Pizza’s restaurant could never pull off.

“Uh, delivery for…” Assface?

The girl gave him a blank stare.

“No, I, uh… yesterday. Someone who lives here was the millionth delivery. This is your free pizza.”

She flashed him a genuine smile. “Thanks! That’s so sweet of you. You guys have great pizza, we’ll definitely order from you again.” Soft hands grazed his as she took the box and closed the door in his face.

Dan stood there dumbfounded on the front porch. He had this little sister who was one of those armpit-hair feminists, and she was always going on about something called a Manic Pixie Dream Girl, a trope Dan had never understood until just that moment. He spent about three minutes looking at the space formerly occupied by the girl who wasn’t the man he intended to murder, imagining a picket-fence kind of life with her, bringing her flowers and cooking her breakfast. Bitch was ungrateful, too. He’d bring her chocolates and she’d say, “Thanks, you’re so sweet!” and then eat them by herself in front of Netflix. Or he’d compliment her outfit and she’d narrow her eyes, tell him to stop objectifying her. Fury rose in his throat like bile; he hocked a loogie onto the welcome mat. He stormed out to the pizzacycle and fished for the tire iron stowed under the seat. It was cool and reassuring against his skin. With purpose, he mounted those five steps one last time, buzzed for Anderson and waited.





Blog’s Back: On Culture Shock and Resistance

For the millionth time, I have entered the downswing of culture shock. Some have reasonably suggested that because I know that’s what’s happening, I should be able to avoid it, but it’s unavoidable. I can acknowledge it, and psychoanalyze it, but the only way out is through. But the funny part is, this bit of culture shock always comes to me in the form of resistance to wherever I find myself. I’m also simultaneously researching a whole different kind of resistance. The two distinct concepts are coming together in my mind like a zipper. I’m going to run with it.

The Resistance phase of culture shock manifested thusly today: I wore my no-shoulders dress and took the metro to MG Road, a commercial hub of Bangalore. (Observations from my first time on the metro: metal detector. Pat-down in a private room by a female guard. My bag slipped through its own metal detector. I have been through airport security that was less strict.) I went to Gourmet Food World, a wildly expensive imported food store, and purchased myself a box of Hershey’s Unsweetened Cocoa Powder. Now I’m sipping a soy latte in Starbucks, listening to songs that remind me of my summer in West Virginia. I’m embarrassed about how I spent my morning, but also, I needed to do it. I was resisting. Soon I’ll be over it, and I’ll do more culturally appropriate things with my time and money. I might even get some schoolwork done.

But then again, resistance is a powerful word. It’s a word that turns personal choices into small, crucial ways of making life livable in challenging environments. Resistance is cutting your hair even if your family hates it. Resistance is a dress that’s just a little too short. Resistance is a pronoun, a bindi, a pair of high heels that make you feel powerfully yourself. Can resistance be a box of Hershey’s Unsweetened Cocoa Powder? Hmm. There is a difference between resisting India and resisting heteronormativity, but I still think there are questions here. Activism is optional, but do we really have a choice in resistance? If resistance is a form of self-assertion, can it be “bad” or “wrong” as long as it doesn’t harm anyone? Of course resistance is performed relative to time and place and situation, so how much can resistance build off previous efforts and still be the appropriate response to the situation?

I’m spiraling out from my original thought. All I know is, I need a break from curry. Where can a person get some Chipotle up in here?

On Wilderness and Authenticity

I made a cheetah purr the other day. I drank coffee on a boat while watching hippos yell in each other’s mouths. I listened to my Contemplative Playlist as we drove past miles and miles and miles of identical, evenly spaced trees. The trees freaked me out more than petting a cheetah. There was no other plant life growing there, and no animals would risk the openness of the four-by-four space between each tree. The artificial forest covered whole mountains. The trees seemed confused about growing in such sterile conditions. I pitied those trees: they deserved a more natural forest.

I went on a safari the other day. We climbed into massive, open-air jeeps that, had they been human, would have resembled the bully Moe from Calvin and Hobbes. We drove around Makhasa reserve for hours, witnessing pristine African prairie and jungle right next to one another. Impala and nyala were so common we stopped squealing when we saw them, but when one jeep saw a giraffe or some rhino, the ranger would radio the other jeep and everybody would converge on that hapless creature, and we would all take pictures together. As thrilled as I was to be within shouting distance of a giraffe (and as childishly frustrated that I was not permitted to ride one), I felt betrayed by the a wilderness that was careful, controlled and calculated.

Okay, I know, liability and all that. Makhasa reserve couldn’t very well let tourists wanter around getting trampled left and right. And poachers: we saw the anti-poaching unit patrolling the fence on several occasions, bundled up and brandishing rifles at anyone who tried to steal a rhinoceros. But being on that game reserve destroyed my illusions of a truly wild wilderness. I want a safari experience without fences. I don’t want rangers telling me about elephants on birth control and exactly how much it costs to ship in an extra zebra from Mozambique. And it wasn’t just my idea of wilderness that was altered, it was this archetypal, ancient, untouched African wilderness that was lost too. Even after three months on the continent, I still clung to those tired Lion King images that primitivize nation states, towns and cultures alike. No wilderness is untouched. This place has been cultivated for centuries. I already knew that there is no such thing as a pristine natural environment.

I know that concept is appealing to us urban, governable folks because it allows us to “go into the wild” and come home more in touch with our humanity, or whatever. If there is no such thing as authentic wilderness, we have to come to terms with what we sacrifice for urbanity.

On our last night at the game reserve, a couple of us sat around a campfire after everyone else had gone to bed. I could hear hyenas laughing in the distance. I could see the stars, those unfamiliar constellations of the southern hemisphere that disrupted the comfort of the fire. We were all relaxed and vulnerable with one another. The question of the night: “Do you think it’s possible to feel this human in the city?” The consensus was, probably not. But if there is no such thing as authenticity, if there’s no pure wilderness, the intimacy of that campfire was an illusion too. And if nothing is authentic, then, well, everything is.

The Invitation

A poem by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn’t interest me
what you do for a living.
I want to know
what you ache for
and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me
how old you are.
I want to know
if you will risk
looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me
what planets are
squaring your moon…

I want to know
if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened
by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know
if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations
of being human.

It doesn’t interest me
if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear
the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.

And if you can source your own life
from its presence.
I want to know
if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me
who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me
where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know
what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know
if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like
the company you keep
in the empty moments.

Tenets of the Postmodern Writer/Traveler

  • Truth is relative.
  • There is no eternal belongingness: static identities based on allegiance to a race or gender or class belie the complexity of a globalized world.
  • Today’s truths exist between contexts, between the false opposites of colonizer/colonized, oppressor/oppressed, Me/Not Me.
  • Culture is anxious, confused, in constant dialogue with itself. There is nothing static enough to romanticize.

So what does this mean for this American, economically privileged writer? When I travel, I occupy an ancient cultural trope: the outward journey into uncharted jungles, the return home with stories of strange people and interesting places. Mine is a classic tale: girl seeks adventure far from home, experiences world, discovers self. Is there any way to write from this place of privilege without replicating the very colonial systems I want to see undone? What do I have to say? Does it make a difference if I announce my position as part of the trope of the writer-as-cultural-explorer? What if I tell stories of the way my own identities shift and become relative, the way my self-understanding is called into question by the navel-gazing culture I temporarily inhabit?

Yesterday we ten American girls attended a lecture on the history of the Cato Manor township, and then we took a tour of it by van. I gazed out the window at the shifting landscape of corrugated tin shacks and government-sponsored cement houses, at my fellow humans hanging clothes and sitting in the shade and doing car-fixing things underneath cars. We got out of the van a few times, but did not talk to anyone. What was this experience supposed to mean? Was I supposed to witness great poverty and feel gratitude for everything I have? Should I have been ruminating on what the South African government’s policies and budget is doing to increase access to social services for the residences of Cato Manor? I did a little of both these things. I did not, however, relinquish any of the power of my position. I did not make myself vulnerable to new ways of being. I sat in my air-conditioned van and wandered circles in the familiar roads in my own head. Therefore, anything I have to say on this experience is, post-modernly speaking, irrelevant.

Or maybe the experience wasn’t supposed to mean anything, and that was the point. Maybe meaning itself is irrelevant in a world where there are no borders strictly delineating anything. After all, at this point, meaninglessness may be the only universal experience. Maybe our true unity lies in our common experience of having nothing in common at all. (This is all inspired by Andrew Smith’s “Migrancy, Hybridity and Postcolonial Literary Studies” in Postconial Literary Studies, edited by Neil Lazarus. 2004, Cambridge University Press.)


I like to be early. Scratch that. I’m obsessive about being early. I keep myself on schedule to be on time for being five minutes early so I can sit there and relax. And then, of course, I spend those five minutes worrying about whatever I’m early for. Do I worry about time to keep myself from worrying about other, realer things? Or is my worry just a distraction from the here and now?

What if I stopped keeping track of time that way? (But then I’d be late.) People are late all the time. (But then people would be disappointed in me.) Or, being on time has nothing to do with my worth. This moment is enough. Everything will get done that needs to get done. Each moment is the event, and I am right on time.

Manifesto for Twenty

Last night I found myself on the roof of the LIU Brooklyn ceramics studio with a twenty-six-year-old woman named Amy. She brought her guitar: the plan was to sing a little, and practice speaking German, one of our common languages. As we searched for linguistic and existential commonalities, it became apparent that we had little in common except for our mutual desire to sing and speak German on a roof. Additionally, wrench in the plan: we literally did not know any of the same songs. Not one. Punk rock? German choir music? Top 40 from the ‘90s? Hipster boopety-boop? (We could have sung Ani DiFranco, but apparently she and Amy graduated from the same music program and Ani was kind of a bitch.)

At a certain point, though, our differences ceased to be about taste in music. It became about age. I was embarrassed about being young. Amy was embarrassed about being old. Obviously we weren’t going to have a jam sesh. Amy put away her guitar, and we turned to politics.

“A lot of people really hate my philosophy,” Amy said. “But I really think that the political is psychological. Like, you can call yourself an Occupier, but then you go home and you can’t keep a job, and you don’t know how to have a stable relationship… that’s not a philosophy that’s going to work.”

“So you’re saying that we have to focus on being our best selves before we can try to fix the world?” I asked.

“Yeah. You can’t change anything if you’re not a good person.”

“I disagree,” I said. “Don’t you think we all deserve to live a dignified life, even if we still have growing to do? I really believe that in most problems, if we could really get every effected party to come to the table openly and honestly, we could all find ways to move forward that meet everyone’s needs. It just means making room for everybody to talk, I feel like.”

“Have you ever made that happen?” Amy asked.

I haven’t. I looked out over the edge of the roof. Lights were coming on. Traffic sounds were becoming more echoey. They were night sounds now. Not too far away, the Brooklyn Bridge snaked over the river, and beyond that, Manhattan’s million tiny lights illuminated the horizon. “No, but I have to believe it can be done.”

Some time later, we rode the train into Manhattan; I knew a pool hall in K-Town. But there were no empty tables, and I hadn’t eaten any dinner, so we got smoothies and took them to a quiet second-floor corner, where we could continue a conversation that had somehow become about genetics, destiny, mental health and performance theory. No matter the topic, Amy’s response was always, “It’s not a big deal that you’re twenty, but there are some things you just don’t understand.”

Finally I confronted her about it.

“Okay, honestly it freaks me out how young you are,” she said. “There were a lot of really stupid things I did when I was your age. I don’t really like who I was then, and hanging out with you reminds me of that. At a certain point you have to figure it all out and grow up.”

Her emotions were evident in her voice and her eyes. I didn’t know what they were, but I knew they were there. I felt the need to comfort her somehow. “At least it seems like your passionate about your work. You don’t seem jaded about music.”

She huffed a laugh. “At a certain point, you get passionate about a paycheck.”
I changed the topic. “Na ja. Wir sollen Deutsch üben. Sagt man “na ja” eben noch? Ist “na ja” noch cool?”
Eventually I went home, and Amy went out to meet some friends.

So today I’ve been thinking about the connection between age and apathy. I refuse to believe that you have to round the hump of twenty-five, or fifty, or seventy-five and lose your passion for whatever you’re passionate about. Yes. There are things I don’t understand about growing up, and I do want to grow up, and I do want to figure out how to live a life I’m proud of. But I don’t want to be jaded. I don’t want to lose my naivety. I want to trust and love and be vulnerable. I want to be passionate about life’s messiness and amazed by its intricacies. I want to know people beyond networking (because even if Amy and I probably aren’t going to be besties, we did have a pretty amazing four hours of conversation). I want my profession to be loving the heck out of the world, and believing wholeheartedly in human goodness.

So that’s my manifesto for twenty.


The key to weed whacking is to become one with the weed whacker. This feels rather like drinking seventeen espressos and then clamping both fists onto an electric fence. But let’s start at the beginning: before you can become one with the death-defying ride that is the whacker, you must convince it to start.

Every weed eater is essentially different; it is my educated suspicion that even whackers of the same make and model emerge from the factory as ornery old men, uncooperative, rusty and in need of a great deal of special attention. But by the time these stickbugs make their way into your care, they are especially old, especially dirty and especially hard to love.

In the morning you steel yourself, heft up the garage door and stare down the ugly little row of weed whackers. Part of the ritual is the pre-whacking dodder: find some matching garden gloves, look for some eye protection amid the jumble of hammers and nails on the workbench, scrounge up some earplugs from God-knows-where. When it can be avoided no longer, you have no choice but to turn to the three little demons on the floor. Nobody wants to weed whack. We all have weed whacking thrust upon us.

Weed whackers are essentially long poles with death at each end. At the bottom is the grass-guard, which may protect your shins from grass but does nothing against pebbles, pinecones and glacier-sized boulders. Beneath the grass-guard is the spinning green string of doom: whirling at warp speed, the plastic-coated string becomes a lethal weapon capable of felling anything in its way: weeds, saplings, children under the age of four. At the top, the part closest to your body, is the motor. It would be terrifying enough to have that much potential for combustion only inches from your torso, but the fractures in the plastic casing and the hellish temperatures of the little blob itself make it that much worse.

The first step, of course, is to check the fuel tank, at the top of the stick, and, should it be low, to identify the proper type of fuel for his needs. Some weed whackers take pure oil; some take pure gas; some take a mix of the two. Woe betide she who uses the wrong liquid, and good luck identifying the proper cocktail. The stakes are high, and the house frequently wins.

Once the tank is full, the next step is to pump the bugger for information. Or, more accurately, to pump the fuel-gauge button six to ten times (depending on the grumpiness of the machine on that particular day), move the power switch to whatever position it wasn’t already occupying (or toggle it back and forth until your anxiety settles, as the case may be) and then begin the ceremonial chain-yanking. Be warned, all ye who chain-yank here: this part is stressful. Your time is limited: if you don’t start the machine quickly enough, you must return to the proverbial first square of button-pushing and switch-toggling. Yank for all you’re worth! Yank your elbow all the way back to your ear!

Let’s say you do it. Let’s say you succeed in picking the right fuel, funneling it into the tank, pushing the button enough times, putting the switch in the right place and yanking the chain hard enough in the limited amount of time offered. Let’s say you do all that. Wouldn’t you think you’d be ready for a rest? No, dear one. The work has just begun.

You’re holding a monster now. It’s growling in your hands, revving, eager to devour all the foliage it can. It’s powerful, and it doesn’t want to wait for you. So you heft it in your palms (which may already be sweating) and set it down to grass level.

You move in slow arcs, skimming the ground, your body stiffened against the clippings that fly in all directions. Sometimes your beast of a weed whacker sends flowers shooting yards away, and you harden your heart to the cruelty of the machine in your hands. Weed whacking is not for the faint of heart; few flora escape alive.  You, too, are in danger of being taken by the machine.

Your hands are the first to go. You realize after ten minutes, twenty, that you can no longer uncurl them from the weed eater’s stem. This scares you. Could you stop if you really had to? Has the machine taken over control? Even as you contemplate the loss of your digits, your arms and shoulders are sucked in as well. They vibrate violently. You can feel your tendons stretch, maybe even feel your bones throb as the powerful motor destroys the foliage at your feet. The arms you thought were so strong, the clever phalanges that make you human, they have become part of the monotonous hunger of your weed whacker.

Finally you can take it no longer. It’s one throb too many. You throw the machine to the ground; it chugs along there as you shake out your upper body. The throbbing remains like a specter inside you. Struggling for breath, struggling to evict the ghostly vibrations from under your skin, you wonder if pushing back the wilderness is so very valuable a goal that you must become the machine.

How to Keep Yourself in New York City

1. Be willing to be a beginner every single day. Forgive yourself for being late, for making mistakes, for carrying your whole flawed self into a city that clutches at perfection. Surrender to messy humanity.

2. Do not feel comfortable in business casual. This is not you. When you come home at night with feet sore from fancy shoes that don’t fit, remember how good it feels to go barefoot in the loamy earth. Study your reflection in pajamas. When polite laughter begins to feel normal, remember that you produce wonderful, full-throated, therapeutic laughs too.

3. Believe in the highest integrity in every person you meet, and know wholeheartedly that everyone is just trying their best. Trust implicitly. 

4. When the concrete jungle threatens to swallow you whole, find sanctuary in your running shoes, or in a patch of green. There is always a small patch of green. 

5. Breathe. Be. Play. 

The Questions Place: for people just… not sure

What defines Europe? (Culture, religion, sports, democracy, economic integration, historic integration?) What are the implications of each definition? What makes some nations not quite Europe?

Why does secularism in Turkey feel so much like a religion? Why does Turkey’s ostensibly secular government finance Sunni mosques and only Sunni mosques, and require Sunni Islam to be taught in schools? Is secularism performative? Is secularism a neutral category, or does it have characteristics of its own? Is secularism purely aesthetic? How does American Christian secularism inform our definitions of religion, democracy, the nation-state?

What goes on behind closed doors when Turkish officials sit down with Syrian officials? What about Israeli officials? What is the role of regional politics in the U.N. Security Council? To what extent is Turkish feminism influenced by American/Western European feminism on one hand and Islamic feminism on the other hand?

Is there such a thing as objective good? If Mohammed’s miracle was the Qur’an because the zeitgeist of the time was in literature, what would a modern prophet’s miracle be? What are the implications of returning to a Pristine Islam? Is there a way to retain cultural heritage when the world is constantly evolving and becoming more interconnected? How do our various religious views effect our perception of suffering? Are humans inherently religious? If so, can we explain materialism as filling the void left by loss of religion?

Is it bad to romanticize other cultures? How do I as a traveler manage the expectations and responsibilities placed on me? What do I do with the connections I make while travelling? What happens when cultural sensitivity and personal honesty conflict?

What am I doing with my life? Is Swami Nardinand right, am I on the wrong path? What is all this leading towards? 

Where in the World is Eleanor Rigby?

I am curiously anonymous. Walking around Ankara in my button-up brown coat, my jeans, with my vaguely European features, there is nothing about me that is remarkable in the least. Even my walking speed matches perfectly with the dark-clad, surly city folk around me. Until I open my mouth to say, “Aah, I’m sorry, I don’t speak Turkish,” I am no one at all. I can snuffle up my snot and not have it reflect on my entire culture, or my race; I can be obviously lost and not have it reflect even on myself, because there is nothing noteworthy to reflect on.

My invisibility becomes my project.

In India, I felt too watched to be comfortable going for long walks. Here, though, I find that because I blend I am so unremarkable, I am happy to walk for hours, a part of the crowd, just one more anonymous soul on the sidewalk. But there is more to my comfort. I have never been in a city whose exterior so accurately reflects my interior. Ankara is chilly, distant, plain. Sometimes its noise and drama spills out on the street, but mostly the sidewalk is a non-place, an in-between, where humanity suspends itself for a moment until it picks up again inside some other building. What comes across as unfriendliness is in fact the greatest courtesy: the gift of leaving one another to our solitude. This is a kindness and a joy that I did not know I appreciated.

I am entirely alone in a massive city. I do not speak the language. I do not know how things work. Still, I feel more a part of Ankara after two and a half days than I did after eight months in Heredia. Or perhaps, I feel more a part of Ankara’s not-places. As I slipp in and out of this boutique or that coffee shop, quietly observing the tides of traffic, I think that these betweens seem full of Eleanor Rigby’s. Ankara is more than these anonymous sidewalks. All these people, bustling about, they are more than they appear. I am more than the brown coat, jeans, complexion and walking speed that lend me my invisibility. But the anonymity is comforting. The loneliness, even, is comforting. On Ankara’s sidewalks, we are all alone and invisible together.

American Untouchables

The old woman looked like a monster. She rose painstakingly from where she had been crumpled beside the train tracks, more a bundle of filthy rags than anything else. The first of her skin that I saw was her mouth, lipless, white-skinned open as though it had never been closed. Then I saw her arms, their white skin thick and inflexible, her fingers aged to inflexibility. As she drew herself to a hunched standing position, it became clear that her assortment of rags was not effectively covering any of her at all; her chest and stomach revealed themselves to be of the same papery non-skin.

As slowly as she had stood up, the old woman began to shuffle forward, barefoot, her hands searching the air in front of her. From where we had been sitting on the concrete floor for eight hours waiting for a train, Rachel leaned over to me. “Albinism can lead to eye problems, right?”

“That’s probably it, hunh?” I replied. Unable to look away (not that there was much else to look at in a train station at two in the morning) we watched the hunched figure creep up and down the platform, investigating our luggage. A friend offered her a kurta to cover herself with; the woman touched it, considering it in slow motion then shuffled away.

My friend was left holding the kurta. “I don’t know if I want this anymore.”

As uncomfortable as it was, I identified with what she had said. During the whole encounter, I was just hoping that the woman wouldn’t beg me for money, wouldn’t shuffle her eye-fingers over my luggage. Why? Germs? Come on. I wasn’t actually afraid that I would catch something from her. No. I was afraid of her, disgusted even, and I couldn’t figure out why.

How’s that for untouchability?

Americans, myself included, tend to have a hard time with India’s caste system. How can you rank people like that, make someone of lower status vacate the area, wash off any traces of contamination that do infiltrate the separation? Some Brahmins don’t allow lower-caste people to enter their kitchen or eat off their plates, claiming that their purity will be compromised. Dalits, or untouchables, have been forbidden from village water tanks, from Brahmin temples and from riding rickshaws, all because they upper-caste folk perceive them as unclean.

As Westerners, though, our judgment of untouchability fails to consider that we have always had similar sentiments. We walk past beggars in our cities and pretend they don’t exist. We have a long history of White people subjugating other races, shipping them off to the worst pieces of land, regulating them until they see themselves as their colonizers saw them. We put or crazies and eccentrics into institutions, where we can keep ourselves pure of their insanities.

I keep coming back to the revulsion I felt watching that old woman shuffle closer to my suitcase. In that moment, I could only see her dangling skin, her drooping mouth, the red eyes peered almost-blindly from under a filthy hood. I could not imagine, then, how intelligent she must be to have survived so long in a world that is not kind to exceptions. I was repulsed, I think, because this old woman embodied my fears, fears of failure and of secret monstrosity of my own, fear of being a watched thing.

Is that part of what keeps the caste system alive? Is that why we lock up our crazies? So that we can pretend they don’t exist, and not have to face the fear that we may not actually be so different after all.