Good Bye, Michael Jackson

The man and his life may have been the stuff of a lot of controversy... his incredible talent remains, and that's what I want to remember him for.

Greetings from France

Hard to believe that more than two weeks have rushed by since my last post. I've left India and the monsoon, and landed in the south of France where the weather is gorgeous. Today was my birthday, and that alone would not deserve a post, but I just had to share the picture I received from one of my writers friends in New England. "Frangipanis for India and Lily of the Valley (muguet in French) for France," she said. A fusion bouquet on the yummiest looking cake. Isn't it beautiful?
 


Thanks, Nandini, and thank you to all my friends who sent lovely thoughts and wishes through Facebook. I just LOVE the Internet.

Monsoon is here !

And what a relief. The air has changed color. It smells different, too. Moist and green, as opposed to dry, dusty, and grey brownish. And we can breathe again. It's still early, so the sun is out quite a bit, but the temperature has dropped significantly and I can use the fan in my office, and forget about A/C. Yeah !

Tai Chi

Years ago, during my 6-months-long backpacking trip throughout South East Asia, I arrived one morning at the train station in Hanoi, after an overnight journey from the northern hilly region of Pho-Lu, and Sapa. It was to be my last day in Vietnam, after almost two glorious months, and I was flying back to Bangkok, on the tail end of a trip that would still take me to the Philippines, Hong Kong, and then back home to France just on time to celebrate my 30th birthday AND my sister's wedding.

I remember vividly walking the streets of Hanoi in the first light of the day, taking in the sights and smells of the city, and feeling so sad that I had to leave. I LOVED Vietnam. Anyway, I had a few hours to kill before I could retrieve my backpack from the guest house where I'd left it in order to travel lighter for a few days, and I went to sit by the Hoan Kiem lake in the center of Hanoi, and wrote in my journal. 

All around me, Vietnamese people walked or ran, did Tai Chi or played badminton, and some came up to me to exchange a few words in French (I don't mean to diminish any of the evils of our colonialist past, there or elsewhere in the world, but neither can I lie and pretend that I was not immensely touched by the kindness and enthusiasm of people, especially old ones, whenever they found out that I came from France. The country was just opening itself to tourism, since the war, and Americans were still to lift their embargo, so it was all very new and exciting for them, I think - and even more for those traveling there at the time, as we were always welcomed with great warmth and joy, wherever we went.) 

I just found my travel journal in the pile of old diaries that I carry around, looked for the entry of that morning, and found this anecdote that I had totally forgotten. 

I was sitting by the lake, on a bench, pealing an orange, when this man with hair sticking all over his head walked by, pushing his bicycle. "You are going to eat an orange," he cried out to me, in French. "Oui," said I. "Bonne journée, chère camarade," he added, then corrected himself. "Bonne journée, chère amie. ("Have a good day, dear camarade... Have a good day, dear friend.") How could I forget? 

Anyway, I do remember looking at all the men and women in that misty morning, alone or in groups, facing the lake with its lovely Tortoise Tower, and thinking I'd love to try Tai Chi, some day. It's taken 16 years, almost to the day (this was May 1993, and I took my first Tai Chi class on May 25 !) for me to act on that wish. It's early to say, but I'm really enjoying it, so far.

I've always had some difficulty with yoga. I've tried, and tried, and felt pretty silly to be living here, in the land of yoga, and to not use that opportunity. I have taken classes. Quite a number of them, with different teachers. But more than anything else, it always felt like a chore. Once I was doing it, it was OK. And I could definitely feel the benefits. But it was never something I looked forward to.

Tai Chi, on the other hand, has a flowing, dancing quality that appeals to me. So, I'm giving it a try. And I know : who else would come to India, and end up saying : "this is where I started Tai Chi." Oh well, the people in my class seem very passionate about it, and they are all Indian, so why not?

And as writing this post has made me jump back in time, I'm going to post a few pictures I took in Hanoi. Just because. 

Life's Journey or Serendipitous Timing

Beware : introspective new-agey post :)

In November, I decided to register for a 5 months certificate course with the following promising title of "The Integrated Counselor. Self-Discovery, Life-Skills, People Empowerment and Social Impact."

Quite a mouthful, I know, but then, it turned out to deliver pretty much all that it promised.

Sujata Potay, the course director and creator, (for those living in Hyderabad and reading this, the course happens about twice a year and you can find information at this link), and her facilitator, Sudha V. Krishnan, have put together a brilliant combination to help us, wandering souls, try to make more sense of ourselves as we journey through life. It includes meditation, yoga, role plays, biographical learning, group activities, homework tailored to our issues as they manifest themselves in class, a lot of brainstorming and work around empathy (and believe me, the word may be overused, but the concept is not something easily understood and internalized), concept topics like "Character and Identity," or "Self Motivation", seminars, etc.

It was a truly fantastic experience. I met great people, and feel I learned so much about myself. But of course, the journey continues, and as serendipity would have it, I decided to take another online course (this one for my writing) about the Enneagram (I had started the course a couple of years ago, and even mentioned it here, but I was doing too much at once at the time, and was forced to withdraw. I've wanted to complete it ever since, but my schedule never allowed it until a month ago.)

And here I reach the reason for this post. Had I completed the writing course using the Enneagram a couple of years ago, I would most likely have missed out on the depth and beauty of this system and how incredibly powerful and useful it can be, when applied to our own selves. 

Being rather slow to understand the really important things in life (as in, I hear it, I even memorize it, but I don't really GET it ; or, I understand it in my mind, but why is it that I don't seem to be able to implement it in my every day life?) I guess it was written somewhere that I should fall into studying the Enneagram (and sticking to it, this time) just now, right after this course, rather than two years ago, because all we learned and talked about during the 5 months course gets repeated, re-explained, and/or illustrated in a very personal way, especially in the book, The Wisdom of the Enneagram, by Don Richard Riso and Russ Hudson. 

So, now that I've gone all new-agey on you, I can also share that I'm a definitely a type 4, and that's the Individualist, also called the Artist (can you see me smiling?) with a wing 5, which is the Investigator or Thinker or Observer. 

Look at this pretty image. Isn't it perfect?

free enneagram test

Anyway, if you are into inner work, and therefore curious to understand more about yourself, I strongly recommend the Enneagram. It is really helping me cement all I've learned with the above-mentioned course, so that I can try and apply it to my every day life and maybe, maybe... in the long run... become a better person, for myself, and for those around me (but then, it all goes together, doesn't it?)

And since I'm discussing my spiritual and introspective life, I can also share that I started taking Tai Chi classes - but this will be the subject of my next post.

My Global Bookshelf : "Tone Deaf in Bangkok" by Janet Brown

Tone Deaf in Bangkok (And Other Places), published by ThingsAsian Press, is Janet Brown’s travel memoir of how and why she, a middle aged American woman who’d lived in Alaska and Seattle, fell in love with the city of Bangkok, spent several years there, and after returning to Seattle for a while, finally decided to go back for good.

The book itself is beautiful, with photographs from Nana Chen that give a real feel for the day to day life in the city. This is not your usual glossy touristy book about Bangkok. By the time I had followed the author through her journey, and spent time contemplating Nana Chen’s pictures, I felt I knew the place (and the author) a little better.

I spent some time in Bangkok, in 1993, as one of those backpackers that Janet mentions none too affectionately in her pages. It was the perfect base to explore neighboring countries, collect mail at the central Post Office, and get a taste for “civilization” as we Westerners like to call it (that entails air conditioned malls, movie theaters, shopping, and a facial thrown in to try and get some of the dust accumulated during endless bus, motorcycle or train journeys out of my skin). I walked those narrow lanes, visited the city’s many splendors, bargained at the markets, and careened through the streets aboard three-wheeled death defying tuk-tuks. I could have entertained the erroneous notion that I knew Bangkok, except that I always instinctively sensed that you don’t know a place unless you live there - and even then, you have to make the effort to really get to know it.  Janet Brown definitely made that effort.

With beautiful, fluid prose, unwavering honesty, and an elegant sense of humor, the author shares intimate snapshots of her life as a farang, or a guava, from her attempts to speak the tonal language, to her discovery that in order to be truly accepted and welcomed in a foreign country, you must first observe the ways of its people with humility and grace. 

I was moved to tears by her discreet and intensely felt account of her love affair with a young Thai who could have been her son. I laughed, while trying to imagine her seating side-saddled on a motorcycle, wearing a skirt and high-heeled sandals to go and visit Khmer ruins on the Cambodian border.

But my favorite moments in the book are those where Janet Brown tries to make sense of her identity - whether defining how she will experience entertainment in a way that suits her tastes and needs, as opposed to just going along with any group, or struggling to understand what it is exactly that makes her feel so vibrant and alive in Bangkok. Reading her, I felt I had found a soul mate - only much braver, and stronger.

During our years in Nigeria, there was an opening for a position in Geneva, Switzerland. My husband mentioned it to me, and my reaction stunned him, and everyone who knew me, and knew of the hardship we’d been experiencing. “No, thank you very much, but I’d rather stay in Nigeria.” Even as I sometimes cried on the plane that took me back from Lagos to Enugu after a vacation abroad, I stubbornly sustained that if I had to choose again between living in Switzerland or living in Nigeria, I would still choose Nigeria. I think Janet would understand me well. Here is what she writes, at the beginning of the book: “I live, at this point in my life, in the ideal American city. Seattle is small enough to be friendly, large enough to be urban, and is surrounded by enough natural beauty to launch a million calendars... Tourists come to the bookstore where I work, raving about this place, and it takes everything I have to keep from saying, “Thanks. Glad you like it. It bores me silly.”

There is not one boring moment, in "Tone Deaf in Bangkok," whether you're eating durians with Janet, celebrating Songkran (the traditional Thai New Year) on Khao San Road, pondering the advantages and benefits of separate toilets fitted in the floor, or weighing the pros and cons of the Bangkok Skytrain (ah, the eternal conflict between efficiency and dullness)... 

Read “Tone Deaf in Bangkok (And Other Place).” It will take you on an intimate journey with a funny, generous, independent woman while showing you the heart and many hidden corners of a city (and a few other neighboring places) just as fascinating as your tour guide.

Reading Like a Writer

That one still doesn't come as naturally to me as I would like to. I know about it, even begin doing it, and then, usually find myself swept away by story. I loose myself in it, and I LIKE that.

Thing is, once I close the book, I haven't learned as much about writing as I would have, if I'd had my writer's hat on. Jacqueline Woodson once said, at a SCBWI conference, that we should read the books we like at least twice, once to know the story, and then, to study the way it was written. But with the pile of books that never goes down (how could it, new ones keep replacing the ones I just finished reading) it's hard to read a book again !

As serendipity would have it, I've been thinking along these lines for a few days, and today, I read this post on Teaching Authors and here is someone reminding me, yet again, to do precisely what I know I need to do...

Plot is one area of weakness for me. I tend to loose myself in the characters. All of them. I write, and write, and write journals, thoughts, I over-analyze them and their reactions, where they come from, where they go, and why, and how, and all the while, I seem to run around in circles, rather than moving forward with the story. 

The last two books I read were North of Beautiful, by Justina Chen Headley, and Many Stones, by Carolyn Coman. 

So, now that I've read the stories, I'll go back, read them again with notepad and highlighting markers, and try and see how they move their plot forward, then write a small essay, maybe here, discussing what I learned, and including examples I highlighted and noted in the text.

Now where did I put my writer's hat?

It is Hot !

Let me start by saying that I'm definitely a hot weather person. If there is one thing I've never, ever missed since I left New York, it is the cold and winter. Winter makes me depressed. It took me years to realize that I suffered from what is now recognized as seasonal affective disorder. But the Hyderabadi summer is something else.

The weather in Hyderabad is usually very pleasant from September until February. Then, temperatures start rising until they reach their peak in the last weeks preceding the Monsoon, which begins usually around the first or second week of June. Believe me, by that time, we're all desperately waiting for it. Uma Krishnaswami's picture book, Monsoon, describes it beautifully. 

Soooo, we've now entered the hottest month of the year. I just checked, and at 7.10 am, this morning, it was already 28 degrees Celsius, which is 82.4 degrees Fahrenheit. This past week, we've had temperatures reaching 45 degrees Celsius (113 degrees F.)

What this means, practically... When I open the door of my air-conditioned bedroom in the morning (I know, I'm lucky that we have A/C in some rooms, in our house. I can't even begin to imagine how people living without it manage to survive) I'm met with a rush of oven hot air. The floors are hot under our bare feet. The water that comes from the cold water faucet is hot ! Not quite burning hot, but close. I'm not kidding. It's the only time of the year when we can wash our dishes with hot water - which is fine. But here you are, dreaming of a cool shower, only, there is no cool water to come out, unless you let it run for quite a while, and even then, it will still be tepid to warm. The moisturizing cream that comes out of the tube is warm. Even the doorknobs are warm! 

No wonder schools in India close for the year between mid-April and early June, and people who can escape to the hills (the British used to do that, too, of course). For those, like us, who follow the Western school calendar, there is no choice but to grin and bear it as graciously as we possibly can.

Thank goodness for air coolers. I'd never seen or heard of them before,

even though they're apparently used in dry places in the US. It's really a - beware, pun coming - cool machine. Not the pretties thing around, as you can see. 

And really very noisy, too.  But as the volumes in our house make it impossible to air condition it totally (electricity bills already triple during the summer months), we're happy to put up with the noise. 

So, you now know where to find us, at this time of year. Sprawled in front of the air cooler...

"Bi-Racial, Not Black... damnit"

This above is the title of a trailer I saw on Facebook, a few days ago (watch the beginning, and then click again on the video to see the interviews.)

I have already commented on my feelings, as the mother of two biracial children, when facing the tendency to consider all children with some African or African American blood as black. It took me a while to warm up to Obama because of that only, because I felt that by declaring himself black, he somehow rejected his white mother AND white grandparents who raised him. I had to read his book, Dreams from My Father, to understand his search for identity and the way he came to terms with it, himself. And I've always liked and admired Tiger Wood's refusal to be labelled  a Black man, considering his diverse heritage, and how he came up with his own word (cablinasian).

Not that the subject comes up that often. We do not live in the US, and even though I often miss it and wish at times I could be back in Park Slope, Brooklyn, I've also always felt that it might be better for our daughters to grow up far from all the race issues that are so big over there. Not saying that there aren't race issues in other countries. Do I wish. But they don't seem to be as raw, painful and overly present as they are in the US.

Yes, racism is strong in India. The whiter the better. Still, Indians are brown people, which means that my children blend in perfectly, here. Recently, as we waited to hear about our next post, a couple of Latin American countries came up as possibilities, one of them being Argentina, and even though I did not veto it (I have a list of requirements that evolves with time, and our experiences; up till now, it included good internet access, a good school - although, as experienced here, what you see on the Internet or during a first visit of a school is in no way a guarantee that said school will live up to its promises - reasonable supply and security situation, not necessarily in that order) I had growing misgivings about it, and when it turned out that we're not going there, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Why? Well, Argentina is known to be a country of white people, and as I said to my husband, "If we must live in a society that is more backward than forward when it comes to race issues, I'd rather be in a brown racist society than a white one."

Anyway, the video and its title stirred some conversation. The documentary film maker, Carolyn Battle's website, mentions "Private Conversations" as a title for the movie, so not sure how the other one came about - catchier, maybe. No matter, I found it very interesting. 

I often wonder about how my children perceive themselves? Do they even think about it? I'm not sure. As mentioned before, here, I always tell them they're cinnamon in the case of the older one, and toffee brown, for the younger. But they're very aware of the fact that I'm white, and Dad is Black. The other day, we were at the beach in Goa, and two dogs, a white one, and a black one, were walking together, and my husband took a picture and they ran to show it to me, saying " this is Mom and Dad." But do they, or will they, one day, feel that they need to belong to one race or another, as did most of the people interviewed in this trailer? Will they feel rejected by one race or the other and feel they don't belong anywhere? 

One thing is sure, as a white mother of biracial children, I was glad to see this video. It may not be politically correct to say this, but I refuse to subscribe to the "one drop rule." I've said it before and I repeat it here. It has nothing to do with rejecting the black race, and all to do with stating the facts. My children are no more black than they're white, so why should anyone (including themselves) deny their whiteness? Reminds me of a time when teachers would ask children at the beginning of the school year, in France, whether they were from another country, and I would get up, along with the few other children of immigrant parents, and the teacher would invariable ask me to sit back because "You are French." It made me so angry. I was and felt as much French as I was and felt Spanish. To me, there was a clear line running down the length of my body, right in the middle, and one part was French, the other Spanish, and telling me that I was French only just because I happened to have the "right" passport felt profoundly wrong. I was only 6 or 7 at the time, so unable to articulate this as clearly as I do it, now, but I vividly remember my feelings.

Children (and adults, too, for that matter) should be allowed to embrace their heritages and diversity in all their fullness, wholeness and richness. No one should feel that they have to cut or ignore parts of who they are just so they can fit into the boxes offered them. And if the need to fit into a box is stronger, then create new and accurate ones that "feel" right, like Tiger Wood. 

Novel writing or the art of plowing through...

Uma just published a blog post about the Literal, Tedious Novel Draft. I like the concept that a first draft can and should even be drafty, with holes in it. Far, far, far from perfect, and even terribly flawed. What matters, I'm told here and there, in workshops, in books, is to write that first "shitty" draft (in the words of Anne Lammot), to get the story out.

I applied that scrupulously while trying to last as long as I possibly could, during the last Nanowrimo challenge. Did not go back to re-re-re-read what I had just written, yesterday, the day before, the beginning. Just went on... And it was a good experience, if only because it taught me that I can actually do it (don't laugh, for people like me, it's a wild discovery and a real break-through.)

One of Uma's tip to help us plow through and not give in to the temptation of going back to what's already written, but rather to pick up where you left the day before and just go on, is to leave a note for yourself about what happens next.

I'd heard her say that before, and so, I tried to think: why have I not done this until now?

Very simple : I often start writing late in the morning (I've said this before : I'm NOT a morning person), which means I have little time before the kids come back from school, and then I use up every second until I hear the door bell. And then what? I bound to the door, because these girls just love to ring the bell endlessly until I show up, and by then, said bell already made me jump out of my skin anyway, and that's it...  Until tomorrow, where I return to what was written before, start judging it, deleting, editing, changing... and, and... plowing through? NOT!

So, I just had a light bulb moment. I need to set the alarm clock 5 to 10 mns before the return of the brood, so I can think about what comes next and write said note to myself. Beginning today. Let's see how this works for me.

Reading in Hyderabad

When we first moved to Hyderabad, we often drove by a lovely building surrounded by a garden, and I always longed to walk inside. 

I finally did. My daughter took a couple of pottery workshops, there. And then, I attended a reading by Scottish author Margaret Donald in the lovely amphitheater at the back of the cultural center. 

If someone had told me, then, that three and half years later, I would be sitting under that frangipani tree, reading my book to an audience of children and their parents, it is quite likely that I would have laughed out loud, even as I secretly wished such a dream could come true.

Well, it did, on Friday evening.

My  youngest daughter here is doing her own reading, before everyone arrived.



Thank you to everyone who came to share that moment with me.

Thank you, Uma Krishnaswami

Ever since I stumbled upon her website, Uma Krishnaswami has been a major influence in my writing life. I sent her Ifeanyi Amadi's manuscript for a private critique, and she helped me get closer to my character, made me realize how important it was for me to follow his journey, his train of thoughts, and render that on paper in a way that made sense for the reader, that made them "care." After that critique, Uma suggested that I join her Manuscript Workshop at writers.com, and I did. That was about four years ago, and since then, I've attended four classes, and each time, it's been an incredible experience.

Uma's teaching style is what all teaching should be like : a combination of knowledge, passion for the subject/craft, wisdom, gentle firmness and humor, and last but not least, generosity. Uma truly brings all of these qualities into her teaching, and I can easily say that being "around" her, being exposed to her energy and vibrations have made me not only a better writer, but also somehow a better person (not that the work is completely done.)

We just concluded another workshop, and Uma announced that she's now stepping back from this online teaching, after 12 years. Even the way she organized her departure shows how much she cares. She had Sarah Aronson, a graduate from the Vermont College, join in as a teaching assistant, and after two workshops, Sarah will now take over the class.

We were all saddened to hear that Uma is leaving, but we all wish her only the best, and can easily understand how juggling her teaching position at Vermont College, the online teaching, plus her own writing (not to forget her life) would be hard, even for the most energetic person.

Thank you, Uma, for all that you have taught me over the last few years. You remain, forever, my mentor of the blue ink.

More Nigerian children read Amadi's story

I first met Kelly Jo Bahry online, in November, during Amadi's blog tour. She lives in Yola, where Ramesh Raparthy shot this lovely video (as a reminder, Ramesh is a Film Instructor at the American University of Nigeria, in Yola, but he's from Hyderabad !) and sent me an email, saying she was coming to India in December. Of course, I invited her to visit us. In the end, she didn't come to Hyderabad, but we did meet her in Delhi, and we spent a couple of days together. Our children loved Kelly Jo, who is the kind of human being one wants and needs around at all times : warm, funny, independent, smart, and down to earth. Kelly Jo also happens to be the Director of Study Abroad and Service Learning, for the American University of Nigeria, in Yola.
She brought back several copies of Amadi's Snowman to Nigeria, and has been sharing Amadi's story with children, over there. She sent me some photos.





I'm so happy that children in Nigeria get to see and read the book. Thank you, Kelly Jo!

Does Obama know he's campaigning for Indian politicians?

One aspect of the debate on diversity in children's books : the name of the characters

Mitali Perkins launched a new great discussion about diversity in children's books, here, and here. I was glad to see one question address the issue of the lack of diversity in the characters' names. I ranted enough about this (well, I had Amadi do it, actually) when it was decided that I had to find him a new name; Ifeanyi (his original name) was deemed too strange, too difficult to read. I could understand the publisher's and editor's concerns and I know they had the book's best interest at heart. This is not so much about them, as it is revealing of a general, mainstream approach to all things considered even mildly different, therefore possibly threatening, at the very least difficult -- and who has time for difficult, right? 

As a sidenote, I shared the name anecdote with the children at the Vidyaranya High School, here, in Hyderabad. I wrote Ifeanyi on the black board, without having said it, and asked them to read it. They all did, flawlessly. Of course, these children are all at least bilingual (English and Hindi, and/or Telugu, and/or Tamil, and/or Urdu, and/or Bengali... etc, etc.) Maybe one answer to that particular problem would be to put more emphasis on the need for American children to learn at least one other language (and when I say learn, I mean as in being able to actually speak it, really, not just playing around with a few strange or funny-sounding words here and there, words forgotten almost as soon as they've been heard.)

Concert Etiquette in Hyderabad

Warning : this is a mood (mildly annoyed) piece, I believe the very first one, but I just HAVE to publish this post.

Two nights ago, I attended a concert in Hyderabad. This is a rare occurrence. First of all, baby-sitting is often an issue. Second, cultural events are often organized at the most inconvenient times for a mother of small children (read weekday, 6.30 or 7 pm, etc). The last reason is that Hyderabad cannot exactly boast of having a very happening and exciting cultural life. But this is changing, along with so many other things.

On Sunday night, the Duo Rosario was here, from France, and I decided I would not miss this. As an opera lover who used to live in New York, London and Paris, I have been starved for this type of performance. As luck would have it, our car decided to break down on Sunday, the taxi supposed to come and fetch us couldn’t find its way (the new taxi companies created after the new airport opened often hire drivers who come straight from their village; some speak English, others not a word, and some know their way around Hyderabad, and others have absolutely no clue as to where they are, or where they’re supposed to be going), but we still managed to arrive... two minutes late, but a few minutes before the concert began.

The first part of the evening saw diverse musicians, some professionals, others amateurs, before the main performance by the Duo Rosario.

There was no reason for me to be so stressed out at the thought that we were late...

As Aleksandra Mikolajczyk, who happens to be my daughter’s piano teacher, started playing an Etude by Chopin, I was amazed to see that people continued to come in and go as if they were entering a supermarket or a restaurant. Even more incredible: a swarm of photographers started taking pictures of the pianist from all possible angles, their noisy flashes blinding her! I couldn’t believe it. Later on, when Celine Laly from the Duo Rosario sang (beautifully!) a cell phone rang, and a few minutes later, another one. I could see her eyes zeroing in on the person whose phone was ringing, even though she did manage to finish her song flawlessly. 

Question: Is this really cultural? The lack of punctuality is a fact of life, here. I know it, I’ve lived with it for the past few years, and I’ll never get used to it, but I also understand that there isn’t much I can do about it. Still, how difficult would it be to address such issues, at least when being late becomes downright discourteous, not to say blatantly disrespectful - then again, isn’t it always discourteous and disrespectful to be late? Seems to me a few simple rules would do the trick:

 

1. Latecomers will not be allowed to enter while the artist is performing.

2. Cellphones must be switched off during the performance.

3. Photographers are to wait until the performer is done to take pictures, or at least do it in the most unobtrusive way.

Ethnic awards : is it time for a new approach?

I have been suffering from Blogger's Block, lately. Petty, mundane, and not so petty or mundane life worries seem to fill out my mind. But then, I came across an important debate on Read Roger's blog, today, and it seems fitting to mention it here, right after a post celebrating the inaugural of Obama.

Should awards like the Coretta Scott King or the Belpré live on as they are, or should the whole concept of awards based on the ethnicity, identity of the author/illustrator be entirely reframed?

As I read Marc Aronson (do note that the article was written in 2001) and Esme Codell's arguing the need to rethink these awards, and in light of what we hope to be a new era, one that made it possible for a global citizen with white and black blood (I mention the white blood first because his mother, who carried him and pushed him into this world, was white, and so she comes first; if his mother had been black, I would have switched the order) to be elected as president of the United States of America, I found myself nodding a lot. But then, Andrea Davis Pinkney and Yuyi Morales (look up Yuyi's input in the comments section of Esme Codell's post) contributing their own thoughts had me thinking some more.

And finally, there was Richard Michelson's conclusion, that somehow wraps things us for me: "... while the majority must open its gates to the minority, it is up to the minority to decide when they want to put out the welcome mat. Clearly we are not there yet."

Doesn' it all boil down to this? Yes, atrocities and injustice created this world where affirmative action and ethnic awards like the Coretta Scott King and Belpre's awards are needed if the voice of the minorities are to find avenues to make themselves known and heard. The question is : can I objectively write the previous sentence in the past tense? Has the world changed so much that minority authors can hope to see their work published and appreciated for their content, and without the help of awards based on the identity of the author or the artist? Has the world changed so much that authors or artists who belong to the majority can be included, so that these ethnic awards would be exclusively about the quality of the work, and no longer care about the identity of their author/illustrator? 

The majority, to which I belong, would like to say : YES, it has. Because majority people like me, who understand that being "non racist" requires active and conscious work, somehow feel cheated when a minority refuses to include them. I mean, I'm NOT a racist, and I work hard at not only embracing and advocating an inclusive multicultural world, but also at fighting any residual thought or impulse born from my being a white person who was brought up in a predominantly white world. It is my will and my dream that my biracial children grow up and experience a world where the color of their skin will never cause them sorrow, frustration or any other negative emotion or experience. Doesn't, shouldn't that count for something?

Well, the response ultimately lies with the minority, those who were (are)  wronged, persecuted, and silenced for too long. How long will it take for them to feel, judge and declare that things have now truly changed and they can finally let go of all the hurt and the past? Who can say? But as Richard Michelson states : "clearly we are not there yet."

Where does that leave us, as far as ethnic awards are concerned? Might the answer lie somewhere between both extremes : let the Coretta Scott King Award and the Belpré live, maybe until the much awaited "new" reality declares them as belonging to History, and therefore obsolete. In the meantime, new awards could be created that " honor books entirely based on identity - but not that of the author, only the themes in the books," (as mentioned by Marc Aronson, about the Lambda Literary Awards). 

Seems to me this whole, necessary debate, is about how to best negotiate a fundamental transition. I also like Mitali Perkin's conclusion : "I'll fight to the end for NO APARTHEID in WRITING." I'll drink a virtual glass of champagne to that.

Inaugural Celebration in Hyderabad

Last night, Democrats Abroad threw an inaugural celebration with live coverage from the US at a local restaurant. Anyone was invited, regardless of citizenship or political inclination ( I like that). So, even half a world away, we were able to partake in the joy and beauty of that moment. A large majority of the women present (including myself) wore saris, which I found quite symbolic : expatriates from all cultures and countries (the US, of course, but also India, the UK, France, Denmark, Spain, and others I forget) coming together, with the women, and some men, wearing the dress of their host country. What a beautiful message !

I brought back a small poster :

 

And here I am, with friends:



And look at all these beautiful saris...


Thank you, Obama, for your powerful and inspiring inaugural speech. And good luck to you and your administration. Now, the hard work begins...

Amadi in Italy

Please, visit Valentina Acava Mmaka's blog, Kabiliana, for an uplifting and fun report on the workshop that several children attended, in Italy, to celebrate Amadi's Snowman. 

Thank you so much, Valentina ! I really enjoyed looking at all the pictures, and drawings, and reading the letters that the children wrote to Amadi.

Where in The World is Amadi?

It's been a while since I published pictures of children reading the book. I have quite a few in my files, so will catch up with that. 

Please, meet Emily B...



and Elliot G...
... from Pennsylvania, USA. Thank you Emily and Elliot. I hope you enjoyed Amadi's story. And special thanks to your auntie Kristin - a fellow writer and expatriate living in Shanghai - for sending me these pictures.