Looking at Africa: The Wizard of the Crow by Ngugi wa Thiong'o

Ngugi wa Thiong'o is not a small name in African literature. He and Chinua Achebe famously debated whether it was possible to write in the language of the colonizer: can the formerly colonized (even that is debated, is colonialism every truly over?) write and express themselves in the language of the colonizer? Does that constitute a mental adherence or subjugation to a form of expression, a way of seeing the world, that belongs to the colonizer? Because of this, despite being in exile from his native Kenya, Ngugi wa Thiong'o has written in Gikuyu. He translates his novels himself into English.

My question, after reading the mammoth 776-page Wizard of the Crow, shares that same concern of retaining African voices and expression. Does the magical realism of Wizard detract from the seriousness of the other depictions in the book? If despotism, corruption, and bribery are as despicable as they seem, and so egregious as to endanger so many lives, does the magical realism of the Ruler's illness, of the magical and mysterious disguises of Kamiti and Nyawira, make the reader take the corruption less seriously too? Does that endanger our thinking about Africa, or strengthen it? Open it?

The story is a rich one, tracing the lives of several characters as they grow or diminish in power in the state of Aburiria. I appreciated the irony of Kamiti, who becomes (by accident, largely, but also by fate) the Wizard of the Crow, falling prey to an illness he himself divined in others. The Wizard was also Kamiti, Nyawira was herself also the Wizard, but also the Limping Witch, and assumed many disguises and characters in the book. I took this to be an interesting comment and depiction of the many faces we assume in our daily lives, manipulating others or being manipulated.

Thiong'o ends with an optimistic note: the discovery that Arigaigai Gathere (A.G.) had saved the Wizard's life in the fatal shootout scene towards the end of the novel. A.G., as a policeman, had throughout the story believed in the Wizard's power, but was an agent of the state. In the end, he seemed to be the only character who escaped a fate of either government agent (powerful at some times, and taken from power viciously by enemies at others) or citizen fighting the government. In the end, A.G. is the only one who wrote his own fate. Haki ya mungu.

Times, they are a changin'...

The summer is burning herself out here - a few days ago, as I came down my bike on our street, I looked up to see the leaves on the trees lining the brownstones turning shades of burned red and brown, the first glorious harbingers of fall. The heat wavered for a minute, giving us two days, before returning to show that summer wasn't quite spent, not quite yet.



Without intending to be a seasonal reader, I finished Jeffrey Lent's In the Fall, a novel about three generations of a Vermont family grappling with its own history. The first thing I noticed about Lent's writing is his use of fragments. All the time. On purpose. I think. I'm not sure if this is his writing style generally, as this is his first novel and the first (if there are more) of his that I have read, but it is a style well-suited to a novel with this subject material. The story of Leah, a runaway slave whose sad history included being gang-raped and mistreated by her white slave-owning father, is tragic but unfortunately believable; less believable is her marriage to Norman Pelham, a northbound Yankee soldier. Norman and Leah return to Vermont to start a family; their children and grandchildren's lives are recounted to the steady metronome of the passing seasons. The novel ends with Foster Pelham's discovery of his grandmother Leah's origins in Sweetboro, his own ancestry, and the despicable cause of Leah's catastrophic suicide. Lent makes one thing clear: that through the years, many things come to pass and many things change but the sourest parts of human nature - its predatory instinct and the young child's cruel tendency to exclude, construct hierarchies, and inflict pain for the simple fact that he can - remain. These insights are timeless in their relevance; the focus on family, ancestry, marriage and children struck me particularly as I am learning to articulate these things for myself and from the new position of fiancee. I have already learned that weddings are stupidly complicated and arrive with a set of nuanced politics all their own. Families and lineages blending creates quite a stir, and everyone has at least one opinion on the way "things should be" that renders it impossible to please anyone, accomplish anything, or celebrate one's own life choices in a way one sees fitting. I am calmed only by the knowledge that this fluster, too, shall pass.

It seems ironic to read a book called In the Fall right as fall begins, but perhaps it can offer a gentle harbinger of the delights to come, and a lesson for the churning negotiations of the moment. Living in New York has been a lesson in patience and the acceptance of the natural world's insistence and cyclical nature, but having weathered a few seasons I feel now excited for the particular joys of the next: scarves, windy streets with fallen leaves dancing down them, pumpkin lattes, cider with cinnamon sticks, squash, the last crisp fall apples, and those glorious sharp icy blue days before the chill sets in for the winter. And then, there are months of dormant grey-white, snowballs, stews, boots, hats, and empty streets, beaches, yards...perhaps the wisdom being to appreciate where I am, fully enjoy the blessings and treasures of the moment while quietly laughing at the elements of the ridiculous that manifest themselves, and to absorb it all for what it is, not trying to change it...but just, to ride the seasons of life with a good sense of humor, a voracious appetite for life, and an eye for the beauty in it all, loving it, just for what it is.

Lately...

I have been thinking about writing blogs, and not writing them. I haven't felt very inspired, and rather than "water down" the quality of my blog, I have elected to be silent. Here's a summary of the blog entries I contemplated:
Book review of Aravind Adiga's 2nd novel, in the wake of White Tiger, entitled Between the Assassinations. Verdict: it's no White Tiger, but an interesting novel nonetheless.
Book review of Leila Marouane's The Sexual Life of an Islamist in Paris. Verdict: meh....
Restaurant review: Sylvia's in Harlem. Soul Food. Deeeeelicious. See proof below!



This week I had the gift of seeing my city through fresh eyes, as E's Aussie friend visited us and America for the first time. Walking with a tourist, I felt authorized to take pictures and act like a tourist (except when it comes to knowing my way around the subway and walking like a New Yorker). It is easy to forget how imposing and beautiful and crazy New York is, how full of lives of all kinds, how deep this place is...
I also had the blessing of going places I don't usually go - like Yankee Stadium. I can't normally find an excuse to ride the train all the way to the Bronx, but now...I can say I've seen the stadium (the game's cheapest tickets were $135, though, so...I wasn't able to go inside said arena.


Later that night, we enjoyed the sumptious delights of Nyonya's Malaysian cuisine in Little Italy, wandering up through SoHo on a lazy warm summer night.


The next day, we tried Bonnie's Grill in Park Slope, sampling their delicious burgers.

I also tried watermelon beer, because hey, it's summer, and I love watermelon and beer. It was definitely a girly beer, with a bit of sticky sweet melony aftertaste. Not bad.
Today was the real tourist day, however: taking the (free!) Staten Island ferry so we could get a good look at Manhattan's gorgeous skyline, we then lunched at Arturo's in SoHo. Then up to Washington Square Park, where kids and adults alike took advantage of the fountain's water on a scorching July afternoon. Next, to Central Park, where tourists walked or rode in pedicabs, hustlers hollered, "Cold refreshing waters $1 only," hauling coolers on their backs, a group of Haitian drummers and trumpeteers entertained a crowd of spectators eager to document their performance, bikers and runners working out, newlyweds posing for photos near Bethesda Fountain, and...us.







It feels nice to be a traveler again, or to see with new eyes and appreciation...It makes me all the more excited for my upcoming travel to San Francisco, Yosemite, and Las Vegas. I am thrilled to be going on the road again, seeing new places, visiting friends along the way, and spending some time on the West Coast.

Book Review: Anna Karenina

I have to admit that I'm embarrassed that it took me so long to get to Ms. Anna. E bought me a vintage copy of this years ago now, missing a cover, and was so proud of buying me a book. Both for the sake of the content and my man's heart, I should have read this sooner. Reading The Elegance of the Hedgehog with its rhapsodizing of Tolstoy and Russian literature, and the Karenina-inspired cat names, finally pushed me over the edge.

Much like Pride & Prejudice, which I initially found hard to get into, I found Anna rough at first, largely because I have no background in Russian nomenclatures. How someone can be Oblonsky, Stepan Arkadyevitch, and Stiva simultaneously, or Kostya = Levin = Konstantin Dmitrievitch, is baffling (Not even my esoteric knowledge of the Hungarian practice of fronting family names before surnames could help me here).

I found the story gripping, but the story flows because the characters are so finely crafted. Much of the story is inward, but Tolstoy manages to capture the fine details of human interaction, portraying his characters with such finesse that you feel you know them, could anticipate their reactions, see their humanity. The book is a thousand or so pages, and took a few subway commutes, but I found myself looking forward to following Anna and Kitty in their respective adventures, as if I were meeting old friends, and I found that I was more observant of the passengers around me, their quirks, their flaws. Anna's breathtaking end was visible chapters in advance, I could feel her desperation and sense her jealousy and anxiety - I turned the pages, speeding to her end, hoping she wouldn't prove predictable, that Tolstoy would break his believability and make Anna do something inconsistent. Alas.


At the end of the book, I found Levin's words to be inspirational: we must find a way to enjoy the small things, to take advantage of the pleasures afforded us, and to not be so lost in the big picture that we become down and lost. Like Anna, we have to stay away from becoming so burrowed down and proud, buried within ourselves, that we can't live. I saw Levin's thoughts emerge from Elegance, with Paloma's search for meaning and connection. I can't say that I'm surprised: I dove into Anna knowing it was a classic, and I now know why: Tolstoy magnificently describes the minutest and most clear details of everyday human life, striking at the core of what it means to be human. And that is timeless, priceless.

Book Review: The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery

Many of the reviews for this book have been glowing, with the minor caveat that the book is for "intellectuals" with its philosophical interludes. In truth, the book isn't an action book - it's about an internal journey. Barbery's prose, which is quirky and enchanting (although, keep a dictionary nearby as you beef up your vocabulary), immediately draws the reader into the world of Paloma and Renee Michel at 7, rue de Grenelle (beware the use of commas!). The two unlikely soulmates are drawn together despite their class and age differences when another building resident passes away and a new, mysterious gentleman buys his apartment.

Elegance is about those beautiful rare moments in life that get us through: a genuine connection with another person, the glorious beauty of a tree or a camellia, the delicate enjoyment of a good cup of tea or pastry - and the restorative, necessary, urgent nature of these small things on the human spirit. There are reports that French therapists have been prescribing this book for their patients, and I understand why. This is a book that makes you believe in life, in its complexity and tragedy, its beauty and its ravaged-ness...the thinking person survives by holding these fragile moments, searching for them in the midst of the utter crap we plow through. Elegance inspired me, and at the instant, surprising climax of the book, I found genuine tears on my cheeks and an overflowing heart.

Caveats: there is philosophy, it is very French (in good and bad ways, some critics have commented that the critique of French class systems doesn't translate to American audiences), and some find it implausible that Paloma is really 12 years old.

Highlights: it's funny, sarcastic, beautiful, sad, and one of the best books I've read in years (and I was a lit major in undergrad, if that pushes you either way).



"what to do
faced with never
but look
for always
in a few stolen strains"

- M. Barbery

Book Review: Cultural Democracy by James Bau Graves

I picked this book up off the shelf at my work's library, intrigued by the title and its promise to discuss arts, community and culture in America. Bau Graves lives and works in Maine and has a long career in running arts and cultural programs there. With his experience attempting to integrate and bring into dialogue diverse immigrant and foreign cultures with "mainstream" American culture, Bau Graves brings a voice of experience to the narrative even if that voice is not an academic voice. He falls prey to a few dangerous binaries that trouble his attempt to call for increased cooperation and a more representative cultural scene, which is a laudable goal and critical if the arts are to serve a larger social purpose.

As Bau Graves discovered and relates in Chapter 1, the dynamics of communities are complicated. It was not clear to me whether Bau Graves understood the danger of applying terms like "insider," "outsider," and "authentic." There isn't one Asian community that is monolithic here in Brooklyn's Chinatown, but many communities. While Bau Graves pays surface homage to this, it isn't clear that this understanding has deeply penetrated his thinking. He seems to think that there is a way to infiltrate the secrets of authentic (or authentic-enough?) culture, which is perhaps reflective of his work which is practically oriented (and my issue reflective of my academic training).

Sentences like "the attending outsiders miss out on the ambiance of ethnicity, the feeling of being presence of the Other" or "we're still a lot better at putting ethnics on stage than at getting them in our seats" (both p.71) are offensive in their presumption that "the Other" or "the ethnics" aren't involved in the cultural scene except as potential spectators, and in the automatic homogenizing of a white, upper middle class audience in a position of power and creation in the arts. Careless word choice here reaffirms divisions and simplistic and insulting binaries, inherited from colonialist thought, rather than undermining them. The arts are a place for Americans to break down barriers and encourage diversity that reflects our society. My academic training rigorously stressed the thoughtlessness and idiocy of Orientalizing those different from myself (which, if you think about it, includes everyone else), and I think it is necessary to deconstruct this line of thinking about ambiance, authenticity, and ethnicity and the American arts scene. It's completely unacceptable because of its sheer hypocrisy: putting "Others" on display for their novelty or considering "them" exterior to "us" reinforces preexisting notions of difference and harkens back to the late 1800s concepts of Worlds Fairs, where people of different ethnicities were put in cages for "we the civilized" to observe. I would hope that by 2010 we could think outside the cage.

Bau Graves does address deconstructing accepted norms of time and structure in America's attempt to democratize the arts,an important call to collaboration and acceptance of other world-views. Constructions of authority, time, and power structure shift across our blue planet and it is key for arts leaders to recognize and be sensitive to working with others (not "Others"!). After my experience working abroad, I can definitely attest that this is a key and necessary learning if one is to be truly collaborative. It is also noteworthy that Bau Graves articulates how precarious the cultural mediator position is, and interrogates the power of the arts administrator.

Bau Graves cites Martin Luther King, who said, "I doubt if the teeming problems of our ghettos will have a great chance to be solved until the white majority, in genuine empathy, comes to feel the ache and anguish of the Negro's daily life" (197). It is this spirit of openness and empathy which I believe Bau Graves wants to encourage, and which I applaud and join my voice to the call for an American arts and cultural scene (as well as political, while we're at it) that truly reflects who we have become as one nation of many gorgeous and unique pieces. Part of that openness and empathy comes in dropping Orientalist ideas, removing our blinders, and questioning all our assumptions to come to a place of more considered sharing and learning.