Give me your tired, your poor...
but only if they are willing to work at the bottom of a trickle down economy for years on end.
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free...
but only if they buy into the American dream and are subservient subjects of the Man, always paying their taxes on time.
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore...
but only if the young men continue to go to other shores and risk losing their lives for men in designer suits sitting behind oak desks paid for by the taxpayers.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me...
but only if they can readily acclimate to society with the least possible assistance and don't question authority.
I lift my lamp beside the golden door...
the door leading to the altar of capitalism where one worships with their lives and money.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Dhaka
There are numerous previously foreign sights, sounds and smells that I have become accustomed to since I arrived in Bangladesh.
It is no longer strange for me to see various forms of raw meat being swarmed by flies and hanging from hooks at a dilapidated roadside stand or to encounter chickens and sheep roaming freely through the streets while a herd of goats on leashes are being walked by a native through the swirling conglomeration of trucks, cars, busses, motorcycles, rickshaws and bicycles that make up Dhaka's traffic.
The sight of a man squatting on the side of the road to urinate no longer merits a second glance.
My ears no longer perk up when airplanes going to and from the nearby international airport fly low overhead but I must admit it still does make my heart race.
I fall asleep easily after being woken by the early morning Muslim call to prayer emanating from as yet undetermined nearby speakers instead of remaining wide awake and alert for the following half an hour with chills running up and down my spine.
My nose no longer wrinkles as I pass through the market replete with all the animals that pass their existence there or as I pass lots and lakes filled with rotting trash where stray cats and dogs make their home.
The past couple of days, however, have introduced a new sight, sound, and smell that I have yet to get used to.
In preparation for a Muslim holiday celebration, bulls have appeared on the streets of Dhaka to eventually be offered as a sacrifice and eaten.
So in addition to attempting to steer clear of ankle sprain producing potholes and periodic open sewers as well as trying to avoid getting hit by the components that form the maelstrom on Dhaka's streets, I now also have to keep my eyes peeled in order to avoid sinking my foot into a heap of putrid, steaming, literal bull shit.
It is no longer strange for me to see various forms of raw meat being swarmed by flies and hanging from hooks at a dilapidated roadside stand or to encounter chickens and sheep roaming freely through the streets while a herd of goats on leashes are being walked by a native through the swirling conglomeration of trucks, cars, busses, motorcycles, rickshaws and bicycles that make up Dhaka's traffic.
The sight of a man squatting on the side of the road to urinate no longer merits a second glance.
My ears no longer perk up when airplanes going to and from the nearby international airport fly low overhead but I must admit it still does make my heart race.
I fall asleep easily after being woken by the early morning Muslim call to prayer emanating from as yet undetermined nearby speakers instead of remaining wide awake and alert for the following half an hour with chills running up and down my spine.
My nose no longer wrinkles as I pass through the market replete with all the animals that pass their existence there or as I pass lots and lakes filled with rotting trash where stray cats and dogs make their home.
The past couple of days, however, have introduced a new sight, sound, and smell that I have yet to get used to.
In preparation for a Muslim holiday celebration, bulls have appeared on the streets of Dhaka to eventually be offered as a sacrifice and eaten.
So in addition to attempting to steer clear of ankle sprain producing potholes and periodic open sewers as well as trying to avoid getting hit by the components that form the maelstrom on Dhaka's streets, I now also have to keep my eyes peeled in order to avoid sinking my foot into a heap of putrid, steaming, literal bull shit.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Dhonnobad
During the extensive amount of time that I have spent in airports and also in foreign cities over the past couple of weeks, I have had the opportunity to observe the interactions of a plethora of parents and children.
This activity provided me with a healthy amount of laughs and also caused me to reminisce about some of my own memorable and cherished childhood experiences.
There are an innumerable amount that I could expound upon here but I will simply pick out some of the most enjoyable.
The memory that I recount most often most likely has to do with the Fisher Price tape recorder that Mama would break out when we grilled brats on the deck as well as sing-a-longs with the cousins and prayer time before bed. I would either end up laughing uncontrollably for reasons that were comical only to me or sing the chorus of the same song over and over regularly pausing to catch my breath in the midst of a word while Ben would inevitably complain and begin to cry when he didn't get to finish his song or was interrupted by me, Leah, Travis, Nick or Season. He pretty much cried for the majority of the time on the tapes. He still does this, by the way. Some things never change, I guess. Once a cry baby, always a cry baby. I still love him, though.
Another one that comes to the forefront of my mind would be picking up the "beans" from the monstrous tree that once stood in the front yard, visible as a landmark to us of where our home was as we drove down I-95.
It was pretty much the same script every time we filled the trash bags up.
Mama would mention what was on the menu for dinner that night. I'll use hot dogs as a common example.
"Well, Ben and Josh, do you want a hot dog tonight?"
"Yeah, yeah, hot dogs are awesome," we would respond.
"Well, then you need to fill up one bag each."
"Okay," I would reply as Ben would begin to cry because he was tired or for some other inane reason.
"Do you want more than one hot dog, Josh?"
"Yeah, I want two," I would say as I held up two fingers on one hand and stuck two fingers of the other hand into my nose to get rid of my boogers.
"Okay, well, that's another bag then. And keep your fingers out of your nose," said Mama.
"But don't I get another hot dog?" Ben asked as he wiped the snot caused by his constant crying from his nose.
"Well, Ben, if you would stop crying and start working you could probably have all the hot dogs in the house. Do you want any toppings on your hot dog, Josh?"
"Yes, I want catssup, mustaahd and pickel wellisshh."
"Okay, one more bag and you can have all those things."
"Alright, you got it, Mama."
Ben, meanwhile still hasn't filled one bag.
Parts of this conversation may be exaggerated but it made for a better story. Sorry for casting you in a bad light, Ben. You only cried a third of the time we picked up the beans.
Another happy memory involves Ben and me riding our bikes through the puddles immediately following a summer thunderstorm.
"Watch out for cars! Listen for thunder! Where there's thunder, there's lightning!!!" Mom would yell as we rode down our 45 degree angle driveway, ready to do some nasty jumps on the corner of High Ridge.
Other memories that stick out include playing catch in the backyard, making Christmas cookies and hard boiled Easter eggs, riding bikes with Mama over the overpass, aka the "jungle", to McDonald's for ice cream cones (I would always get the swirl), and last but not least Sunday afternoon drives along A1A in the '40 Ford with the same Oldies tape playing over and over.
"Do you love me? Do you, surfer girl? Surfer girl, my little surfer girl."
All this to say that I am incredibly thankful for the memories I have from my childhood.
Mom and Dad, you did a fabulous job raising both me and Ben and I am grateful to have you as parents.
If I eventually have children of my own, I hope I can do half as good a job as you have done.
As you well know, I will be unable to celebrate Thanksgiving with you this year, so this will have to suffice for my answer when Mom asks her annual Thanksgiving question of "What are you thankful for this year?"
Thank you for all your sacrifices.
"Dhonnobad," as they say here in Bangladesh.
This activity provided me with a healthy amount of laughs and also caused me to reminisce about some of my own memorable and cherished childhood experiences.
There are an innumerable amount that I could expound upon here but I will simply pick out some of the most enjoyable.
The memory that I recount most often most likely has to do with the Fisher Price tape recorder that Mama would break out when we grilled brats on the deck as well as sing-a-longs with the cousins and prayer time before bed. I would either end up laughing uncontrollably for reasons that were comical only to me or sing the chorus of the same song over and over regularly pausing to catch my breath in the midst of a word while Ben would inevitably complain and begin to cry when he didn't get to finish his song or was interrupted by me, Leah, Travis, Nick or Season. He pretty much cried for the majority of the time on the tapes. He still does this, by the way. Some things never change, I guess. Once a cry baby, always a cry baby. I still love him, though.
Another one that comes to the forefront of my mind would be picking up the "beans" from the monstrous tree that once stood in the front yard, visible as a landmark to us of where our home was as we drove down I-95.
It was pretty much the same script every time we filled the trash bags up.
Mama would mention what was on the menu for dinner that night. I'll use hot dogs as a common example.
"Well, Ben and Josh, do you want a hot dog tonight?"
"Yeah, yeah, hot dogs are awesome," we would respond.
"Well, then you need to fill up one bag each."
"Okay," I would reply as Ben would begin to cry because he was tired or for some other inane reason.
"Do you want more than one hot dog, Josh?"
"Yeah, I want two," I would say as I held up two fingers on one hand and stuck two fingers of the other hand into my nose to get rid of my boogers.
"Okay, well, that's another bag then. And keep your fingers out of your nose," said Mama.
"But don't I get another hot dog?" Ben asked as he wiped the snot caused by his constant crying from his nose.
"Well, Ben, if you would stop crying and start working you could probably have all the hot dogs in the house. Do you want any toppings on your hot dog, Josh?"
"Yes, I want catssup, mustaahd and pickel wellisshh."
"Okay, one more bag and you can have all those things."
"Alright, you got it, Mama."
Ben, meanwhile still hasn't filled one bag.
Parts of this conversation may be exaggerated but it made for a better story. Sorry for casting you in a bad light, Ben. You only cried a third of the time we picked up the beans.
Another happy memory involves Ben and me riding our bikes through the puddles immediately following a summer thunderstorm.
"Watch out for cars! Listen for thunder! Where there's thunder, there's lightning!!!" Mom would yell as we rode down our 45 degree angle driveway, ready to do some nasty jumps on the corner of High Ridge.
Other memories that stick out include playing catch in the backyard, making Christmas cookies and hard boiled Easter eggs, riding bikes with Mama over the overpass, aka the "jungle", to McDonald's for ice cream cones (I would always get the swirl), and last but not least Sunday afternoon drives along A1A in the '40 Ford with the same Oldies tape playing over and over.
"Do you love me? Do you, surfer girl? Surfer girl, my little surfer girl."
All this to say that I am incredibly thankful for the memories I have from my childhood.
Mom and Dad, you did a fabulous job raising both me and Ben and I am grateful to have you as parents.
If I eventually have children of my own, I hope I can do half as good a job as you have done.
As you well know, I will be unable to celebrate Thanksgiving with you this year, so this will have to suffice for my answer when Mom asks her annual Thanksgiving question of "What are you thankful for this year?"
Thank you for all your sacrifices.
"Dhonnobad," as they say here in Bangladesh.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Late night reading and ruminations
This is what happens when people walk away from me.
From the shortly possessed, constantly exchanged trenches of World War I with myriads of dead and dying boys lying between to the atomic fallout of World War II Japan with shadows permanently scarred on the ground being the only evidence that a human being once stood there.
From the gulag work camps of 1930's Soviet Union to the concentration camps of 1940's Germany.
From the napalm scorched rainforests of Vietnam to the killing fields of Cambodia.
From the seemingly endless flatlands of Somalia to the dry, dusty deserts of the Sudan soaked in blood.
From the government induced persecution of Chairman Mao's regime to government guided missiles striking Afghan villages.
This is what happens when my compassion and love leave a place.
From the shortly possessed, constantly exchanged trenches of World War I with myriads of dead and dying boys lying between to the atomic fallout of World War II Japan with shadows permanently scarred on the ground being the only evidence that a human being once stood there.
From the gulag work camps of 1930's Soviet Union to the concentration camps of 1940's Germany.
From the napalm scorched rainforests of Vietnam to the killing fields of Cambodia.
From the seemingly endless flatlands of Somalia to the dry, dusty deserts of the Sudan soaked in blood.
From the government induced persecution of Chairman Mao's regime to government guided missiles striking Afghan villages.
This is what happens when my compassion and love leave a place.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
The surface of the brackish, brown water is smooth as turquoise sea glass
Convincingly covering up the ecosystem that lies beneath-betrayed only by an occasional shimmering, silver mullet jumping in an attempt to escape its pursuer and prolong its life another day.
Salt is filling my nostrils and covering my skin like leprosy.
The gnarled mangrove trees are effectively blocking out any vestige of civilization or society and hiding stories beneath their roots of a simpler, slower time.
A time when one lived wisely by gathering enough food for the day from the toil of his own hands and did not have the perpetual worry of credit card and car payments hanging overhead as a result of greed, indulgence and uncontrolled, unchecked desires.
Convincingly covering up the ecosystem that lies beneath-betrayed only by an occasional shimmering, silver mullet jumping in an attempt to escape its pursuer and prolong its life another day.
Salt is filling my nostrils and covering my skin like leprosy.
The gnarled mangrove trees are effectively blocking out any vestige of civilization or society and hiding stories beneath their roots of a simpler, slower time.
A time when one lived wisely by gathering enough food for the day from the toil of his own hands and did not have the perpetual worry of credit card and car payments hanging overhead as a result of greed, indulgence and uncontrolled, unchecked desires.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Forgiven
Occasionally seeking to do what is right
Continually being waylaid by temptation
Constantly being covered by grace.
Continually being waylaid by temptation
Constantly being covered by grace.
To Live Is To Fly
Won't say I love you babe.
Won't say I need you babe.
But I'm going to get you babe
and I will not do you wrong.
Living's mostly wasting time
and I waste my share of mine
but it never feels too good
so let's not take too long.
You're as soft as glass and I'm a gentle man
we got the sky to talk about
and the world to lie upon.
Days up and down they come
like rain on a conga drum
forget most, remember some
but don't turn none away.
Everything is not enough
nothing is too much to bear
where you been is good and gone
all you keep's the getting there.
To live is to fly low and high
so shake the dust off of your wings
and the sleep out of your eyes.
It's goodbye to all my friends.
It's time to go again.
Think of all the poetry
and the pickin' down the line.
I'll miss the system here
the bottom's low and the treble's clear
but it don't pay to think too much
on the things you leave behind.
I may be gone but I won't be long
I'll be bringing back the melody
and the rhythm that I find.
We all got holes to fill
and them holes are all that's real
some fall on you like a storm
sometimes you dig your own.
But choice is yours to make
time is yours to take
some dive into the sea
some toil upon the stone.
To live is to fly low and high
so shake the dust off of your wings
the sleep out of your eyes.
-Townes Van Zandt
Won't say I need you babe.
But I'm going to get you babe
and I will not do you wrong.
Living's mostly wasting time
and I waste my share of mine
but it never feels too good
so let's not take too long.
You're as soft as glass and I'm a gentle man
we got the sky to talk about
and the world to lie upon.
Days up and down they come
like rain on a conga drum
forget most, remember some
but don't turn none away.
Everything is not enough
nothing is too much to bear
where you been is good and gone
all you keep's the getting there.
To live is to fly low and high
so shake the dust off of your wings
and the sleep out of your eyes.
It's goodbye to all my friends.
It's time to go again.
Think of all the poetry
and the pickin' down the line.
I'll miss the system here
the bottom's low and the treble's clear
but it don't pay to think too much
on the things you leave behind.
I may be gone but I won't be long
I'll be bringing back the melody
and the rhythm that I find.
We all got holes to fill
and them holes are all that's real
some fall on you like a storm
sometimes you dig your own.
But choice is yours to make
time is yours to take
some dive into the sea
some toil upon the stone.
To live is to fly low and high
so shake the dust off of your wings
the sleep out of your eyes.
-Townes Van Zandt
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