Gracias, Buenos Aires

I finally crossed the Equator and spent a week in Buenos Aires, Argentina, sightseeing and shopping my way to worn-out feet, a interesting mix of memories, and not a few nice purchases. Here's what else I brought back - first, the bad news:

THE WORST OF BUENOS AIRES

3.  Niceties
Americans aren't good at it, either, but porteños (residents of BA) never say anything after bumping into you on the street (and I'm not talking about just brushing past your shoulder).  Granted, some of these "accidents" might be failed attempts at pickpocketing, which is prevalent in Buenos Aires, but most are not.

2.  Eating

There's some veggies under there somewhere...!

You can order salads and sides in restaurants, but among the entrees, there is a lack of healthy choices.  The vast majority are various types of red meat, especially steak, as Argentina is known for its beef (which probably belongs under the BEST OF BUENOS AIRES section).  And if you order meat, that's what you get: a big slab of meat on a plate - and frequently nothing else.  At a parilla (steakhouse), the meat is grilled, but there is a lot of cheese, butter, and cream in other dishes.  Part of this is due to a major Italian influence, as well as the many French cafes and restaurants.  (Strangely enough, obesity is not seen on the streets.) 

1.  Trashiness
Graffiti covers buildings everywhere, regardless of the level of affluence or style of architecture.  It's shocking at first.  Curb appeal is not a known concept; blending in and being inconspicuous seems more valued than setting oneself apart.  Only twenty percent of residents own their property, so pride of ownership is lacking.  Buildings which may be beautiful architecturally can nevertheless be rundown with doors or windows missing, or at least dirty.  Garbage can be found on the streets on holiday weekends, and dumpsters line the sidewalks.  Worst: as a general rule, dog owners do not pick up after their pets, so dog mierda is a very common sight on sidewalks everywhere, forcing you to constantly look down while you walk.

 

THE BEST OF BUENOS AIRES

5.  Architecture
Everywhere you look are beautiful tall buildings with wrought iron balconies; grand, heavy wooden doors.  Many of the buildings were built at the turn of the century (the 20th, not the 21st) and reflect Italian and French neoclassical influences.  Pity they aren't maintained so well (see above). For a nice summary of bonaerense architecture with photos, see A Gringo in Buenos Aires.

4.  Eating
The empanadas are fresh, delicious, and cheap.  The Malbec is plentiful and pleasing.  And the eating is such a huge part of the culture that in a restaurant, one is expected to linger after dinner rather than clearing the table for the next party.  You might have to wait a while for everything to happen, even to order, but it's nice to not be run out with a forced smile when the meal is over.

3.  Evita 

Eva Peron galvanized a whole nation without holding elective office.  She's on the 100 peso note.  People still leave flowers at her final resting place 60 years after her death.   President Cristina Fernandez Kirchner is sometimes compared to her, and Evita will probably remain the yardstick by which all future female leaders will be measured.  She's made the Argentine woman a strong figure, to say the least.

2.  Brio
The Italian spirit of the Argentine heritage comes through strongly in everyday interactions with the people.  The way both men and women kiss each other on the cheek when parting company.  Ending a face-to-face conversation with "ciao" (or chao in Spanish, I suppose) and a phone call with "un beso" ("a kiss").  Tango - luscious, sensual, and provocative - not just for tourism, but infused in the porteño culture.

1.  MEN
OMG - so many men in Buenos Aires look like they are, used to be, should have been, or are going to be, models.  Whether older, in their prime earning years, teens, or just kids, male beauty is disproportionately prevalent and stunning.  It's the same in Rome, so this is not surprising.

Next: The Most Notable Things About Buenos Aires

Murder Mystery

We are workshopping my story.  The others want to know more about the murder.  They want to know why I ended the story without explaining how it happened.  They say the motive for the murder is very weak, if there is even a motive that is evident.

The problem is: there is no murder.

Even when I explain that I wrote everything that happened and did not keep anything from the reader, even when I remind them that the other character left the premises while the woman who dies is still walking and talking to herself, they are not persuaded.  Even the instructor says the story has the potential to be expanded so that the murder can be explored further.

She wasn't murdered!  I should know - I'm the one who wrote the story.

They remain unconvinced.

He didn't do it!  In fact, no one did.  She wasn't killed!  The only mystery is how you people could think she was!

This powerfully illustrates a wonderful phenomenon in fiction (even while it may frustrate the writer in some cases): people bring to their reading of a story all kinds of things, things the writer - and even the reader - cannot control, things that influence what one sees and how one experiences a story.  And this accounts for people's wildly different reactions to the same story.

My writer friend Mary tells an anecdote reminiscent of the three blind men describing an elephant but which sounds more like a three-guys-in-a-bar joke.  Her writing group was discussing a story she had written.  The feminist tells her, "Your story is really about the disenfranchisement of women in a male-dominated world."  The Russian guy says, "This is a story of alienation, of immigration, and assimilation into an unfamiliar society!"  The transgender woman says, "You've really written a story about gender identity.  It's a transgender story!" 

I had a very strong reaction to another story in the same workshop where we talked about my non-murder.  David had written a story about a man on a quest the day of his father's funeral.  I felt absolutely positive that the story was really about the main character's love for his father, despite the fact that he never mentioned it or alluded to it and in fact, said things that indicated feelings to the contrary.  I praised David's amazing skill in writing a story that was so clearly about something completely unsaid.  I was so sure and so moved by this that I completely embarrassed myself by nearly breaking down while talking about it in class.

It strikes me now that maybe the story wasn't about that at all, that maybe that was not David's intention when he wrote it.  Maybe all of that was unsaid in the story because that wasn't how David wrote it.  Maybe I was deeply moved because of what I brought to the story.  And maybe that's why no one else in the workshop reacted the way I did. 

It's fascinating how all of our personal issues - our fears, regrets, dreams, unfinished business, and tangled relational histories - feed into how we experience a story.  It's wonderful how they can add dimension and depth to our reading.  

The writer may never know how or why a particular work will take one reader's breath away, cause another to cry, and another still to move on, unaffected.  All one can do is write from the heart and trust the reader with it.  Even when they must be left to deal with the murder of someone who wasn't killed.

He's Part of Me

There is no getting past it.  He is an indelible part of who I am.  He is undeniably in my core, and I can feel his influence just about every day - both the bad parts I resent him for and the good parts I'm starting to appreciate.  He'll never go away, though he is gone forever.

What I don't get, after more than fifty years of life, and coming up on the tenth anniversary of his death, is why I am still working out what it all means; what lessons I am supposed to have learned from my turbulent, icy relationship with him; what I could possibly hope to gain from the years - DECADES - of all the talks we never had, you know: those fabled father-son talks.  Shouldn't I have processed all of it?  Shouldn't I know by now?  He was my father, for God's sake.  What is there to figure out?

What I am starting to get, however, is that an awful lot of this processing is going on all around me.  In fact, I'm starting to think it might be a universal thing.  Not that every man has a difficult relationship with his father (at least, I hope not).  Universal in the same way that knowing glances are exchanged about mother-daughter relationships.

I recently returned from my second Taos Summer Writers' Conference, and the story that I workshopped was not the only one with a missing father element.  In fact, the absent father's influence was the main point of another writer's story, even taking place the day of the funeral.  Two out of the three readings assigned by Wally Lamb, the workshop's facilitator, had at their central core the relationship (tender and loving in one, difficult and tension-filled in the other) between the narrator and his father.  And the Wally Lamb novel I was reading at the time portrayed a very stormy stepfather relationship.

Part of this Great Working Out has simply to do with the fact that the most influential people in our lives are those who raised us, for better or worse.  When a man's mother dies, there is naturally (I imagine) a similar review of their shared history and what it means; however, women who were mothers of baby boomers had clearly-defined roles, both domestically and emotionally, so the mother-son relationship was pretty stable (Oedipal complexes aside).

Men, on the other hand, were struggling to figure out their place in the family as women's expectations began changing.  And older fathers were hands-off when it came to child-rearing.  With their traditional roles limited to breadwinner and disciplinarian, they didn't have to concern themselves with relating to their children if they weren't punishing them for something.  Either way, it's no wonder they didn't know how to be fathers, or even know there was a way to be.  Many believed that being a father meant providing for one's family, simple as that.

This left a whole lot of men to glean fatherly lessons by osmosis, I guess.

But it's also why I view my own paternal relationship through a softer lens now.  My dad just didn't know any other way to be.  He sure didn't struggle with it.  There were no books about it back then, and men of his generation didn't seek help, anyway.  When I consider how little about life I myself really know or understand, even after half a century, I can't really fault him for the job he did as a father to me.

I'm not done yet.  There could be more re-hashing ahead (though, thankfully, it seems to be dwindling).  More revising of previous conclusions.  More letting go.  The Great Working Out continues, and it's all good.  There is no deadline.

      

I Can Die Now

I used to think that if Carlos Nakai - father of the resurrection of Native American Flute music - came to a Potomac Native American Flute Festival, that that would be the pinnacle of my NAF life.  But while he did grace us with his presence several years ago, I realized soon after that the true climax would be if Mary Youngblood, a Grammy winner and my favorite NAF artist, ever accepted our invitation.  And while I hoped it might happen, I doubted it would; she was on the West Coast, and would our festival really ever be able to afford her?

Well, I am here to remind you never to give up hope!  Mary Youngblood was our featured performer at the 9th Potomac Native American Flute Festival's Saturday concert last night and conducted a fun workshop this afternoon on flute embellishments.  She is known for her embellishments, especially her trademark "bark."  She was warm, enthusiastic, and quite personal, and everyone loved her.

Before and after the concert I had the privilege of selling her CDs and music books, and since I am a huge fan, I could assist attendees with their purchases when they needed a recommendation.  It was a blast!  She stood next to me, signing CDs and meeting people.

Mary Youngblood has been here, and another PNAFF is over already.  I can die now.

Less Is More

I'm so tired of the old saw that says no one aspires to be a great short story writer, or its corollary, "No one wants to write the Great American Short Story Collection."  Um, excuse me, over here... ?

The idea is that money/fame/"success" comes from writing novels, not short stories, so who would want to just write stories instead?  Somehow there is the notion that one eventually "graduates" to writing novels and in the process becomes a serious writer.

That may be the view of the publishing industry, and it may be the conventional wisdom among writers that, currently, one can only truly make a living by writing novels.  But it has long been understood by the writing community that the short story is not a dumbed-down, beginner version of the novel, but a completely different form.  Even if one considers writing short stories as training for writing novels, mastery of the short form does not guarantee success with the long.  Many MFA graduates, having gained considerable experience workshopping stories, find themselves at a loss when attempting to write their first novel - because it's not the same thing.

Good coaches put their athletes in the right events, based on their ratio of fast-twitch versus slow-twitch muscles.  Not everyone is built to run a marathon; some are more suited to the 100-yard dash or the 440.  And it may not have much to do with what a runner wants to do. 

Of course, in writing physical limitation is not an issue; one can learn to write novels.  But some writers feel they are built to work in one form more than another, and why should anyone write novels just because they think they have to?

As I've asserted previously, some writers write primarily for the art.  Sure, we'd all like to make a living doing it, but commercial success is a secondary motivation.  I want to write what I want to write, whether or not it gets me any financial gain.

Speaking of which, there are people who are known primarily as short story writers:

Tobias Wolff - my lifelong idol.  He's written one short novel, Old School, and the brilliant memoir This Boy's Life, but otherwise, he has only (meant in the exclusive sense, not as a diminuitive term) story collections to his credit.  If anyone compared me to him, I would consider myself undeniably successful.
 
Alice Munro - long known as a master of the short form, a staple in fiction syllabi.  Highly recommended: her recent collection Too Much Happiness.
 
Amy Hempel - distinctive, spare, startling, deceptively intelligent writing.

William Trevor - while also a novelist, Wikipedia calls him "widely regarded as one of the greatest contemporary writers of short stories in the English language."  Jaw-dropping and deep.

Dave Housley - all right, this one is more of a personal prediction, and I don't know what his aspirations are, but his collection Ryan Seacrest is Famous is certainly an auspicious start.  The stories in this book vary widely in characterization and circumstance, and are full of compassion without being sentimental.  You'll see more of this guy, trust me. 

Writing short stories is not a consolation prize, a lesser skill I'm reluctantly settling for as my lot in life, a cute little hobby - it's a passion.  Have some respect.

Acceptable Racism

The other day one of my employees came into my office laughing so hard she could hardly speak.  She related that a woman who was a student in the class I recently helped teach referred to me as "that little Chinese guy."  Why did she think that was so hilarious?  Because it was such a ludicrous thing to say that it made the speaker into a fool and that the woman was so oblivious to it?  And why did my co-worker think I would laugh with her?

"Little" is most often a pejorative qualifier.  "Still working on your little novel?"  "Heard you bought a little condo."  "How's your little analyst job?"  If one means small in size, one tends to use literal descriptors: short, thin, slender.  "She's somewhat short."  "The kitchen is rather small."  "He's a slender guy."  It's highly unlikely that "that little Chinese guy" was meant as a helpful description.

And what made it obvious in her mind that I was Chinese, just because I was Asian in appearance?  If she hadn't meant to assert that in her mind I was ethnically Chinese, why was it so inconsequential to her to use the term Chinese as a catch-all for any Asian?

Years ago, in a different job, I went to someone's office building to interview him for a newsletter article over lunch.  I'd brought mine in a paper bag.  When I told the receptionist who I'd come to see, she muttered something about "you delivery people."

And finally, the man coordinating speakers for Equal Employment Opportunity programs celebrating various ethnic heritage months came to me one day, excited that he had found a speaker for Asian American Heritage Month.  

 "Guess who it is," he said, eager to tell me.  I couldn't figure out who would get him so excited.  "Jhoon Rhee!"  

When I didn't react, he said, "The father of tae kwon do!"

Jhoon Rhee may have been a successful figure in his own right, but choosing someone in the martial arts to represent Asian American achievement, in my mind, only perpetuated stereotypes and communicated limitations for Asian Americans.  Why not choose Elaine Chao, Secretary of Labor?  General Eric Shinseiki, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff?  Any number of Asian American members of Congress or local broadcast journalists?

Stereotyping Asians has always been more acceptable than doing the same with other races.  Social change comes slowly, but it will come eventually.

What surprised me about each of these incidents, however, was that all the people involved were black.  How any African American person could be so careless and clueless throws me.  I would have expected each of them to be more, rather than less, sensitive than most people to the power of language and perception.  

Maybe that's expecting too much.  Maybe we are all the same, regardless of personal experience that one would expect might shape our subsequent behavior.  Maybe it simply points out the human nature of being guilty of the very things of which we find fault in others.