Tuesday, September 28, 2010

the new title

So I've changed the title of my blog once again. Go ahead and groan.

The title le passage comes from one of Michel de Montaigne's Essais, "On repentance." Montaigne's project in writing the essays was to paint of picture of himself, and in turn all of mankind, honestly and openly. The essays are wandering and often contradictory and refuse to make final, clear-cut judgments about humans and the world they inhabit.
In "On repentance," Montaigne explains, "Je ne peins pas l'être, je peins le passage" - "I don't paint the being, I paint the path." Rather than talking explicitly about himself ("I'm 6'3, have blue eyes, am witty and charming...") he paints a picture of his thinking - the passage, the movement, the evolution, the route...

And isn't that what we do when we humans write about ourselves? In this blog, I haven't told you very much about myself, my education, my family; the hard facts are pretty absent. But how much is that really worth? The concrete details are far easier to enumerate, but far lest interesting and informative than my thoughts. If you want to know a person, get to know her ideas, passions, feelings... When we give only the facts (age, personality traits, nationality, profession) we miss the path, fallaciously thinking we humans are stable, fixed creatures. Hardly so! Life is a passage, a journey, and to truly know a person, you've got to get into her head, see her thoughts in all their clutter and inconstancy.

If you're disinterested in my thoughts, as you well might (and probably should) be, know that the project is for me more than for you, as I said in my last post.

Adieu, donc.

Monday, September 27, 2010

So I go on blogging spurts


Forgive my inconsistency. But I'm running across all these really interesting ideas that I need to get down somewhere. Honestly, I blog more for myself than for you, dear reader (assuming you exist).

For my critical theory class we're reading extracts from Bihu Parekh's Rethinking Multiculturalism: Cultural Diversity and Political Theory. Last night I attended my first meeting of "Group," which is just that: a couple of my friends belong to a group that discusses religious and philosophical questions every other Sunday evening. Someone brought up a really provoking idea that's given me a lot of pause to think:

As a Mormon, I'm taught that I have, as nasty as this sounds, access to all the Truth and Happiness available in this world through the gospel, where other people lack that - they are shut out from some ultimate Meaning. But that's an uncomfortable idea - why should I think that I have a monopoly on those things - Meaning, Truth, Happiness. Can't someone who has never heard of Joseph Smith live a full life, even in the eternal sense? Why do I get to have it all?

Then as I was reading this article today, I came across a couple of really pertinent quotes. Parekh is critical of the writings of the Italian philosopher Giambattista Vico because although "[h]e appreciated that different ages threw up different kinds of good life" - that people from the ancient Japanese to the contemporary Native Americans to the Africans of medieval times were happy and productive and good - he also insisted that "in any given age only one way of life was truly human, that all others could be graded in terms of it, and that those who had realized or approximated it had a right and a duty to guide and even govern others," treating his own "religion, age and society" as "universal norms" (55).

That last idea is a little complicated, but also, I believe, totally invalid. Let's break it down. Parekh's bone with Vico is that the latter believes:
(1) There is one culture that's 'got it right.'
(2) That culture has a responsibility to teach the 'poor savages' who haven't figured things out what they're missing.


How much does that sound like Mormon doctrine?
(1) We believe we have the "fullness of the restored gospel" and the priesthood to perform "saving ordinances" - if this kind of language isn't familiar to you, you could check this out for a bit of linguistic background.
(2) We send missionaries out to share this message.

Maybe I'm comparing apples to oranges - that culture and religion aren't really the same thing. This is a tricky issue. On one hand, I don't believe that there is any ultimately "true" culture - the culture of Zoroastrians in India isn't more or less "true" than that of suburbanites in White America or mestizos in the Philippines. On the other, I do believe in a loving Heavenly Father who sent his son Jesus Christ to atone for the sins of the world - and that's an "ultimate reality," as much as I don't like to phrase it that way.

Further, Parekh also examines Montesquieu's ideas on pluralism in his Persian Letters. Here, Parekh's criticism is that "[h]is thought has ample space for social but not cultural and moral diversity, for a wide variety of customs and practices but not for the view that human existence can be conceptualized and the good life lived in several different and worthy ways" (67).

It is the last part of this quote that I think is the most pertinent to the idea I'm trying to explore. I do believe there are many ways to be happy. I'm not going to fling the door wide open and say that any path can lead to happiness - committing murder, for example, or getting strung out on coke, aren't going to bring you joy. On the other hand, I don't want to treat happiness as a "closed canon" and think that there is one prescribed way to be happy - and I especially don't want to think that I've got the 'insider's guide'! Mormonism brings me happiness, but aren't there plenty of happy agnostics and Jews and Buddhists and Muslims and Catholics in the world?

I'm still working on this question.

Ah, the passion!


This semester, I'm taking a course on cultural and artistic exchanges between the U.S. and France. For this week's seminar we're reading a story called Atala, or the love of two savages in the wilderness by François-René de Chateaubriand, published in 1801. You could check out the Wikipedia page for a summary of the story if you care enough, but the purpose of this post is to share some really great quotes.

Chateaubriand is considered a key figure in French Romanticism and his writing is accordingly passionate. Reading this story made my heart ache and burn and flutter tour à tour. I often claim poor emotive powers, but I guess it just takes the right provocation, like these:

"Qu'ils sont incompréhensibles les mortels agités par les passions!" ("Ah, how incomprehensible are mortals driven by passion!")

"Connaissez-vous le coeur de l'homme, et pourriez-vous compter les inconstances de son désir? Vous calculeriez plutôt le nombre des vagues que la mer roule dans une temptête." ("Do you know the heart of man, and could you count the inconstancies of his desire? It would be easier to count the waves of the sea in a storm.")

This is an idea I've gotten a bit fixated on lately. (1) We do crazy things when driven by our emotions and passions [and look, I don't mean passions in a moralizing way - there is a place for passion in this world. I mean the way MADD are passionate about drunk driving laws, or how a thinker will go into a passionate frenzy of words over a new idea]. (2) Those emotions are always changing [at least mine are!].

I'm also pretty sure these things aren't just symptoms of youth - why else would the cultural phenomenon of Mid-life Crisis exist, or my dear Rosemarie, age 85, still sing with such emotion? Maybe as we get older we learn to better deal with [read: control or maybe even repress] with the emotions "qui nous balancent" - that swing and sway us. I don't want to think passion is something dictated by hormones and that fades with time. I hope I'm just as passionate about Chateaubriand when I'm old and gray.

As a consolation to the germanophones, I'll include that song Rosemarie sings in this very francophilic post:

"Rose-Marie, Rose-Marie
Sieben Jahre mein Herz nach Dir schrie
Rose-Marie, Rose-Marie
Aber du hörtest es nie.

Jedwede Nacht, jedwede Nacht
Hat mir im Traume dein Bild zugelacht
Kam dann der Tag, kam dann der Tag
Wieder alleine ich lag.

Jetzt bin ich alt, jetzt bin ich alt
Aber mein Herz ist noch immer nicht kalt
Schläft's uns schon bald
Schläft's uns schon bald
Doch bis zuletzt es noch hallt.

Rose-Marie, Rose-Marie
Sieben Jahre mein Herz nach Dir schrie
Rose-Marie Rose-Marie
Aber du hörtest es nie."

Ah, my heart!

LATER:

More from Chateaubriand. Wow, this stuff really gets to me - my poor little heart is palpitating.

"Croyez-moi, mon fils, les douleurs ne sont point éternelles; il faut tôt ou tard qu'elles finissent, parce que le coeur de l'homme est fini; c'est une de nos grandes misères: nous ne sommes pas même capables d'être longtemps malheureux." ("Believe me, my son, suffering is in no way eternal; it must end sooner or later, because the heart of man is finite. It is one of our great miseries: we are not even capable of being unhappy for a long time.")

Thank goodness.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

Big Baby Land

Amy and I had an interesting conversation earlier. In line at Cafe Rio this afternoon, we witnessed a toddler hoisted into the air by his nanny, and a thought struck us.

Amy: "Wow, how horrifying would that be? To just be picked up and manipulated by people four times your size..."
Grace: "Yeah... I sometimes think about how weird it would be if we still had to stand on tiptoe to see over the counter, or jump to reach door handles."
Amy: "Yeah... Hmm..."
Grace: "You know, this could make for a really great amusement park. Make everything giant-sized so we adults can experience the torture adult-sized reality must be for people less than three feet tall."

So then Amy made this drawing as part of a sales pitch to our backer, Tristan:
Giant cookies, counter tops above eye level, chairs you need a step stool to climb up to... And of course funnel cakes and cotton candy, too - essential foods that no good theme park can do without.

I'd also like to point out that giant furniture has made it into the world of high art. In 2003, Robert Thierrien made this really awesome installation piece at the Tate Modern in London. A Google search for "giant table" yields this picture of the piece:

See? Pretty awesome. If giant tables and chairs are worth £125 million in an art museum with no entrance fee, think how much you could charge people to lounge in that giant furniture while eating Dippin' Dots.

Sadly, Tristan isn't sold on the whole Big Baby Land thing, so Amy and I are still looking for funding. Any takers?



I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR!

This is what I woke up to on Wednesday morning. Judith (as my minivan has been baptized) had a flat tire. Very, very flat. So flat that when I kicked it, I made a dent. This is a close approximation of the conversation I had with myself:

"You're totally stuck. Changing tires requires testosterone and technical know-how. You have neither."
"Great, what am I supposed to do? I don't have home teachers yet... no boyfriend... Call Dad? Maybe he can fix it telephonically."

Luckily, she was just parked in the driveway, so Judith's misfortune wasn't a pressing issue. I then proceeded to forget about the problem until Friday night, when I phoned my dad.

"Hi, Dad. I have a flat tire."
"Well, sweetie, you could always try to put on the spare yourself. Just read the owner's manual and follow the directions closely."

What?! Fix it myself? Hardly. Instead, I made a quick Facebook post ("Anyone love me enough to help me change a tire?") and again placed Judith's plight on the metaphorical back burner.

I had a couple volunteers for assistance when I woke up on Saturday morning, but at exactly 11:51am something strange came over me. I snatched camera and keys and went out to the driveway.

"Hmmm... I might as well take a look at the owner's manual to get an idea of how labor intensive this is going to be," I thought, "and by extension how much curry I'm going to have to pay out my helpful manfriend with."

At this point I went into a wrench-jack-and-spare-tire-induced trance, from which I awoke to find this:


I had changed the tire myself.

What?

I then rushed in to the house yelling, "Amy! Amy! Come take a picture of me! I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR!" So yeah. I changed a tire all by myself. And documented it.

Next step: start a soroptimist club.

This moment also fits nicely into this article my friend Alex (ha! Note the gender ambiguity) showed me, called "The End of Men" from the July/August Atlantic.

Sunday, September 12, 2010

My new house!

I live in a new house! A real house - not an apartment. I even have my own bedroom. Have a look-see:
I also have this cute little bookshelf, so that now all of my books can see the light of day:Credit goes to my beautiful mom for helping me get moved in and organized. You are the greatest!

I also have a new job teaching French 101. My class is great - I love my students, I love teaching, I love making a fool of myself to pull a good Bonjour, comment ça va? out of a frightened Freshman. The job takes a lot of work, but it's always those things we invest the most in that we get the most out of, right?

Anyway, I get to do all kinds of silly things for my job, like make pictures on Microsoft Paint (which I haven't had any excuse to do since 7th grade...). Last week we learned how to talk about nationalities and professions. Here's the evidence:
"Il est président.""Il est mexicain."

Plus 9 other equally ridiculous images. I had so much fun. Love love love my job.

Sunday, August 29, 2010

Newness.

This is the start of something new.

A new semester, a new job, a new house, a new ward, new friends (and of course, lots of good old ones, too!), new shoes and cardigans...

I'm ready for a breath of fresh air - a chance to remake myself, even if it's a little bit at a time.

But before I launch into all this new stuff, let's recap a little bit of the old. Here are two photos I really like:

This one's from the Netherlands, where I traveled with four friends from Cambridge: Alex (the boy), Camille (the girl), Jeff (the boy), and Alex (the girl). We stayed with Alex (the girl)'s family and spent one day walking around the city of Amsterdam. Here are our feet in Amsterdam. I think it's really cute.

This one's from my trip to Paris while I was in Cambridge. My friend Arber took it St. Pancras station, where you take the Eurostar from to cross under the English Channel (or La Manche, as the francophones call it).

I know it's trite to rave about how much my experiences abroad changed me... but they did. And that's that.