Torn between two worlds, part of neither

The first time I watched "Hotel Rwanda" a few years ago, there was too much to absorb. As I remember, my overwhelming feeling was one of sadness that people, especially people with a common heritage and culture, could treat each other so inhumanely.

When I watched it again recently, since I didn’t have to concentrate on the plot, I was able to take in different elements that had nipped at the edges of my mind before:

• The Hutu war dances that both intimidated their enemy and whipped up their aggression
• The dehumanizing techniques the Hutus used to make it easier to kill and rape their neighbors
• Paul’s Westernized family from their clothes to their hula-hoops
• The artificial, Belgian-created class distinctions that distinguished the Hutus from the Tutsis
• The friendships/love between Hutus and Tutsis who were not members of either army
• The subservient role that the Africans accepted as the natural order
• The universal acceptance that all things Western were better than anything African

Whereas initially, I was overwhelmed by man’s inhumanity to man, the second time I saw the movie, I became angry at the damage colonialism had done to Rwanda and its people. The divisiveness it sowed in order for the Belgians to control the people left a legacy of chaos and civil war. The same thing has happened in Sudan, Liberia, Uganda and other countries that were created to suit European interests without concern for the people who lived there.

With the exception of the children dancing by the pool and in the refuge camp, and the Hutu rebels dancing and chanting menacingly, I didn't see evidence of African culture. There was no storytelling, no art, no rituals or ceremonies that I noticed, not even instances of the ahshe (imminent energy) that Alan Cook says is part of everything. Even the dress looked quasi-Western. I learned little about Africa or its people, so it didn’t affect my view of them. Even the fighting didn’t real seem to be about territory, but about revenge for previous mistreatment. In fact, the Africans I did get to know, Paul, his family and members of the army, had learned informally, if not formally, how to behave as Europeans. The culture with which they were born had been overridden by a new and “better” one.

Although “becoming” European may have been an evolutionary cultural change to survive while the Europeans were in power, those who embraced Western ways became almost countryless when the Europeans left. They belonged neither to Europe nor Africa as the Hutus reclaimed their country – and their culture.

Gotta dance

I love to dance.

When I think of dancing as a child, four distinct memories come to mind: Doing the foxtrot on top of my grandfather’s shiny black shoes in our living room; dancing with my aunt at my grandparents’ house, while she sang along to her old 78 records (complete with interpretive hand motions); dancing in the dark by myself on our back patio in Michigan to the music of a wild, warm wind that whipped my nightgown and foreshadowed a coming storm; and three generations of my family dancing with my friends (and their parents) on the tiny beach pavilion on Lake Michigan while our record player played the Four Tops Live.

My dad loves to dance, and whenever a band strikes up, he’s out on the dance floor. I follow in his footsteps, so to speak. When I hear a great dance song, I can’t sit still. In my car, I’ll bounce, tap my foot, and pound the steering wheel. If I’m out, and musicians are playing something I want to dance to, it drives me nuts to sit still (I’m too self-conscious to go out on a dance floor by myself unless it’s crowded.). For all his wonderful attributes, the guy I date isn’t a dancer. But that doesn’t keep me from dancing around the house. When I’m cleaning, I’ve begun to put on a CD or turn on the radio. When a good song comes on, I’ll stop and dance a few steps before shimmying my way by the bookcase, dust rag in hand. Rather than being my usual, grumpy cleaning-mood self, dancing literally puts a spring in my step.

When I think of African dancing, if I think of it at all, I don’t think of northern Africa, which I consider more Middle Eastern than African, or South Africa. I think of the rest as a generic Africa, a homogenous blend of countries in constant turmoil. When I imagine African dance, I see rhythmic, usually war-like movement stereotyped in movies.

Until I read some of this unit’s articles, I didn’t realize that coastal African dance incorporated undulating motions reminiscent of the sea. Or that Ghanan dancers held their bodies rigid and used gestures. I didn’t know that the language of African dance had different “dialects” or that dance was such an integral part of life, not a separate art form as it is in the West.

In “African Dance: Bridges to Humanity,” Tracy Snipe said that we need prior knowledge of a culture to understand the language of dance. I think she’s right. Whereas I can watch dancers in American musicals or stage performances and thoroughly enjoy their reflection of our heritage and the stories they tell, if I see Japanese dance, the stylized movements are culturally foreign to me. I neither appreciate nor understand what they are trying to convey. With the readings this week, I feel African dance is a little more familiar. It still may need some interpretation, but I’ll see more than I did. In fact, I envy the unconscious way that dance is such a big part of everyday life. Maybe I’ll have to create my own “coming home from work” dance to start my evenings off right!

Give me space, lots of space (and a cozy place)

Probably the most frustrating thing about these blogs is that the questions can't be answered briefly in a typical blog length, if we really want to provide details and examples that add richness to our answers. On the other hand, I tend to overwrite, so everyone reading my blogs, probably are breathing a sigh of relief that I have parameters.

On to the questions....

When we are children, we quickly learn when something is dangerous. As we reach towards a hot stove, our parents sharply (and loudly) tell us, “Don’t touch!” If we do, we find out in short order that we’d better listen to our parents.

In the same we, we learn cultural behaviors. We learn formally when our parents speak to us sharply to correct our behavior (or give us “the look”), informally when we model their behavior and technically, when they teach us to look people in the eye when we talk to them. When we don’t follow the accepted cultural patterns we are hurt socially, just as we hurt physically when we touch a hot stove.

In “Hidden Dimensions,” Edward Hall particularly focuses on cultural responses to time and space, and how those differences can cause misunderstandings. For example, to Americans, space is something between two objects that is empty or something taken up by a tangible object. To the Japanese, space is every bit as tangible as a physical object. It is considered an “intervening interval” called the ma and is named. This plays out in Japanese gardens and mapping. Whereas we name the streets to help people get to a final destination, the Japanese name the points, which serve as destinations in their own right. Therefore, the street corners, but not the streets have names. The journey, for the Japanese seems to be more important than the destination. This is reflected in the way they design their gardens. Hall said that a rock that might cause you to slow or stop in your path, causes you to look around and see the space from another perspective. He says attitude is reflected in the Japanese predilection to lead people to places where they can discover things for themselves.

The protective bubble we think of as our personal space varies from culture to culture, too. We begin learning in when we’re very young and inadvertently invade someone’s personal space, and they push us or tell us to move away.

One example Hall gave that had never occurred to me is the American custom of talking through a door or hanging around at the threshold. People do it at work all the time. I had not thought about it before, but coming into my office would signal that they plan on taking a good bit of time. Talking to me in the doorway sends the message that what they’re discussing won’t take enough time to make it necessary for them to sit or that it won’t be so involved that they need to be near my desk.

After reading the text, I noticed my reactions more when one of my colleagues came by my office. She initially stopped at the threshold and asked me a question. Then as she began to elaborate, she walked into my office, sat down and scooted her chair close to the edge of my desk and leaned forward. I knew that meant that instead of a couple of minutes, it would take about 20, and she would include her personal thoughts along with the facts.

From that perspective, it makes sense in the example that Hall gave about the man becoming angry when Hall was carrying on a conversation on the threshold of his room, while the man carried on another. The man viewed Hall as having entered his personal space without asking. When my colleague leaned in to talk to me, I didn’t feel that she was invading my space – she still was at the far phase of personal distance – but I felt she was stealing my time!

Perception of time, Hall says, also is highly cultural. I saw that first hand recently when a group of students were here from Spain. Their accompanying teacher said he had talked with them about how American view time. He explained to them how important it was to show up at the agreed-upon time and not 30 or 45 minutes later, which would be “on time” to them. One of the Spanish girls missed the school bus! It had never occurred to her that when she was told the bus left at 3:15, it meant the bus left at 3:15.

In looking at my house, you’d think I was a stickler for time, since you’ll hear three clocks chime the hour. Although I do subscribe to the American pack-all-you-can-into-an-hour philosophy (which I don't necessarily think is a good thing), the clocks actually are there because they are beautiful and I love to hear the different tones the chimes make.

Because my little house is very open, you can see all three clocks – two in the great room about 8 feet apart and one in my bedroom. When I added some space when my first child was born, I tore out the halls and walls of the second bedroom to create the great room, which has oak hardwood floors. The furniture is arranged to divide the room. The yellow striped Victorian couch has its back to the rest of the room, creating a cozy 6x9-foot (or so) sitting area with a cube-shaped chest on an area rug in front it, my little desk with just enough room for my laptop, a short corner cupboard with my printer on top, bookcases, and another desk with shelves. From the couch, you can see the birdfeeder through the sliding glass doors that open to a tree-filled backyard. A second couch facing the fireplace serves as the divider between the living area of the great room (which has a TV in the corner) and the dining "room." Behind the couch is the dining area, which has a long wall on which I’ve hung my European-looking art scenes in heavy gold frames and a portrait of my grandmother over the Bombay chest. The kitchen has two entrances (no doors), one off the dining area and one off the sitting area. My room opens directly off the great room. Next to it are three stairs that go down to my children’s rooms and their bathroom, all of which are just a step away from the stairs. Each of the rooms is small. Mine has an illusion of space because of mirrors that cover the sliding closet doors. Both my children's rooms have double windows facing the trees in the front. Their furniture - in the American way - is against the wall, so there's a feeling of open space. However, my daughter's bed pokes out from one corner of the room at a 45 degree angle. Since she can get in from either side, it makes her room feel bigger to have space around it.

My entire house is only 1,400 square feet, but like the Japanese, the interior has very little fixed space. This gives the feeling of spaciousness and allows me to rearrange for a totally different feeling and look, using the same furniture and art!

It's funny, only two images in the video reminded me of myself and my children. I couldn't really picture any of us in the group shots. They didn't look like my friends or how we spent our time. The pictures looked dated, too vanilla, to me. However, a couple of them did remind me of my childood: the one of the baby looking at the camera and the one of the child on her father's shoulders.

I was the first child (and first grandchild), so I have an entire mini-album (about 10 pictures) just of me at about three months old on my parents' bed. I'm pushing myself up and grinning at the camera, looking started at someone just out of the frame, exhibiting an entire range of emotions. I don't remember that time, but the pictures tell me that at that point in my life, I was adored, and that I felt safe and that all my needs would be met.

I took a series of pictures of my son (also first born) at about the same age. Subsequent children are definitely not the center of their parents' universe, and I think it subconsciously makes a big difference in what each child expects from the world, what's expected from them and what they expect of themselves. That falls pretty well in line with Hall's theory of space, time, order, association and other culturally defining attributes. (I know, at this point I'm not supposed to have read it, but if I hadn't started it, I never will get through this week's readings AND have time to post and read the posts before the end of the week.)

The picture of the child on her father's shoulders also reminded me of me, my second sister and my father. He's tall (6'3") and would carry us on his shoulders. I was terrified. It was so high up. Not only would he carry us around, he'd waterski with us on his shoulders. Imagine how that would be greeted today! Can anyone say child endangerment? After I did it once, I wouldn't do it again (I've always been risk averse). However, my second sister, like my daughter (the second child), loves the adreneline rush of new (and slightly dangerous) experiences. My sister loved riding on my dad's shoulders as he'd cut in and out of the wake. Birth order, I think, matters in how one approaches the world (but we'll probably go into that in the discussion board).

I had to think a little about what makes me laugh. I don't seem to do much of it today, too many responsibilities, not enough time - lots of excuses, none good.

I laugh at the unexpected, a set up in a joke or in life where the outcome is unexpected or incongruous. Steve Martin makes me laugh. The old Bill Cosby albums would make me laugh. His stories were like mirrors in a funhouse that took life and stretched it a bit (although I think it was his expressions and intonations that made if funny - along with recognizing ourselves in his experiences). Don Knotts in the "Andy Griffith Show" made me laugh, but in a way, his humor was like Steve Martin's, an absurd person who took himself seriously. For the same reason, I laughed at a scene in a Burt Reynolds movie (can't remember the name) in which Candace Bergen plays his ex trying to get him back by singing to a cassette. She can't sing, it's a ludicrous situation, and as she thinks she's being seductive, Burt Reynolds turns and just looks at the camera with a "can you believe this?" look.

I laugh when other people get an uncontrolled fit of the giggles. Laughter, like hiccups, is contageous. I wish there was more of it around to catch.

Some translation required

Art, I think, is a universal human need. It's a way for us both to express ourselves and to connect with others. A way to add beauty - and sometimes meaning - to our lives.

I think art is a universal language, but sometimes, I, for one, need a translator. As they say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Just look at fashion. A designer may create an outfit that to some people or at some time in history is considered a work of art. To other people in another era, it just looks silly. Translation needed.

Art and music, too, might speak to me at one stage of my life, but not another. Some art grows on you. The more you see or hear or experience it, the more it is understandable, sort of like a language immersion program.

Once I went to a Dave Brubeck concert, which I had anticipated for weeks. I like jazz (or at least the jazz I'd heard), and I knew Dave Brubeck was considered to be very good. The concert was a huge disappointment. The entire evening was dissodent. To my ear, the music was loud and jarring. I neither liked nor appreciated it. Perhaps if I'd had technical training or a pre-concert prep, I would have appreciated what the musicians were doing. I dont' know that I would have liked it any better, but I could have appreciated the interplay. Translation needed.

The only art that never seems to need a translation, art that speaks to people regardless of culture or life experience, is art that reflects the basic human experience. In the clip in the introduction, we saw and heard sorrow and joy around the world. Birth, love, grief, elation, death are experiences that are universal. Art that in some way taps into that shared global experience speaks to everyone.

One of the most moving pieces of art I've ever seen was in Florence. It was a long time ago, and I don't remember the name of the piece. It was a statue of Mary Magdalene with her hands almost in prayer, but just a fraction of an inch apart. She had such an expression of despair on her face. It was as if for all eternity, she never could quite make things right. Her hands were sculpted, so they never would be joined, so she could never say the perfect prayer. As I stood in front of her, I felt tears filling my eyes. Her pain was palpable.

At some time in our lives, I think we all have a situation that we never can make quite right. Ever. And art that captures a basic human need, a deeply felt emotion needs no translation.