I'd like to digest something while we're on the subject of culture. Growing up not LDS in Utah, I've always been very aware of cultural differences that you might not notice if you belonged to the dominant culture (in this case religion). When I was younger I was constantly offended to feel like I was an outsider. I'm over that now. Since living in Canada and traveling through Latin America,I've learned to use that outsider position to my advantage. I'm like a cultural anthropologist.
Last week, I went to my first Mormon funeral. It was very brave of me to go. When I was a little girl I got invited to Sunday school with one of my Mormon friends (just like all heathens do). I wore pants and a vest (because it was the '80s) and I got ridiculed to no end because I wasn't wearing a dress like the other girls. So, I obviously don't understand the traditions and protocols that go along with the LDS faith.
It was the funeral of a guy I sort of dated when I first moved back to Salt Lake in April. When I first got to town, I went to see Mike Doughty (remember Soul Coughing) play at the Urban Lounge by myself. You know, after you travel to distant lands by yourself, seeing a show in a club with no one is easy. Between bands, I left the bar to get some fresh air (until January '09 you can still smoke in bars here!) This guy came running out after me and called to me as I was standing at the light waiting to cross the street. "Where are you going? I wanted to talk to you, get your number before you left."
"Ok, well, come across the street to the gas station with me to get a snack and then we'll go back." I bought him an ice cream sandwich and he asked me if I thought it was weird that he'd chased after me. I thought it was a bit forward but nothing compared to the romanticism of the Latin lovers I met in South America. It was the kind of introduction you'd find in a chick flick. And even I like to be wooed every once in a while.
So I went out with him a couple of times. I invited him to volunteer with me at the bike collective one night. Then we went for the classic midnight Beto's run; cheap, lardy, 24hr Mexican fabuloso. A potato burrito and grande horchata is probably the last thing you'd want to eat at midnight, but what else is there to do on a Utah weeknight?
He told me that he'd grown up Mormon but at 23 was realizing that his parents, his church and his bishop might not have all the answers. That he might have to do some of his own soul searching. (Maybe he was really Unitarian and didn't know it.) He'd joined the military at one point, didn't find the answers he was looking for there. He'd done lots of drugs, didn't find the answers there either.
Frankly, at this point I was thinking: ok I don't really want a project right now. I felt like he was looking for a teacher, and I didn't want to be that. I shined him on. When he asked me in a convoluted way if we could be in a romantic relationship, I told him in a convoluted way, no. I said, I'm not really interested in dating right now, I'd really like to be friends. Then we had a conversation I thought had gone well. I thought we were talking about how silly it is that some people think men and women can't be friends. But when he hugged me goodbye, he said something like, "I'm glad you understand that men and women can't just be friends."
So I thought he was kind of a jerk and I promptly took his number out of my phone.
About 6 months later, his mom called me. She said she'd found my number in his phone. He'd left it behind and disappeared. She wanted to know if I had any idea where he might have gone. I told her that I honestly only knew him for a short time many months back. That, I was so sorry to hear her son was missing but I had no idea where he could be. She said that just before his disappearance he'd overdosed on cocaine (which is a hard drug to overdose on in my opinion. I mean, I wouldn't know from personal experience, but you know, I saw a TV show about it or something.) Anyway, I said I'd see if he was my myspace friend and tell him to go home.
I had no idea he was so unstable and volatile. When we went out, he just seemed like your average 20-something, rebelling against the LDS church, trying to find himself. It's a very common archetype. You date 'em all the time. The Ex-Mormon dating guide could be a blog in itself.
He had real potential (to successfully "leave the church" as they say) . He was very analytical and clever. I could tell by his so cool boots and the jeans with manufactured rips in them he was trying hard not to show the innocent, small town part of him hiding behind his smile. He had a smile like a lion. Big and wide.
I never even checked to see if he was my myspace friend. I didn't forget about him, he came into my mind quite frequently after that night his mom called. But I never did anything about it.
Then, last week, I got another call from his mom. I didn't talk to her, I was at work, my mom took the call. They talked for 45 minutes about his addictions to cocaine and pot and how he'd left the church. But that after the overdose, when the police found his car abandoned outside of Redding, California and he'd come home to his family, he'd decided to change. He wanted to be a good Mormon boy, wanted to repent and be saved and his bishop didn't think it was too late for him.
They thought he was doing so well. Then one morning, his mom went out to the shed looking for him, (he'd been absent all morning,) and found him dead on the floor, self-suffocated with a plastic bag and some computer cleaner.
I had all those selfish reactions first. I was surprised his mom still had my phone number. I was surprised she'd thought to call me. I really regretted not looking him up. I wasn't surprised he'd killed himself. I really wanted to go to the funeral to support his mom, to see his family, to get to know him better. Sometimes you learn more about a person after they die.
The funeral was at a ward (that's what Mormons call churches) an hour south of the city. I spent 45 minutes lost so I arrived barely in time for the family prayer (which I don't think I was supposed to go to but I didn't realize that until after we'd bowed our heads.) Of course I was the only girl in pants again. The bishop said some things I thought really tactless. Like, death shouldn't be sorrowful but a time for celebration because we know the departed is in a better place. In her cook book, Amy Sedaris has a whole list of things not to say at a funeral and I think this bishop said them all.
Then we went into the chapel, I don't actually know what they call the space they worship in. His mom spoke about his happy, clever childhood. How smart and talented he was, his guitar and his tricks. We laughed. And then she started to talk about the devil taking hold of him. She wondered why she hadn't been "impressed by the holy spirit" to find her son before he was dead. She was hopeful that now that her son was at the feet of the lord Jesus, he could finish repenting and join his family in heaven. The sisters were all very grateful that their parents had been married in the Holy Temple so that the family would be sealed together in heaven for all of eternity.
I think he was wiser than the rest of his family. I think he was unable to buy into the burdensome, overly righteous morality, yet also unable to live without the love and support of his family. And even if his death was inspired by those anti-depressants that cause suicidal thoughts, I think it was because he couldn't contain himself in the faith that was chosen for him.
In his death, he truly became his mother's son. He now only exists in the story his mother tells. He is the perfect son who, even though he had his battles with Satin, was repentant in the end. I, however, have a different story for him. To me, the demons he battled were not the drugs or whatever else his family blames, but the stronghold of the church itself. "The Church's" (as they say) unwillingness to relinquish a soul that just did not fit pushed that soul to relinquish itself.
Love to you, let's thank the Holy Spirit we're Unitarian.
Jennica
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Dear Jennica,
I cannot believe you posted that final fantasy song on here. i was thinking of that song ALL DAY yesterday. i woke up thinking of the piano in it today! THAT SONG was playing in the kitchen on the farm EVERYDAY!!! I loved that song for more than a year before i even knew what it was called or where it was from! gah.
i was thinking of it yesterday because my Icelandic roomate Freddy went home for Christmas and authorized me to use his electronic keyboard while he's away. pianos make lovely noises. before he went away tho, Freddy taught me about the Icelandic viking sagas and poetry and how to write them. So i wrote a stanza of a poem, being guided by Freddy and all these impossibly complicated viking-saga rules. and it made me feel good. here it is:
Winter brings a withered kiss
windows creak with sorrow
leaves are listing, sunk with bliss
limp and crusted yellow.
and we talked and talked about Icelandic names. the language is only spoken by 300, 000 people(thats their whole country's population!) and they still use viking names and viking name rules. to english speakers, and pretty much the whole non-isolated-atlantic-islands world, their names are crazy-hard to pronounce. they have many syllables, these Rs that climb around your front teeth and pinch your cheeks AND they say them really fast.
but i like them.
reason 1) everyone gets a nickname!
2) the system of name inheritance is different than anywhere else in the world.
it goes like this:(and i am spelling all these names wrong because we were just talking, not writing them so i have no idea how they are written, nor do i know the rules of the icelandic alphabet...)
here is a family:
Father: Joan Benedikktson
son: Johannes Joanson
your last name changes depending on who your father is.
so lets pretend the son has a kid and names it after his grandfather: Benedikkt Johanneson
and then that kid has children and names them after his dad: Johannes Benedikktson
and on and on! they recycle names but each generation gets a new last name derived from their own Dad's name! names are passed down from YOUR father, not from some old person none of us ever knew. you are known as your father's child, and their child only. but lets say you are a woman.
Father: Joan Benedikktson
Daughter: Thelma Joansdottir
(Joansdaughter)
and when she gets married, she keeps that name. always. since viking times, no possession of wife by husbands name. and AND, so what happens if the kid has no dad, right? They still need a last name. so women will give their children names like Thelma Winddottir. or Soldierson. doesnt that sound lovely? Daughter of the wind. the wind got me pregnant! So even you and your siblings have individual last names, made just for you.
and if you have hippy parents, you would be: Maria ThelmaogJoansdottir
(and)
and, by law, you may only change your name once. So if you hate your poppa, or decide to become a man, you can only do it once, honey!
its so fascinating to learn about this culture so far away from the rest of the world, and see which parts are similar to Danish culture (alot) and from that you can tell which parts go back to ancient viking times and which parts have changed... i wonder if our name system in the rest of the world has some Christian rational. someone must have made the rules we use up once upon a time, maybe to keep people tied to their names-- to maintain the status quo. ie: if Hurtigs have always been poor, you are a Hurtig and you will be poor. i dont know, but its something to think about. even our names carry ideas and weight in ways we didnt know we didnt know.
so inspired by all this poetry and wonder, i decided to write a song. thats what i have been doing on that keyboard. its about being homesick and i will let you know when its done. i have the lyrics, but it needs a tune still.
we're off to Christmas in Denmark tomorrow.
Love,
Marie
ps: i have met 6 icelanders here in berlin(and lived with 2). thats one fifty-thousandth of their entire population. that i, personally, have met. in order to meet that many americans i would have to meet 6023 people. ok, so i have met that many americans in my lifetime, but they were never all at one christmas party!
i was thinking of it yesterday because my Icelandic roomate Freddy went home for Christmas and authorized me to use his electronic keyboard while he's away. pianos make lovely noises. before he went away tho, Freddy taught me about the Icelandic viking sagas and poetry and how to write them. So i wrote a stanza of a poem, being guided by Freddy and all these impossibly complicated viking-saga rules. and it made me feel good. here it is:
Winter brings a withered kiss
windows creak with sorrow
leaves are listing, sunk with bliss
limp and crusted yellow.
and we talked and talked about Icelandic names. the language is only spoken by 300, 000 people(thats their whole country's population!) and they still use viking names and viking name rules. to english speakers, and pretty much the whole non-isolated-atlantic-islands world, their names are crazy-hard to pronounce. they have many syllables, these Rs that climb around your front teeth and pinch your cheeks AND they say them really fast.
but i like them.
reason 1) everyone gets a nickname!
2) the system of name inheritance is different than anywhere else in the world.
it goes like this:(and i am spelling all these names wrong because we were just talking, not writing them so i have no idea how they are written, nor do i know the rules of the icelandic alphabet...)
here is a family:
Father: Joan Benedikktson
son: Johannes Joanson
your last name changes depending on who your father is.
so lets pretend the son has a kid and names it after his grandfather: Benedikkt Johanneson
and then that kid has children and names them after his dad: Johannes Benedikktson
and on and on! they recycle names but each generation gets a new last name derived from their own Dad's name! names are passed down from YOUR father, not from some old person none of us ever knew. you are known as your father's child, and their child only. but lets say you are a woman.
Father: Joan Benedikktson
Daughter: Thelma Joansdottir
(Joansdaughter)
and when she gets married, she keeps that name. always. since viking times, no possession of wife by husbands name. and AND, so what happens if the kid has no dad, right? They still need a last name. so women will give their children names like Thelma Winddottir. or Soldierson. doesnt that sound lovely? Daughter of the wind. the wind got me pregnant! So even you and your siblings have individual last names, made just for you.
and if you have hippy parents, you would be: Maria ThelmaogJoansdottir
(and)
and, by law, you may only change your name once. So if you hate your poppa, or decide to become a man, you can only do it once, honey!
its so fascinating to learn about this culture so far away from the rest of the world, and see which parts are similar to Danish culture (alot) and from that you can tell which parts go back to ancient viking times and which parts have changed... i wonder if our name system in the rest of the world has some Christian rational. someone must have made the rules we use up once upon a time, maybe to keep people tied to their names-- to maintain the status quo. ie: if Hurtigs have always been poor, you are a Hurtig and you will be poor. i dont know, but its something to think about. even our names carry ideas and weight in ways we didnt know we didnt know.
so inspired by all this poetry and wonder, i decided to write a song. thats what i have been doing on that keyboard. its about being homesick and i will let you know when its done. i have the lyrics, but it needs a tune still.
we're off to Christmas in Denmark tomorrow.
Love,
Marie
ps: i have met 6 icelanders here in berlin(and lived with 2). thats one fifty-thousandth of their entire population. that i, personally, have met. in order to meet that many americans i would have to meet 6023 people. ok, so i have met that many americans in my lifetime, but they were never all at one christmas party!
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Dear Marie,
I started my very 1st office job 3 weeks ago. So, yea, I think I am ahead at the maturity game. But truthfully, I really don't think it's about being ahead, or winning at the maturity game. The only losers in maturity game are the winners.
The 1st two weeks of cubicle life were hell. I could barely see by the end of the days after staring at a computer screen all day, and the florescent lights gave me such a headache I thought I would faint. After sitting in an office chair for 8 hours, I came home complaining about my back, neck and shoulders saying, "now I know what all those painkiller ads on TV are for!"
By the end of the second week, I had confiscated a pair of speakers from an empty cubicle so I could listen to KRCL.org, the community radio station here in Utah, or Pandora.com on the internet. I stood on my desk and unscrewed the florescents, brought desk lamps and tea and chocolate and a comfy blanket. So now I work in a cozy den instead of a cubicle. But the thing that really gets me through, besides staying well hydrated as an excuse to stretch my legs and make frequent trips to the lady's room, is a picture of you I've pinned to the wall behind my monitor.
It's you so awed and thrilled at the Oregon coast during that road trip we took in '04 or '05. We'd pretty much just met and thought a road trip from Vancouver to Portland and beyond would be a good way to consummate the friendship. You're wearing that funny '20s hat of mine, and a blue skirt hiked up past your knees. We're barefoot in the freezing water. You're wearing that big wool sweater.
Whenever I start thinking that this cubicle is reality, I look up and see this snapshot of an adventure that shaped my resistance to what I had labeled "normal everyday life." Since that trip, my normal everyday life lead me from Vancouver to Ghana to Oregon to Northern California to Reno to all over Latin America and back to my home in Salt Lake City.
Now, however, I am redefining the adventure of everyday life as a search for stability. A steady job excites me. An apartment of my own is worth the work hours it takes to pay for it. But I'm still overwhelmingly frustrated because I daydream about arranging my work schedule instead of some next great art project. I keep making road trip plans (two times already this week) completely forgetting I can't just take off tomorrow and come home whenever the wind blows this direction.
You talk about resentment towards others that have what you want. My resentment/bitterness/jealousy comes from thinking people around me have an easy time maintaining the lifestyle I think I want. But, like you said about learning farm life was not the majestic one-ness with nature and romantic self-sufficiency you'd hoped, but discouragingly hard work. And really, it was the knowledge gained from the experience that has been the gift, not the lifestyle itself.
You're so right about accepting the path you've been down and being grateful you've had the experiences you've had. I was worrying to a friend the other day, "what if I'm not on the right path? What if I'm making the wrong choices?" And he said, "You're on the path you've chosen, what other path is there?"
Love, Jennica
P.S These are my daydreams:
The 1st two weeks of cubicle life were hell. I could barely see by the end of the days after staring at a computer screen all day, and the florescent lights gave me such a headache I thought I would faint. After sitting in an office chair for 8 hours, I came home complaining about my back, neck and shoulders saying, "now I know what all those painkiller ads on TV are for!"
By the end of the second week, I had confiscated a pair of speakers from an empty cubicle so I could listen to KRCL.org, the community radio station here in Utah, or Pandora.com on the internet. I stood on my desk and unscrewed the florescents, brought desk lamps and tea and chocolate and a comfy blanket. So now I work in a cozy den instead of a cubicle. But the thing that really gets me through, besides staying well hydrated as an excuse to stretch my legs and make frequent trips to the lady's room, is a picture of you I've pinned to the wall behind my monitor.
It's you so awed and thrilled at the Oregon coast during that road trip we took in '04 or '05. We'd pretty much just met and thought a road trip from Vancouver to Portland and beyond would be a good way to consummate the friendship. You're wearing that funny '20s hat of mine, and a blue skirt hiked up past your knees. We're barefoot in the freezing water. You're wearing that big wool sweater.
Whenever I start thinking that this cubicle is reality, I look up and see this snapshot of an adventure that shaped my resistance to what I had labeled "normal everyday life." Since that trip, my normal everyday life lead me from Vancouver to Ghana to Oregon to Northern California to Reno to all over Latin America and back to my home in Salt Lake City.
Now, however, I am redefining the adventure of everyday life as a search for stability. A steady job excites me. An apartment of my own is worth the work hours it takes to pay for it. But I'm still overwhelmingly frustrated because I daydream about arranging my work schedule instead of some next great art project. I keep making road trip plans (two times already this week) completely forgetting I can't just take off tomorrow and come home whenever the wind blows this direction.
You talk about resentment towards others that have what you want. My resentment/bitterness/jealousy comes from thinking people around me have an easy time maintaining the lifestyle I think I want. But, like you said about learning farm life was not the majestic one-ness with nature and romantic self-sufficiency you'd hoped, but discouragingly hard work. And really, it was the knowledge gained from the experience that has been the gift, not the lifestyle itself.
You're so right about accepting the path you've been down and being grateful you've had the experiences you've had. I was worrying to a friend the other day, "what if I'm not on the right path? What if I'm making the wrong choices?" And he said, "You're on the path you've chosen, what other path is there?"
Love, Jennica
P.S These are my daydreams:
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Dear Jennica,
I looked out over my East Berlin 'hof' (thats what they call the courtyards here) pouring a glass of orange juice for Hans this morning, and i was thinking about our conversation last night. Going along with all the zillions of people in Berlin (and the world) who have tried to live and love in Denmark and walked away with pockets full of bitterness is so much easier than trying to grow and belong there. I have come to this conclusion many many times. But how can i possibly re-shape myself to include a positive view of Denmark when i have based so much of myself existing there on the fact that i dont like it? I might even be hating it more each year. I used to laugh at the men in their business suits on their black bikes-- so competitive in the bike lanes. I at least had a sense of wonder about it all, but now i just think hes an asshole cutting me off. i have found i am growing more bitter about things, the older i get.
Well, i dont know if bitter is the right word. The right word might also be self-righteous jealousy. Except that that isnt a word.
When a person who i know gets something great, i am taken over by this cruel bitterness that they have that and i dont. i think you know what i mean because you kind of hated that girl who made that fabulous homemade lavender ice cream, right?
That i have been unable to stabilize my life and live in one place for longer than 6 months somehow becomes a reason for me to hate other people who have maintained that kind of a solid home-base. After i recognize that i am being insanely jealous, i feel guilty for thinking rude things and wishing they would have the same (mis)fortunes as me. Its not unlike Hans, who was up each hour last night puking. Retching into the toilet all night in our unheated bathroom sounds awful, but only violently throwing up gives you that great cleaned-out feeling you get right afterwards!! I sound like a closet bulimic, but i think you know what i mean. Anyways, i wish i could launch this bitter seed out of my body, and into the proverbial toilet so that i could be happy for other people and maybe even learn from them how i might bring some of this great stuff into my life.
But do other people only have great things because they sacrificed something along the way? How does this all fit into the whole pain= gain thing you were talking about?
Am i really ahead of those ppl with great homes and friends because i have done other things? Because i know the difference between chinese and japanese and i know how to milk a cow and carry chickens in the dark? And would i make these choices all over again, if i could go back and do it all again?
Yeah. Jen, i think i would.
I needed to try Montréal, i needed to find out that doing farm work made me lose 10lbs and my hair. I needed to run that bike co-op to see how all these things don't really work that hot.(even tho the mechanics might be mega-hot) So maybe the way to puke out my bitter pit is to really FEEL the goodness of my choices. Maybe i need to make an art project about all the greatness of my choices! To even-out my conscience's scolding for not having what other people have. Its like Henning in Vienna told me: If the goodbyes are too many and so painful, dripping with tears, you better make sure all the Hellos and meetings are equally proportions of happy!
In order to accept other people's lives gracefully, i need to accept mine first. Aha.
oh maturity, you are so coy, hiding from me and letting me behave so badly.
but i know you, jennica, are hauling all these garbage bags full of la-la ideas of the real world around too. and arent you supposed to be ahead in this maturity game? since when did i catch up? quick, share your wisdom and prove you got the goods!
Love,
Marie
ps: this is my new favourite song. its german band called Polar Kreis 18 and called Allein, Allein (which means Alone, Alone. and the video was filmed in Iceland. more on that little island later...)
Well, i dont know if bitter is the right word. The right word might also be self-righteous jealousy. Except that that isnt a word.
When a person who i know gets something great, i am taken over by this cruel bitterness that they have that and i dont. i think you know what i mean because you kind of hated that girl who made that fabulous homemade lavender ice cream, right?
That i have been unable to stabilize my life and live in one place for longer than 6 months somehow becomes a reason for me to hate other people who have maintained that kind of a solid home-base. After i recognize that i am being insanely jealous, i feel guilty for thinking rude things and wishing they would have the same (mis)fortunes as me. Its not unlike Hans, who was up each hour last night puking. Retching into the toilet all night in our unheated bathroom sounds awful, but only violently throwing up gives you that great cleaned-out feeling you get right afterwards!! I sound like a closet bulimic, but i think you know what i mean. Anyways, i wish i could launch this bitter seed out of my body, and into the proverbial toilet so that i could be happy for other people and maybe even learn from them how i might bring some of this great stuff into my life.
But do other people only have great things because they sacrificed something along the way? How does this all fit into the whole pain= gain thing you were talking about?
Am i really ahead of those ppl with great homes and friends because i have done other things? Because i know the difference between chinese and japanese and i know how to milk a cow and carry chickens in the dark? And would i make these choices all over again, if i could go back and do it all again?
Yeah. Jen, i think i would.
I needed to try Montréal, i needed to find out that doing farm work made me lose 10lbs and my hair. I needed to run that bike co-op to see how all these things don't really work that hot.(even tho the mechanics might be mega-hot) So maybe the way to puke out my bitter pit is to really FEEL the goodness of my choices. Maybe i need to make an art project about all the greatness of my choices! To even-out my conscience's scolding for not having what other people have. Its like Henning in Vienna told me: If the goodbyes are too many and so painful, dripping with tears, you better make sure all the Hellos and meetings are equally proportions of happy!
In order to accept other people's lives gracefully, i need to accept mine first. Aha.
oh maturity, you are so coy, hiding from me and letting me behave so badly.
but i know you, jennica, are hauling all these garbage bags full of la-la ideas of the real world around too. and arent you supposed to be ahead in this maturity game? since when did i catch up? quick, share your wisdom and prove you got the goods!
Love,
Marie
ps: this is my new favourite song. its german band called Polar Kreis 18 and called Allein, Allein (which means Alone, Alone. and the video was filmed in Iceland. more on that little island later...)
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Roadmap of us.
This is a rambling, biased, tropical, mixed-up, message in a bottle account of our letters to each other. As we wander, we record. As we flouder, we record. There will be parts we love, parts you love and parts we dont even understand ourselves, but we're just living it and want to share the map our trajectories trace across the planet and each other. This is our lives.
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