Sidetracked

haiti ramble

2011-07-06T02:26:00.003-04:00

For sixteen years I thought life was what I lived every day. It was so effortlessly simple to accept it all, to drink greedily from the cup that had been held to my lips since I was a little child; I was so confident in my luxuries, so arrogantly comfortable complaining about old laptops and soft bananas and the wrong color shirt. At the ripe age of sixteen, I considered myself a veteran of this life. I had experienced what this life could offer. I could look around me and simply say, “Yes, I know that.”

But I was aimless. I tasted art and music and sport and liked it all, and liked none of it. My passions were wild, darting in different directions. I watched my friends start to specialize, start to hone in on their DNA and follow what they had always known would be their path, while I lay awake at night wondering how I could make my mark in a world that didn’t allow one to fully know Tchaikovsky and Monet in one life, didn’t allow one to save lives in a hospital and prosecute criminals in the same week. People praised my expressive watercolor, or my beautiful Chopin, or my stellar intellect; but it all rang hollow, like applause heard through the ears of someone slowly falling asleep. Nothing resonated in my flesh. Nothing sounded throughout my bones, vibrated against my throat to elicit that cry of hope and purpose. I was the fully equipped battleship lost in the Pacific Ocean.
Haiti, as it turns out, saved me.

Now would be a good time to apply all your judgment and clichés. It’s what I did every time I read a story about a high school student in Africa or Bolivia or Indonesia: “Good for you, building homes and all that. Make sure you record your service hours for university applications.” And it was so homely, helping poor people; all the nice, ambitionless kids volunteered regularly at the soup kitchen. My path in life, whatever it would be, was going to be one of searing progress, education, prestige. I was to be the powerhouse, leading the Western world. Helping dusty villagers would be a nice finishing touch to my résumé.

I have written a 10,000-word journal, a poetry collection, and a speech that I delivered to my school on the subject of Haiti. Elaborating further on the poverty, the destitution, and the heartbreak there would be simply retreading the well-worn paths I have already made. Haiti is physically decrepit, astoundingly so, but it is by no means unique in the world for its brokenness. Of course, one cannot appreciate the magnitude and awful wonder of such total lack until one sees it, but that phrase has been churned out so many times that I cringe to use it. For now, I am satisfied to say that nothing has ever impacted me so much as the poverty—in all its gloriously terrible manifestations, big and small—that confronted me in Haiti. Witnessing that poverty, whether in Haiti or elsewhere, is something everyone in the Western world should experience.

This essay is not about the poverty, though. I could write books on that. No, I write this time to explore something altogether different and, dare I say, altogether more selfish—thus the reason why I commenced by discussing myself. What has captivated me most about Haiti was how good it was for me, as an individual caught up in the Western way of viewing things. I have pages and pages to write on the need of Haiti, the urgent requirement for people to help, contribute, and sacrifice, but this essay, this musing, is on something altogether more personal, and altogether closer to my heart. As you have no doubt discerned by now, I was well prepared to dismiss Haiti. I expected to go down to Haiti, feel content for helping poor people, and return satisfied that I had completed my community service requirement in one fell swoop. I was ready for a neat package of feel-good college bonus points. That marvelous, all-too-red cherry to top my succulent sundae.

But Haiti defied my expectations. My first week there, as I dug myself in among the people—my God, the beautiful, beautiful people of that land—I felt every part of me break apart, splinter into little black pieces, like hardened lava shattering from the heat underneath. I almost felt like I was drowning. All my smugness, my presumptions, and my haughtiness were so insanely unattractive to me as I knelt in the grass with the poorest children in the world and beheld their magnificent glow. Each day I felt battered, repeatedly struck by the world’s largest invisible hammer, as chunks of my prideful, misguided former self fell into the sun-cracked dirt. How could I—how could I—lay awake at night worrying about college and clothes and dances and thingsthingsthings when life was as simple as finding food and enjoying breathing? As simple as holding the grimy hands of a fallen land’s native children? What had I lost? What had we lost?

Amidst the battering, though, was this throbbing new thing, this just-birthed dimension of myself. I had fallen in love with Haiti. I loved the children with more tenderness than I could ever muster for my family (though I do truly love my kin). I loved the land more than all the lush forests and white beaches I had seen in Europe and Florida, with an almost primal conviction. Most of all, though, I loved serving Haiti. I was reminded irresistibly (and somewhat to my chagrin, given my contempt for clichés) of Ghandi, who once said that the best way to find oneself is to lose oneself in the service of others. A large part of me wishes he weren’t right, because that would make my life easier, but Haiti taught me, if nothing else, that truer words have never been spoken.

Even more importantly, I realized that Ghandi’s words were very carefully chosen. Service. Serving. Such an act requires more than mere helping, which implies positions of inferiority and superiority. It’s not even healing, which implies that something needs to be fixed. Serving means giving all of yourself to someone: your love, your energy, your aspirations, and your body. It means humbling yourself enough to kneel in the dirt before someone and kiss their feet, even though you know that you have experienced more education in a single day at school than they do in a lifetime. Serving means giving up everything about yourself, including thoughts of yourself, to focus on someone else, to love someone else like yourself. Once again, another quote came to me in Haiti, this time from Mary Oliver: "To live in this world you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go." That, to me, was service.

What I found disconcerting at first, but have now found an odd measure of peace in, was that I was treating service very selfishly, however paradoxical that may seem. I enjoyed serving the Haitian people. Despite the frustrations and the heat and the struggle, I realized that I felt entirely fulfilled by it, entirely at peace. And though I didn’t want to admit it, I probably wouldn’t keep going back to Haiti if it weren’t for that feeling. Obviously, part of me serves the broken people in Haiti because it feels right, because I know that I will do little else in the world that compares in value or significance to what I can do in Haiti. But an even bigger part of me feels transformed by it, renewed as though my entire soul were slathered in lotion, and that feeling is what draws me constantly back to the dusty shores of that island nation. I thank God every day for placing service within the scope of our selfish human desires, for making it such a blessing.

Because of Haiti, I have grown disillusioned with the Western world. We are all, poor and rich alike, born with a raw pulsating core of humanity, something that makes us cling to those around us with absolute abandon and recognizes that the only real things in the world are the relationships between people and their God. Slowly, the more we acquire things—the wealthier we get—we add dust to that core. We scuff it up with BMWs and Xbox’s and excessive amounts of food. We put little dents in it with our silly quarrels and our obsession with image. The core becomes a little blacker, a little more distant. We sense it less, forget that we have it. We replace it with a core that runs on ambition and pleasantries and thingsthingsthings. We let our brothers and sisters wallow away in the mud in Africa and Haiti because somehow their destitution is their fault, and we have no responsibility to them. The link between our cores withers and dies.

Haiti, for me, revealed that core. It scratched and clawed its way through my sixteen years of Western cynicism and materialism and brought it out in fantastic radiance, to stretch its legs and yaw unsteadily in the blistering sun. My vague, aimless void, that passionless existence, was suddenly filled with this transcendent understanding of God and humanity and the way things ought to be. I often compare what I went through in Haiti to an out-of-body experience: I could look from above at my Western self, swirling away in a pool of self-centered ambitions and moral frailty and thingsthingsthings, and recognize that I had everything I needed when I was simply loving the people of Haiti. How ridiculously simple life was.

Coming back to the U.S. has always been a jarring experience. There is that lag, for a few days, sometimes a few weeks, where you feel like a stranger in your country. You look around you at the commercials for different toothbrushes (“One of the most important decisions you will make during your day”) and car insurance companies, hear people talk about their kids’ struggles with nut allergies, and you wonder how people can live such fruitless existences. Do they not know the potency of life that fragrances the air in Haiti? Do they not know the destitution that saps the bone marrow from half the world’s children? I feel lost in a sickly-sweet dream, trying to remember the reality that was so pungent in Haiti. I look at pictures, close my eyes to smell those odors in my nostrils, try to feel the weight of those children on my back. Inevitably, though, the memories turn from high-definition color to sepia, and I begin to dutifully dust up my little throbbing core, blackening its newly-awakened brilliance. Only returning to Haiti can scratch through its resilient shell and make me fully human again.

Such is the saga of my romance with Haiti. It was—is—a place that has destroyed and renewed me more than any other, and for that I feel eternally grateful. I will never be able to stay away for long. The faces of its children, the beauty of its landscape, and the need of its people will always tug at the tethers of my soul, if only as distant echoes that long to be rediscovered. My passion for service has been aroused; my tender desires have been excited. My body yearns to rub itself against the sensual mistress of mission work. I may never fully leave the Western world, for its material comforts can be a blessing in hard times. But I will always remember to take a step back, way back, across continents and oceans, and look out from my teenage eyes at the mountains and valleys of Haiti, forever burning into the gooey folds of my cerebellum and the malleable fabric of my humanity the beauty and the brokenness that is Haiti.

Poem - apple wings

2011-06-27T21:36:00.000-04:00

she moved in flashes-of-sun-brilliance,
a daisy
of the air, carried by her own dreams
and
the currents of the orchard.
her quivering black body nestled against
tulip bulbs,
yellow wings uncertain,
long tongue gulping nectar,
and when she had first emerged
she had loved the earth that molded her.
but her slender wings were too broad,
and her pastel colors too light,
so to them she was ugly.

she was slender in crimson glory,
her wings the color of
ripe apples in mid-autumn.
she danced at night with aphids,
flew through the doting air with the bees,
dined in the evening
with the moths.
when she pranced between the trees of the orchard,
she was a dark river,
gorged on the approbation of others—
for to them she was beautiful.

in vain did the daisy-winged butterfly
flitter amongst the leaves of the orchard,
tentative, probing the eyes of the others
for a glance of admiration or understanding.
they did not love her
because she did not have
the wings of a ripe apple in mid-autumn.
they did not see her behind the wings of the
apple-red butterfly.

“your wings are too bright,”
they said as she landed
on the branch of the tallest orchard tree.
“your patterns are too simple.”

so the daisy-winged butterfly
at night
dipped her wings in mud to sully their color,
to dim their brightness,
and she rose in the morning
and landed quietly on the branch
of the tallest orchard tree.

but the apple-winged butterfly was already there,
and her blood-wings seemed to
throb
in the minds of the others,
so that they did not even see the
daisy-winged butterfly
with her muddy wingtips.
“your color is so vibrant!”
they said to the apple-red butterfly.
“your spots are so dark!”

the daisy-winged butterfly saw that she was not beautiful,
so at night she rubbed her wings against the bark of
her tree until they bled dark splotches.
and though the skin of the tree
bit
into
her
body,
she did not cry out:
the orchard would only mock her cries.

the next morning she landed timidly on the branches
of the tallest tree in the orchard, her wings
muddied and bloodied.
the apple-winged butterfly saw her standing
on the tip of the branch, and she called out to her:
“why do you rub dirt into your wings?
and why do you bleed out across your wingtips?
don’t you know how ugly you are?”
the others laughed at the daisy-winged butterfly,
who did not answer because
she did not disagree.

the world did not love the daisy-winged butterfly.
she could not make herself
beautiful
in its eyes,
and she could not make herself
beautiful
in her own.
the apple-red butterfly had inspired
the mind-lust of the orchard;
they could not see
beauty
beyond her dark wings.
so the daisy-yellow butterfly did not fly
amongst the trees of the orchard,
but crawled
along the trampled grass below,
her wings folded up so the world did not
scorn their brightness.

but, one day the daisy-winged butterfly heard from
the others in the orchard that
there was a flower in the deepest
part of the woods whose nectar matched the deep red
of the apple-winged butterfly.
the nectar
dripped
like
water
from the flower at midnight and
stained all it touched the color of
ripe apples in mid-autumn.
but it was a violent nectar,
and to butterflies its touch was poison.

the daisy-winged butterfly left that morning,
and she did not care that her wings flashed-in-the-sun-as-she-flew,
because she knew she was flying towards
beauty—
she knew
that she would have
the crimson wings of the apple-red butterfly.
she knew that the world would love her.

at night she found the flower
in the midst of the forest,
a single bulb
in a clearing of dark trees,
petal-lips gently curling outwards.
with a rejoicing heart the daisy-yellow butterfly
positioned her wings underneath the petals of the flower,
waiting for the nectar that would make her beautiful.
and at midnight, as the others had said, the nectar
drip,
drip,
dripped
from the lips
of the flower,
washing over the wings of the daisy-yellow butterfly,
turning the yellow to deep red.

but the nectar began to burn, like ice and fire at once,
and the daisy-butterfly let out a cry in the midst of the
dark trees, her wings
melting,
dissolving,
shriveling away,
landing in tatters on the hungry earth
and disappearing into the soil
like fragments of leaves strewn about
after an
autumn tempest.
the daisy-winged butterfly
fell into the dirt and quivered
as the nectar reached
the roots of her wings,
and the buds dropped off.

so the daisy-winged butterfly lost her wings,
and she could fly no more, but rather
crawled
through the mud and roots
with the
worms and caterpillars.
in the orchard, the apple-red butterfly flew above her and
drank the nectar of the apple blossoms first,
and the others praised her
dark wings and elegant patterns.
but when they saw the wingless once-daisy-winged-butterfly,
they turned the other way,
for to them she was still ugly.

China Journal

2011-03-19T09:23:00.002-04:00

8 March 2011—18 March 2011

Tuesday, 3/8 to Wednesday, 3/9
Today was absolutely exhausting. We left Choate at 10:30 in the morning for JFK, arrived at 12:45 in the China Eastern Air terminal. Check-in and security were a breeze; we had ample time at our gate to eat, relax, and reflect on the monstrosity of a 15-hr. flight upon which we were about to embark. Eventually they boarded us at 3:00 and we took off from JFK at about quarter to four.
The flight was everything you’d expect from a 15-hr. flight. China Eastern Airlines is a relatively low-cost airline; as such, we did not have individual TVs, the shared monitors were low quality, and overall the airline exuded the feel of a company that cuts corners in order to maximize profits. It wasn’t terrible, but it certainly wasn’t luxury. I wrote some, read some, listened to music, and slept for about an hour. Other than that, I really didn’t do much. The time passed extremely slowly. It’s incredible disheartening to realize after 6 hours on a plane that you still have another 8 hours to go before you land. It was also eerie to look out the window at the artic tundra at 2:00 AM New York time and see bright sunlight glinting off of glaciers. We were all in a semi-haze from the lack of sleep and cramped quarters. They served us food, but it was standard airline fare; somewhat filling but nonetheless low-quality.
Eventually, after what seemed to be an eternity (with a baby screaming in the back of the plane for at least 4 hours of the trip), we landed in Shanghai. We haven’t gotten to see much of the city, since it was dark when we landed. We went from late afternoon Tuesday to late-evening Wednesday during the trip—incredibly disconcerting. We’re staying in guest rooms at the high school right now. Tomorrow night we will stay with our host families. It’s kind of barren and unfriendly in the rooms, and the bathrooms stink (no towels to boot, so I had to put on my pajamas while my body was still wet). However, I’m completely exhausted after being up for a full 24 hours, so I’m going to try to sleep, even though it’s 9:00 AM in the U.S. right now.

Thursday, 3/10
My first night I slept reasonably well. I made it about 6 hours straight before waking up at 3:00 AM Beijing Time, and from then on it was rather fitful until 7:00, when I finally arose. The bed was very firm, and so was conducive to sleep but not to sleeping in. My roommate and I dressed and went out in the morning to explore the neighborhood. We saw a crowd of students—I couldn’t really tell how old—doing morning exercises in a large athletic area to the tune of very nationalistic-sounding music. I’ve come to the conclusion that the Chinese like their group exercises. It was all very big-state-esque; the well-behaved little children doing their exercises in their uniforms as the encouraging voices of their leaders urged them on.
After watching the children for a bit, we went to explore the neighborhood. Across from the dorms is the actual high school where the students attend class. It’s very nice, with tiled pathways and a large sculpture greeting us, surrounded by gently bubbling fountains and heralding a tall administrative building that resembles an astrology tower. Once again I was struck by the pervasive power of the state, even if the state had nothing to do with the private school; the giant monument, surrounded by fountains, seemed to be a reminder to everyone that there were “higher-ups” in charge. The students walked dutifully to class, and—ever present at this school—marching music floated somewhat eerily through the air. It was a very different feel than Choate, but not altogether unpleasant.
My roommate and I also walked down the street a bit, checking out the street vendors and shops. It was a bit smelly at times, and we couldn’t figure out why, but we’re chalking it up to China’s sub-American sanitary conditions. The food of the street vendors smelled incredible, but we were scheduled to have breakfast as a group at 9:30 so we resisted. We did buy some cucumber-flavored Lays potato chips, which were surprisingly tasty.
After a very long wait, we all met our guide again (whose name is Jerry) and he introduced us to a student who had been to Choate on a exchange trip last year. His name is “Rock” (apparently because he likes rock n’ roll); he’s very nice and his English is excellent. After meeting with them, we all went to breakfast in the school’s cafeteria. Apparently they tried to prepare American food for our first breakfast. It was tasty, but not American whatsoever. We had a hard-boiled egg; warm milk (which was very good and surprisingly sweet, so I am under the impression that they may have added something to it); a sweet, hard pastry; and a sandwich with mayonnaise, lettuce, and some type of meat. It was an interesting breakfast—very Chinese-looking, or at least not American—but it was tasty and therefore sufficed.
I’ve noticed that the Chinese do not like to heat a lot of their buildings—or if they do, it’s very minimal. The cafeteria was completely open to the air, and the temperature, while not a frigid like in New England right now, was no more than 50 degree Fahrenheit. So we ate whilst shivering a little.
After breakfast we toured around the school a bit with Rock. It’s certainly a nice school, and he told us it’s one of the best schools in Shanghai, but Choate is, in my opinion, much nicer. I think the majority of this discrepancy is due to Choate’s suburban settings, whereas the High School Affiliated to Fudan University (official name, and the university is also one of the best in China) is very urban. It seems kind of like California schools: there are palm trees in some places, bamboo shoots, and everything is tiled. All said, it’s a very nice school but I prefer Choate.
After the brief tour, we went up to the administrative building and had a reception with the Principal of the school, Jerry, and Rock. They welcomed us and gave us pamphlets about the school and a small gift (pins). We talked about the high school and the differences in education between the U.S. and China. This high school focuses heavily on science and math and preparing its students for admission to top universities. Many of the students spend their time preparing for math and science competitions or studying for the entrance exams to universities (the only criteria for admission for most universities in China). However, the students seem to actually have less homework than Choate students do. The principal said most students finish by 9:00 in the evening; Rock says he normally goes to bed by midnight. They don’t have to write papers for history or Chinese, though, so that probably contributes to it. Most of their homework is exercises in math and science. Most extraordinarily, they are not taught calculus. The school didn’t want them to learn calculus so that they could have more time to “play.” Most students learn calculus outside of school, but I found it surprising that this heavily mathematics-oriented school did not teach calculus. Apparently they just do very intensive pre-calculus. They also do not teach Physics C, just Physics B (since Physics C is calculus-based). All in all, I think Choate prepares its students much better than this school, in all subjects, while still allowing us to think independently, think creatively, and experience a wide variety of subjects. However, this is only my first day, and I haven’t gone to a proper class with my “buddy” yet, so my perceptions may change.
After our reception, we had lunch in the cafeteria. The lunch was not bad. We had some interesting pizza, some very interesting spaghetti and meatballs, fried pork, broccoli, and a nice fruity beverage that apparently “captivates with relish.” We found that funny. After lunch we went to the bank and I got 200 yuan for spending money, and then we came back to the high school and went around the neighborhood some more. I bought warm bubble-tea off of an authentic-looking shop. It was milky and delicious, but I couldn’t finish it.
Finally, we had Chinese class from 1:30 – 3:30! My first chance to learn Chinese! Our teacher was a young woman who was very cute, very eager to teach us. I learned a few phrases, such as “My name is…” and “I don’t speak Chinese.” But we also learned the twelve different years in China (such as rabbit, tiger, and monkey) and some key verbs, such as “to hit” and “to crouch.” We also got some exposure to Chinese character writing and learned to recognize pinyin, the English way of representing Chinese characters. Pinyin is key for learning how to pronounce the characters. My name in pinyin is luó si, which is apparently what they call Ross from the T.V. show “Friends.” It sounds like LUE-OH-SUH. We played some games and, despite being the least Chinese fluent person in the room, I managed to win both times, so I got a prize. That made me happy, especially considering how I thought I was going to be the first one out since three of the exchange students take Chinese at Choate and one of the others, a Korean, is somehow very good at Chinese without having learned it at all.
The last part of this action-packed day is meeting our host families. My host student is one year older than me, but he is very nice. His English is pretty good; he occasionally trips up or doesn’t know how to say something, but on the whole he communicates well. The house is very nice. I am under the impression that it is an abnormally nice and large house for people in Shanghai. It is a townhouse in an urban complex (gated) with many other houses and apartments around it. It’s actually very quiet for an urban setting. The decoration around the house is superb (I took many pictures), and my room is clean, well decorated, and well-stocked with appliances and amenities. I even have my own bathroom! I can tell I will be very comfortable in my room. It’s actually a huge relief—after the very basic and somewhat unsanitary conditions of the school’s guest rooms, I was afraid the Chinese home would be something similar. Luckily, their home seems as clean and cheery as an American home (albeit with Chinese decorations and other cultural markings).
The family is very, very nice. My host student, C.P., is very earnest and always tries to make sure that I am comfortable. The dinner they served was delicious and they seemed very amused by my attempts to use chopsticks; in the end, I often just resorted using a knife and fork. It was actually a rather awkward dinner because the extremely kind and accommodating mother ended up just watching me eat. This resulted in a few awkward moments when I made a fool of myself (e.g. shooting meat off my plate or spilling juice down my front) and she hurried to fix it, smiling and laughing. She was always putting food on my plate as well, as the Chinese manner of eating dinner consists of a buffet of dishes from which everyone just grabs his own food. C.P. says that he has never left the country, and—even more surprisingly—I am the first foreigner he has ever met. I have a feeling that the same holds true for his mother and grandfather (a wise-looking old fellow), neither of whom speaks any English whatsoever. They are very, very eager and earnest with me, always striving to make me comfortable, which suits me well because I enjoy being served (who doesn’t?). I also feel that they are trying to make a favorable impression upon me. C.P. told me as we took a walk after dinner that he thought Americans thought China “was not very good.” I think they have been told—presumably by the government?—that Americans dislike the Chinese. I intend to disrobe them of this notion. Americans may dislike the Chinese government, but we have nothing against the people. As my host family has illustrated, the Chinese people can be very friendly and hospitable. In the end, I am sure that my family and this house will be excellent for my sojourn in China.
China is great, really. It’s quite different from the U.S., but it (obviously) has its own cultural roots and traditions. It’s just a different way of living. However, I must admit I am already homesick for the comforts of the U.S. I will heartily enjoy my time here, but I know that I will relish my return to the U.S., where everyone speaks my language and I can feel totally comfortable walking about and speaking freely without fear of some police officer overhearing my remarks and coming down on my head. Both the U.S. and China are great countries, but nothing quite compares to good ole Amurica.
Tomorrow we will go to classes with our students. Should be fun!

Friday, 3/11
I think the iPad 2 came out today in America. That was kind of all I could think about all day.
Anyway, today was awesome. I had a rather fitful night’s sleep last night: slept soundly from 8:30-1:30, but after that it was very fitful until 6:00, when I finally got out of bed. I’m still adjusting to the time difference—my body doesn’t take kindly to being forced to sleep during what it perceives to be the middle of the day. However, I am sure I will adjust. And if I don’t, the worst that will happen is I don’t get very restful sleep whilst in China. That would be a bummer, but I would rather be sleepless in China for 10 days than sleep the day away in the U.S. during break.
Breakfast with my host family was delicious. They served me fried eggs (broken yolks, so it was really just a mass of tasty fried eggy goodness); bread; giant dumpling roll things filled with pork; soft, sweet, spongy bread that I really liked; and, of course, pan-warmed milk. I asked about this, and apparently well-off Chinese households serve warm milk for breakfast while peasant families serve orange juice. I got a kick out of this. I guess the Bogues are hard-core peasants.
After breakfast, we went to class. I attended C.P.’s math class. He is a year younger than me but they’re already learning trigonometry. I had done most of it already—it was just a matter of remembering it was fall term at Choate. However, they did do some things that looked less familiar to me. I think that because their school (and I think the rest of Shanghai as well) does not teach its students calculus they end up going into great depth for trigonometry and pre-calculus. I am still confused by this, though; if the sophomores are learning trigonometry, how will they make it another two years without learning calculus? I plan to ask more questions about this to get more satisfactory answers.
After math class, we left our host students and the group of 6 Choaties went to the Shanghai aquarium. We had a blast. Most of it was familiar—I mean, we have aquariums in the U.S. as well. But there seemed to be some fish, probably native to China, that I had never seen before, so that was cool. Also, the aquarium made heavy use of underwater tunnels, so it was especially neat to walk through a tunnel surrounded by fish and sharks and other creatures. One sign said it was the world’s largest underwater tunnel. I plan to look that up because I’m not so sure, but it was certainly fantastic. We saw some huge manta rays and sharks and giant turtles, and we were just inches from them! We also fist-bumped with the divers who were cleaning the tank. Highlight of my day? Perhaps.
After the aquarium we went out to lunch at a very nice restaurant. I basically ate everything that Jerry ordered for us. The dishes were put a huge glass Lazy Susan and we just whirled it around to get to the food we wanted to eat. The only thing I really didn’t care for was the fish soup. It was just a little too, well, fishy for my taste. Yumi, one of the Choate students, had a fish tale in hers. That kind of put me off mine as well.
After lunch we had another Chinese lesson. I got another prize! The teacher thinks I’m awfully clever and the other Choate students tease me because I somehow manage to win all the games, yet I know the least Chinese out of all of us. The language is incredibly difficult to master, though, and these few hour-long lessons are not nearly enough to give me a good beginner’s grasp on the language. It has, however, piqued my interest enormously. I’m not going to take Chinese at Choate (that would take valuable class space away from other courses I want to take), but I may want to take it in college. I had always planned on learning French and German, but I may add Chinese to that list. If only I had the time to learn all of them until I was fluent! Maybe some day.
After Chinese, my host student dropped me off in a classroom of his friends while he went to take a different class. It was kind of awkward but also amusing. The kids were pretty entertained by me. I’m under the impression that they all think I’m very good looking. No, I don’t have a big head. I know that I’m not the hottest thing to walk this earth by American standards. But—how do I say this without sounding racist?—the Chinese are, in general, not very attractive. I don’t think this is because they are physically uglier than Americans; I just think that they don’t spend nearly as much time trying to make themselves look good. As such, we Choate students—well-groomed, well-dressed—look rather elegant. All to say that I got ceaseless attention from the Chinese girls while the guys looked on enviously. I made a fool of myself trying to yo-yo; a few of the students were really good at it, and their efforts to teach me ended up making me look ridiculously incompetent. I talked to two girls for quite some time about a myriad of different subjects, including homework (once again, even though I am in a higher grade, I still get at least twice the amount of homework that they do), different cities in the world, and what our parents do. It was an interesting hours, especially because I got to see how Chinese students interact with each other (hint: they’re loud).
After that, I returned home with my host student. I helped his mother make dumplings for dinner. That was both fun and difficult. Hand-made dumplings are surprisingly tricky to make. They took lots of pictures while I endeavored to pinch the dough around the meat. The mother was very encouraging, and the grandfather kept peeping in to chortle at my efforts. They still tasted delicious, in my opinion.
After dinner, C.P. took me out to Pudong, the business and commerce hub of Shanghai. It’s essentially the place-to-be on an evening in Shanghai. All the huge buildings, major shopping centers, and cultural buildings are in Pudong. I had an awesome time. We started on Nanjing Road, which is a famous road in Shanghai for shopping (and apparently has been for at least a hundred years now). The road was essentially Times Square, just two or three times as long. I went in several shops but didn’t buy anything. It was, frankly, exhilarating to walk amongst all the tourists and Chinese late at night, the lights shining bright, flashing like a thousand flashbulbs, multicolored and glorious. Once again I was struck by the hustle and bustle of Shanghai, the glitz and glamour, that exuded economic growth.
After Nanjing Road, we walked along the Bund, the most famous street in Shanghai (even more so than Nanjing Road). There are less skyscrapers and flashing lights here. Instead, there are Western-style buildings, thick stone and imperious columns, with yellow lighting. It is strongly reminiscent of London at night. The Bund is, in my opinion, the classy part of Beijing. Everything else screams metropolis, and urban, and everything big and growing and loud…and the Bund is more reserved, more elegant, more refined. We didn’t explore it much, though, because I will do that more with the other Choate students.
We also took a walk along a broad walkway against the Haungpu River. On the other side were the main skyscrapers and the largest buildings in Shanghai, including a massive TV tower (third largest in the world) and a giant skyscraper that is the largest in Asia. The view from across the river was crazy—the lights lit up the night sky so that it seemed dark red instead of black. I learned that Shanghai is the largest city in China. I can totally believe it.

Saturday, 3/12
What a day. Let’s start from the beginning.
For breakfast, C.P.’s mother served us a traditional Chinese breakfast soup. It wasn’t very much like breakfast food at all, but I found it delicious all the same. Her cooking is really quite fabulous.
After breakfast, they took me into the old part of Shanghai, a popular tourist attraction. This was the very “China-esque” portion of Shanghai—I absolutely loved it. The sloping roofs and Chinese architecture was stunning in its own right. We walked through old streets and arrived at a Chinese temple: the City Gold Temple, apparently. It was so cultural I felt overwhelmed. Chinese were lighting sparkler-type things and waving them around, bowing to different ornate idols, and walking from god to god (each in his own little shrine), suddenly very religious (?). It was a little pagan for my taste, but it was a great immersion experience.
After the temple, I bought gifts for my mom and dad. I got my mom a beautiful silk scarf for 300 yuan ($50) and my dad two really nice pairs of chopsticks for 240 yuan ($40). I think they’ll enjoy them.
Finally, one of the highlights of the day: the Yuyuan Rock Garden. This magnificent garden, filled with Chinese plants and rock groupings and old buildings, simply screamed of ancient, soft splendor. It was huge, as well, so I spent a good 90 minutes exploring it, taking a myriad of pictures of the draping plants, and blooming flours and bubbling brooks and jagged rocks. I hated how many tourists were there. There is little I would like more than to have the whole place to myself and slip on some traditional Chinese garb and just walk around in the early morning, letting the soft daylight and mist gently massage my skin as I appreciate the ability of the Chinese to group together plant, rock, and building to create a veritable feast for the eyes. But sadly I had to share the place with multicultural tourists, so the effect was lost a bit. However, the garden was still gorgeous, and I took many pictures so I will never forget. I remember taking a few and then just looking at the view screen thinking that I would love to have the picture as my desktop picture. They were just so well balanced, so proportionally beautiful. We need more rock gardens in the U.S.
After the rock garden, we went out to lunch at a restaurant that apparently serves 4000 people a day. I wasn’t that hungry but I still ate. I still like the Chinese food but I can imagine it getting old after awhile. I’m glad that I’m only staying here for 10 days in the regard. At lunch I ordered a crab roe roll, but what I got was some giant bun with a straw sticking out of it. So I drank crab roe. Let’s just say I’ll skip that lovely dish next time I order Chinese food.
But the adventure was not over. After lunch we went for another walk along the river and I got to see more incredible buildings. It seems that in Shanghai they don’t do much half-assed. The International Conference Center is magnificent; so are all the banks; so is everything else. I’ll just stop there. I mean, part of it is to be expected from China’s biggest city, but I still can’t help but reiterate how palpable the growth here is. Cranes are everywhere. Buildings are springing up. One gets the feeling that each Chinese worker does his job partly because he simply wants to contribute to the giant economic machine of China and then enjoy the benefits of the development.
Also, with all the business and commerce going on around me, it’s hard to believe this country is communist. It just goes to show you the difference between communism and socialism. Outwardly, there is really no difference between China and the U.S. There are no obedient drone-people going around in the same clothes worshipping some Big Brother character; no, the Chinese are just like Americans, albeit tinier. I think, however, that once one breaches the surface, one will find some startling differences. I don’t plan to go there. I enjoy pretending China isn’t communist. I just can’t forget and say something bad about the State. That might make more awkward moments (as if I don’t have enough already).
Anyways, after the walk along the huge river Huangpu—during which I learned that C.P. takes calculus at school, so now I’m more confused than ever about whether these Chinese kids take calculus, and that for every 1000 kids that applies to his school, only 1 gets in—we went to the giant TV tower. After waiting in line for what seemed like years, we made it to the first observation deck. At 259 meters, the view was glorious. I could really appreciate the immensity of Shanghai from such a high vantage point. Literally in every direction I saw huge skyscrapers and buildings and crowded buildings stretching off towards the horizon until the dense smog covering the city obscured them from my view. That same sense of economic growth overcame me: this was a thriving city. Yet at the same time as I viewed such grandeur (grandeur to match, if not overcome, that of New York), I remembered the rich history of Shanghai. The city has changed much in the past few decades, according to several sources. All this sprawling magnificence (and filth, at the same time) had sprung up relatively recently.
We went higher up, to 300-something meters, and saw even more. I could wax on about the view. I’ll let you imagine what it’s like to look down one of the biggest cities in the world from one of the highest observation posts in the world. It’s one of those things that one doesn’t forget. We then dropped lower to the 250-meter orb and went out to an outside observation deck. That was fantastic (and nerve-wracking). They had thick glass that you could walk out on and literally stare down between your feet down 700 feet. My host mother was too scared to walk out on it. I must admit it was quite frightening the first time. The human body rebels against stepping out onto a see-through platform suspended hundreds of meters above the ground. But the views (this time, looking straight down) were totally rewarding.
We stuck around the tower for a few hours, and then my host family treated me to a dinner in the tower’s revolving restaurant. The dinner was delicious, the restaurant elegant, and I was very appreciate. The view of Shanghai in the evening—watching it go from daytime bustling city to nighttime electric city—was really quite stupendous. I was really appreciative of my host family’s generosity. They had paid for admission to all these different places, which I’m sure wasn’t cheap at all, and they also paid for dinner. I made sure C.P. told my host mother how appreciative I was of everything. She said she was happy to do it. At dinner I reflected how I had always assumed that the Chinese used forks as well as chopsticks (I thought chopsticks were kind of a cultural relic that they didn’t use as much anymore), but the Chinese very much still use chopsticks. At the restaurant, C.P. hardly touched his fork. I really can’t understand why they would use chopsticks with some foods when a fork, knife, and spoon seem so much more appropriate, but to each his own. They are certainly quite adept with those simple tools.
After dinner we went down to another observation deck and took pictures of nighttime Shanghai from high up. I think those are some of my favorite pictures, along with the Rock Garden. The Chinese love their lights, and at night the city is almost magical. The energy seems to jump off the pixels of my camera. We left that platform after a few minutes and went through a museum on the first floor of the tower that helped me appreciate Shanghai’s past. It was an ancient village 6000 years ago, but really began to become a cultural and commercial hub of China after the Opium Wars, when Westerners flood China. The Western world had a heavy influence on Shanghai’s development (hence the buildings on the Bund) and helped expand the little city to China’s biggest. But the huge buildings and crazy metropolis I see now is the work of just the past few decades. Shanghai has literally exploded from the ground, and I really don’t think it’s going to let up for quite awhile.
It has been another amazing day. Tomorrow I’m with the Choate students to explore Shanghai. We will also spend the night together in a hotel.

Sunday, 3/13
I’ll think I’ll take the time here to make two observations. The first is that the Chinese are really quite poor English speakers and writers. Even those Chinese who have been speaking English for a very long time often speak with a heavy accent. They really just can’t get the hang of our language. Even more surprising (read: appalling), on all the official signs and brochures the English is often filled with errors. Translations of official pamphlets in museums are filled with awkward phrasings, misspellings, and sometimes made-up words. Neon signs over buildings real “hotle” instead of “hotel.” On mass-produced drinks are the words “It will captivate with relish.” I know English must be as hard for these people as Chinese is for Americans; but in America, if we wanted to translate something into Chinese, we’d take the time and money to make sure that it was done right—especially if it were a mass-produced or advertised text. To me, it’s unprofessional and slightly insulting, but the errors are often so funny that I laugh instead of scowl.
The other observation I must make is that the drivers here are crazy. Chinese traffic is only marginally more ordered than the traffic in Haiti. People here don’t seem to understand the concept of letting your intentions be known before you take an action: blinkers are fast becoming a luxury. Chinese drivers often just pull out into a busy street, hardly looking to see if there is a break in traffic, and expect other cars to adjust to them as they shove their way through. Cars switch lanes suddenly and haphazardly, with no regard for other motorists. Buses barrel down streets, nearly throwing other cars into the sidewalk. I’m legitimately astounded that I haven’t yet witnessed an accident—the driving here is monumentally dangerous. I don’t know how people cope with it everyday. When you add on top of this how cars have absolutely no regard for pedestrians—they will speed through crosswalks, even when pedestrians have the green signal, and expect us to watch out for them and stop—you can see how hectic it is here. The other Choate students and I have started a mini crusade against the cars that refuse to stop to let pedestrians cross, especially when we have the green signal. We deliberately walk in front of cars that are trying to push their way through and walk slowly, holding out our hands to tell them to stop. I don’t think it’s working. One car today almost ran over my toes as it pulled in front of me as I crossed. I hit its windows as its passed to let it know how angry I was at such dangerous antics. They sped away.
Anyways, today: we Choate students spent the day together. We did a lot of walking but not a whole lot of sightseeing. I didn’t take many pictures. We went back to the temple I visited with my host student and took more pictures. It was much more fun with the Choate group. We get along very well and so spent a lot of time laughing and joking and taking silly pictures. It’s more enjoyable to visit places when the people around you share your language.
We then spent time touring around the Yu Bazaar, which is where I was yesterday with my host student. It’s the touristy area that looks a lot like old Chinese towns. I bargained for the same chopsticks I bought my dad yesterday and got them for 100 yuan instead of the 240 I got yesterday. I’m still angry about that now. My host student gave me the impression that 240 yuan was a reasonable price—I didn’t realize one was expected to bargain at these places, that they mark them up ridiculously high expected you to drop it. Oh well. It’s my dad’s birthday, so I suppose paying more isn’t so bad. But since I bought similar ones for myself, I thought he should get something else, so Obaid and I bargained for a really nice Chinese chess set (small and somewhat travel-sized, but still ornate) and got the prize down to 100 yuan from the original asking price of 580. That was a proud bargaining moment. The Chinese woman, when we finally agreed, made a show of wiping her brow. I take it as a sign of respect that we made a hard-bargaining Chinese person sweat when we debated with her.
After the bazaar we met a former Choate alumnus and his wife for lunch at a really neat old Chinese teahouse. The teahouse was very cool and very Chinese, but the couple was simply terrific. Mrs. Brown gave us the impression that he was very powerful and wealthy, as he is the legal counsel for Pepsi-Cola and graduated from Columbia Law School, but we all found them incredibly down-to-earth, approachable, friendly, and intriguing. His wife was refined and cultured yet very comfortable around us, and they both seemed to know a lot about everything. For two hours we nibbled on Chinese delicacies and drank authentic tea and talked to them about the differences in Chinese education and American education, Mr. Tong’s (that’s his name) time at Choate, and a myriad of topics. It was—I’ll iterate—terrific. I really liked them. They gave off this air of a successful, cosmopolitan couple. They didn’t have kids, which completed that picture. It was so nice to speak with Chinese people who dressed nicely and spoke English very well. His wife (and I’ll assume Mr. Tong as well) spoke Cantonese, Mandarin, and English, and I think maybe Italian. She said they speak English at home because they find it to be a very precise language. I simply glowed at this comment—it’s how I’ve always felt. I love French, and I absolutely adore learning about new languages. I think it’s fascinating how we all developed such different ways of communicating. But I’ve always felt that English is the most precise and expressive language. With so many different words that means nuances of the same thing, one can really get across how one truly feels. One French verb will often be used for many different meanings where English will have many different verbs for those same meanings. In Chinese, said Mrs. Tong (Fanny), since there is no tense, it is often more obscure when an action happened, and their phrases are often intricate and poetic, but not precise (for example, to be happy means to have “an open heart”—so how do you say you have an open heart if you’re not happy?). They aren’t that old, I don’t think, almost he must be nearing his fifties, as he graduated Choate in the eighties. They looked young, they spoke elegantly, and they knew much. I just loved them.
After lunch, we worked our way over for two hours to the “French commission” of Shanghai. We stopped often to look in shops, and our walk over there was mightily entertaining; we walked through narrow streets by hanging laundry, past staring Chinese children, and just generally through the unexplored parts of Shanghai that aren’t in all the tourist books. I feel like I really got more of a feel for the city. We even stopped at a small museum tracing (and worshipping, somewhat) the development of communism in China. But the French commission was a disappointment. We don’t even know if we reached it. On our map it said we were in the heart of it, but we didn’t see a single thing around us reminiscent of France. The only thing we could find was a very un-French coffee shop (which was fortunately and rarely delicious, as the Chinese really don’t make good coffee). After the disappointing stop there, we took the subway home. The subway is very, very nice. Shiny marble floors, bright lights, and a glass wall between the passengers and the track. The train pulls up so the doors align perfectly with doors in the glass wall, and then both open up to let passengers in and out. Really, it’s like a nice clean train station. You wouldn’t even know you’re underground. It’s just very nice. Granted, the subway in Shanghai is 10 years old to New York’s decades (maybe century?), but I still think New York should upgrade its Subways substantially. Not only would that make happier passengers and give New York a better feel, but it would also create jobs. I think I have solved all of New York’s economic woes right now. Revamp the Subway!
Anyways, we took a breather at the hotel after a long day of (rather fruitless) walking around and then went out to a delicious dinner along the Bund. Shanghai is such an exhilarating city at night. I think for my honeymoon I may come to Asia and take a tour of all the cities. I’ll wait to stay in Thailand, I think, because I heard that they have marvelous hotels (or is that Taiwan?), but I’ll stop for a few days in Shanghai and stay at one of the very nice hotels. The hotel that the Choate students are staying in tonight (we’re staying at one to give our host families a break and make logistics easier) is actually very nice. It’s New York quality. The beds are, of course, very hard, like all Chinese beds seem to be, but other than that you really can’t tell it’s Chinese and not American.
We have all day tomorrow to do what we want again, so it should be fun!

Monday, 3/14
Today was very rainy and foggy. It was mostly uneventful—the first such day in Shanghai! We did a fair bit of walking around but didn’t see anything really spectacular. After breakfast at the hotel, which was quite tasty and quite Chinese, we walked all the way to the People’s Park, which is a large park reminiscent of Central Park in New York with different museums dotted about it. We stopped at the Museum of Contemporary Art. The museum, called the MOCA, has no fixed works; instead, exhibitions come through every couple of months to showcase work. We happened to hit the museum while the Coco Chanel exhibit was in. I didn’t find it all that interesting—lots of radical fashion designs, letters, and jewelry. I’m sure that if my feet didn’t hurt so much I might find it more interesting, but at the time I just wanted to sit down.
We went out to lunch at a “French” café called “C’est la vie,” which was really just an American café. We all didn’t want to say it, but eventually we admitted how much we missed Western food. I had pizza. It wasn’t incredible, but I realized as I ate it how much I had missed it. We spent a log time relaxing in that little secluded café, just talking.
Finally, after the café we walked toward’s People’s Square, around which are some truly impressive buildings. The Shanghai Grand Theater is a massive building of modern architecture with a top shaped like a half-moon (when viewed face-on; it’s a square from aerial views). It’s really formidable yet artsy simultaneously. In the People’s Square is an impressive but not all that big history museum, where we spent the last hour, learning about the development of Chinese bronze, garb, weapons, and currency.
We then had to make it back to the hotel and the school by 4:45. Because of difficulties with cab drivers, we ended up taking the (very nice) subway and didn’t get back to the school until 5:25. We apologized to our host students, but they were very accommodating. My host brother took me and Emily and her host sister out to a wonderful dinner. The restaurant was called the Dolar Shop, but it was remarkably fancy and contemporary for its name. It certainly seemed high-end. It was a hot-pot restaurant; everyone gets his own little pot, into which they pour a flavored “base” that you order to cook your food in. A flame heats the base to a boil and they bring the raw meats and vegetables you order. You just stick the meat in the boiling base and it cooks in a matter of seconds (it is very thin). The meal was both entertaining and very delicious; I was once again reminded of the Chinese way of eating, namely with numerous small dishes to provide variety. The dishes absolutely covered the table. We had kiwi juice to drink, which was delicious, and our waitress totally enthralled me. Talk about love at first sight. She wasn’t even stunningly gorgeous. She just struck a chord on my heart (poetic), and I couldn’t keep her off my mind. I had little daydreams about coming back to the restaurant, getting her name and number, and developing a relationship despite the language barrier, then getting married later and telling our kids how we met. But in the end I just got a picture with her (she was so surprised), so that will have to suffice. The picture isn’t very good but I can fill in the details later. She is the first Chinese girl whom I’ve found truly attractive—in a way that captivates me, I mean, and not in an objective, appreciative way.
Tomorrow we have class and we’ll visit Jinmao Tower.

Tuesday, 3/15
Today we had our last Chinese lesson with Ms. Kangkang. She’s still convinced that I’m some brilliant student because I’m picking Chinese up quicker than she expects I should. I decided not to discomfit her of this ego-boosting little notion. We learned a song in class to the tune of “Frère Jacques” and we learned how to count in Chinese. I can’t remember any of the numbers though. Ms. Kangkang introduced us to the proper way to learn Chinese. It’s called the Triangle; there are three essential points to cover each time you learn a new Chinese character: writing it properly, learning how to pronounce it, and learning all its meanings. It’s an ancient language, but it has gone through many different simplifications and regulations over the years so it’s more ordered than I originally expected. However, it remains a rather convoluted and difficult tongue to master, and I know that if I ever want to be proficient I will have to invest years of study. The pronunciation is difficult, of course, but learning how to write the language is as well; moreover, all the different connotations of the characters, and the difficulties we have in translated them into English, cause more problems. Finally, because there is no alphabet, the Chinese language consists of about 5000 different characters. That means a lot of memorization.
After Chinese class we had a ceramics class in a freezing cold pottery classroom. I made a truly dreadful vase that I’m really not proud of, so I left it there and refused to take any pictures of it. Pottery has never been my strong suit. However, now would be a good time to expound upon Chinese heating—or lack thereof. It seems the Chinese are philosophically against heating their living and working spaces. Almost everywhere we go—in our houses, in the classrooms—it seems that there is no heating. Frequently it is colder indoors than out, because at least outside the sun is shining. Luckily, it doesn’t get below the 40s in Shanghai during this season, but we have still had a fair share of shivering through lessons and meals. I keep my bedroom very toasty because I have an individual heater, but I’m afraid that my family will think I’m being wasteful with all the heat. Oh well. I need a cozy room.
After lunch we went to a very tall building in Shanghai called Jinmao Tower. It’s a skyscraper with business offices and a very luxurious hotel. Although I had already seen incredible views from the T.V. tower earlier with my family, I still found the views incredible. I’ll reiterate: Shanghai is huge, and the air is dirty. I could see for miles in all directions… until the heavy smog obscured the horizon. I like to blame partly on the hordes and hordes of smokers here. They are everywhere—in restaurants, bathrooms, shops—filling the air with their disgusting black smoke. It’s such a filthy habit, and the Chinese are rude about it (like most of the things they do). They blow smoke towards people and show no remorse for stinking up an entire restaurant. I feel like my lungs are rebelling against me, but I’ll have to just suck it up and breathe in the filthy air a few days longer.
At Jinmao Tower we had a really fantastic dessert and coffee with Rock and Jerry. The dessert room is reminiscent of the Marriott Marquis in New York: one can see all the way to the top, with hotel rooms lining the sides. There are no cool elevators, though, so I still prefer the Marriott.
We then proceeded to go shopping for about an hour in a massive underground knock-offs mall. It was such a fun experience. Everywhere you can see there are watches, bags, clothes—you name it, they have it. Knock-off brands, fake material, cheap prices. And you can bargain, too, which I’ve become much better at. I bought a few “silk” ties for my dad and me for about 100 yuan as well as a crème-grey tailored suit jacket for 330 yuan. There is really so much to buy here. If I come back to Shanghai, I plan to bring about 100o yuan to this place and just fill up on knock-off clothes and the like.
One last thing before I go to bed: I’ve bought some books here, and one of them is about the Rape of Nanking. This was an absolutely terrible event that occurred before World War II when Japan was at war with China (1937-1938 is when the event occurred, though Japan had been harassing China for years). After the Japanese Army captured Nanking, the then-capital of China, the Japanese soldiers commenced a six-seven week reign of terror, slaughtering men, raping women, and torturing the populace. The book outlines the most gruesome and horrifying actions I have ever heard about: men raping pregnant women and then carving out their fetuses; soldiers raping little girls and very old women until they bled out and died; every manner of torture you can imagine, from being torn apart by dogs to being burned alive; and mass slaughter, live burials, beheadings, and live bayonet practice. Most of these atrocities were visited unprovoked upon innocent civilians. I was utterly shocked that the human race could stoop so low. Even worse, from what I can gather Japan has yet to offer a formal apology about the event, instead preferring to try to forget about it: schoolchildren read just a few lines about it in their textbooks. The event is one of the reasons Sino-Japanese relations are so tense, even to this day.
I read all this during the horrible aftermath of the earthquake in Japan, and I was disturbed to find myself feeling like the Japanese deserved it. That is the wrong thinking. Those who live in Japan today are not the monsters that killed 300,000 Chinese civilians in the 1930s. But they must apologize for their past actions. I wrote a blurb about the massacre and my thoughts on it after I finished the book. I may edit out some of the more gruesome parts and run it in The News as a masthead editorial. It disturbs me that so little Westerners know about the terrible event, truly an Asian holocaust, and I wish to shed light on it. Hopefully the international community can pressure Japan again to issue a formal apology. I think that will go a long way towards healing the bitter wounds between these two countries, though the many years of heartbreak Japan has inflicted upon other parts of China still widen the gap. What a rich history there is to study over here, and all of it so ignored by the U.S.

Wednesday, 3/16
The first thing we did today was go to the Chinese pavilion at the 2010 World Expo. Although the Expo happened last year, the Chinese pavilion still stands and it was absolutely crammed with tourists. I can’t imagine what the Expo was like in the middle of summer last year, when all the other nations’ pavilions were open. I bet it was an absolute nightmare.
However, the Expo was really quite entertaining. The Chinese pavilion was a huge structure—much bigger than any of the others, as the Chinese love to show off—shaped like a bunch of interlocked red beams. It reminded me of those games where you have to take away a stick without letting the entire structure fall down. The cool part was that it widened as it got taller. Inside, there were numerous exhibits: films about China; Chinese furniture and how it has changed over the centuries; Chinese art and history; and plans for China’s future. Most of it just oozed “Glory to China!” It was rather obvious. I distinctly remember that one sign read “Land of Hope.” How terribly untrue. Oh well—it was an enlightening and entertaining experience, and it occupied our morning well.
Afterwards we traveled two hours to the historic town of Souzhou. Our first stop was at the Liuyuan Garden, which was like the Yuyuan Garden I saw in Shanghai. Our tour guide said that since it wasn’t spring, the blossoms weren’t in full bloom and therefore the garden wasn’t nearly as beautiful as it could have been. However, like the Yuyuan Garden, the Liuyuan Garden was really quite striking and made for great photos. It was wonderful as well to be out of the filthy air of Shanghai into a relatively cleaner atmosphere, and being surrounded by rich Chinese history wasn’t too bad either.
The highlight of our stop in Souzhou was the area around the canal, the name of which I cannot remember. The area is tremendously historic—read: tremendously Chinese—replete with little lanterns hanging from houses on the canal’s edge. We took a boat ride along the canal. It was fascinating. I’m really quite jealous of those who live right next to the canal. We passed a house and I saw some old Chinese man cooking in the kitchen, his window open to the canal. He literally could have thrown the scraps of his cooking straight out the window into the water gently lapping at the moss-covered stone foundations of his house. What an idyllic existence. I felt as though I had traveled back a hundred years. It was almost a disappointment to get out of the gondola-type boat and see people walking the narrow, cobblestone streets with cell phones in their hands.
We went shopping along said historic street. I bargained for some gifts for my host family and my sister and mother: a fan and screen for my host family and pocket-books for my mother and sister. I’ve developed a fondness for bargaining; there is something very pleasing about watching the price on an item drop precipitously under my stern gaze. I wish I could bring it back to American shopping centers—oh how I would make them buckle. Perhaps I delude myself. I’ll keep my bargaining prowess limited within the borders of China.
Our hotel is very pleasant; we have views of a small indoor pond with a fountain and Chinese hut (you know, the ones with the curved-up roofs. Very clichéd). Tomorrow we’ll go to a silk factory and some ancient Chinese structure. Last day in China!

Thursday, 3/17
The first thing we did today was to visit an ancient ruin in Souzhou. We walked up a hill dotted with old Chinese huts, over a narrow bridge, and arrived at a giant tower reminiscent of the Leaning Tower of Pisa called the Pagoda. We weren’t allowed to go up the tower, but we took a lot of pictures. Apparently the tower is over 1500 years old—wow! It’s always incredible to be in the presence of very old buildings and monuments. I feel as if I could simply reach back into the past and bring it to the present right before my eyes. Often I feel such an overpowering urge to travel back in the past, just to see how people lived. As weird as it sounds, I ache to know the little details: were they smelly? Did they bathe often? Did they look uglier then because they didn’t take care of themselves? Did they comport themselves similarly? I want to know what it was like to live in an era different from my own. Sadly, the closets I will ever come will be images in my mind and textbooks.
After visiting around the Pagoda, we went to a silk factory, which was absolutely fascinating. I won’t go into the details of silk making, but suffice to say it is a very laborious process, although after a certain point it is similar to other cloth-making processes (like wool and cotton). The difference is that the products are made of the spit-up of silk worms (or rather the cocoons, which are spit up by the worms). How terribly fascinating! Some of our most luxurious fabric comes from these lowly, ugly little worms whom we kill in order to take their cocoons to use for clothing and other items. I don’t think all the old ladies I know who wear silk even think about how they’re wearing the puke of insects. It isn’t a lovely thought. But I think it’s awesome. How tastily ironic that some of the most snobbish people on Earth buy clothing made from the vomit of some of the lowliest, stupidest, most base creatures on Earth.
We drove to Shanghai after the silk factory (which doubled as a giant silk department store). I picked up a tailor-made coat in the fakes mall. It fits great and looks great to boot, and for only $50! The next time I come to Shanghai—and I plan to return—I’m bringing 1000 yuan to this place. I could practically completely replace my wardrobe if I bargain well. The place is enormous, a labyrinth of small fake shops stuffed with bags and clothes and everything you can think of. My mom would go ballistic. However, I don’t think she would be a good bargainer. I would help her with that. The trick is to decide exactly how much you are willing to pay for the item and then start at about 25% of that, slowly—and seemingly begrudgingly—working your way up to your “final price.” Often you can get them to agree to an even lower price. But you must be tough, heartless, and immune to their tricks: namely, laughing at your “ridiculous” price and telling you how much the product is actually worth. It’s an acquired skill. I’m by no means a master, but I’ve gotten better.
My buddy took me and another Choate student and her buddy out to Korean barbeque, like when we all went out to dinner a few nights ago to the Dollar Shop for hot-pots. It was delicious. This is the second meal I’ve had in China where you cook the raw meats and vegetables at your table. For hot-pot, you cooked it in your own boiling broth. For Korean barbeque, it was cooked at a grill in the middle of our table. Delicious and hot. I plan to do it again in the U.S.
My buddy got all sentimental at dinner and starting talking about how he was glad to be able to share his country with me, and he hopes I felt welcome and that I will come back to visit China. I gave his mom the gifts I bought in Souzhou. It was a nice little moment. When I got back, they gave me more gifts: a silk scarf for my mom and a stamp collection for me. I was very thankful. I took pictures with my buddy, his mom, and his stoic but really quite hilarious old grandpa who still laughs at my attempts to speak Chinese. What an adventure.
Our trip was incredible. I never thought I’d get over to China, yet I just spent 10 days touring China’s largest, most metropolitan city. Despite the terrible Chinses driving, their lack of manners, and the sickening air quality, the sights and sounds and tastes (gotta love authentic Chinese food) were awesome, and I will remember this trip for many years to come. I had always imagined China as stifling under the grip of some terribly oppressive Communist government. Although the government is a huge presence here, it seems to me, as an outsider, to be mostly a welfare type of presence: big state parks, public transportation, the like. I’m sure it’s much more present, perhaps in a sinister way, once you break the surface and actually live here for more than 10 days. However, I was pleasantly surprised to see so many parallels in China to the U.S. And, to boot, the Chinese seem much fonder of their government than Americans do of theirs.
That said, there are enormous differences in the cultures, which I find fascinating. Even in this modern, global, connected world, with Shanghai seeming so much like NYC on the outside, ancient customs persist that separate the cultures. The Chinese table manners would be considered very rude in the U.S.: they shovel food into their mouths with their chopsticks, biting off hunks and letting juice dribble all over their lips. They have different concepts of education and edible food. They listen to American music, but their idea of fun is to go out to a professional karaoke bar. They smoke incessantly and don’t seem to mind the terrible air quality. Their bathrooms are far less sanitary. Their driving is monstrously hectic and dangerous. Pedestrians only have the right of way on paper. I could go on for hours.
In sum, the trip was enlightening, thrilling, immensely amusing, and a total success. I would do it again in the heartbeat, despite the fact that I am now on a 15-hr. plane ride back to the U.S. with a stuffed nose (hell on Earth). I hope I have more opportunities in the future to travel to Asia: I want to visit Japan (once the destruction from the earthquake is cleared up) and Korea very badly. Of course, I still want to go back to Europe as well, and South America and Africa if I can help it. The travel bug has bitten me again. I have a feeling that its venom won’t leave my veins until my own blood does.

Poem - flight

2011-03-19T09:21:00.000-04:00

the low rumble, the rattle,
like a trapped genie testing his fetters
inside a tin can.
then the sudden heave, a lurching
of motion
that startles and exhilarates and screeches.
a c c e l e r a tion
across an unhappy tarmac striped
like a diseased zebra.
oh! how the earth groans to buoy
this lovely beast, this great beast,
this magnificent bird!
a subtle shift—the difference between
breathing out and exhaling:
the grey swan departs this dusty surface
with lion-roar and tempest-wind.
I feel slightly unnerved.
to be thrust into flight is to experience
the godlike nectar of freedom
inside a cylindrical container
that smells of processed food
and been-there.
how disgustingly heavenly.

China Tomorrow

2011-03-08T00:45:00.002-05:00

I'm off to China tomorrow! I'll be keeping an electronic journal similar to the one for Haiti.

Poem - unseen lovers

2011-03-07T17:41:00.001-05:00

in the musky darkness I let
my body wash the folds of
my bed sheets,
and the heat of the air rubs
the coolness of the linen
like butter on the stovetop.
just now, in the frothy
semi-awareness of my being,
I can let the nothingness that surrounds me
morph into an undulating, throbbing
form that massages me into quivering.
massages
me
and
I
tremble.
owls and stars arouse my
dormant blood.
the fingers of the night
are my unseen lovers

Poem - somnambulance

2010-12-14T23:06:00.002-05:00

you will close your eyes,
just this once, and i will take you
to the ugly shows: the macabre
and the lustful intertwined in
exotic sin-rhythms that excite
guilty nerves.

we will walk, as we do,
towards that indefinite
red shit,
where i graffiti schools
and you pierce your toe-webbing.

i will kiss someone; you will help.

hang a chain from your belt and
let’s haul hell through this city.

together we will ride the carnival
out of town and stop at the
bar on the way.

i’m having a tea-party and
mr and mrs hippo are invited.

you grab some diamonds from zambia,
and i’ll do battle with a vicious sloth.

together we’ll play laser tag underwater
with bespectacled catfish.

quietly, now; cautiously, now;
just thresh the gooey dark now;
sift the memories you’ve lost.
i’ll wait at the red gas station,
filling up my little car with frosting.
i’ll just wait here
for you.

Poem - exploration (my first love poem)

2010-12-14T23:05:00.002-05:00

exploration

we are supple limbs, young limbs,
limbs of cloud sweat.

we are green saplings, taut stems,
springing moss.

we are thick and thin,
cream and water.

let us thrice-love in the darkness
that encourages us, bids us
cleave again, washes our folded
bodies. let us
grasp; let us reach deep.

ephemeral, we rub, making symphony
with contact and friction and flesh rougi.
we are swans in flight, else bears in caves.
does this hurt?

make from me an emperor of the forest.
make from me a lover again.

Poem - Blacksense

2010-09-05T23:09:00.001-04:00

I see the devastation of a broken heart.
It looks like dark acid
On pale tile floors.
I feel the pain of unrelenting grief.
It is a burning ice-fire that consumes
The mind and renders the body
Flaccid and wet.
I taste the sweat of the beaten poor.
It is thick and salty,
Burning my tongue with
Shattered, unrealized dreams.
I hear the cries of murdered children.
It sounds like black silence,
A dark nothingness of sound that
Blinds the ear.
I smell the burning of a civilization.
It reeks of rotting emotion,
Of forgotten hopes and still fears.
These things filter through my consciousness
In the foam of mid-sleep.
The world is broiling in thick tar,
But I can grass growing in the cracks.

Poem - The Hands of Children

2010-09-05T23:06:00.002-04:00

They taught me how to smile in suffering –
How to erase the callous cruelty of life with
The gift of simple contentment.
They taught me how to find beauty not in
Swans or pale doves,
But in the dark creases of an old woman,
Her hair matted and dirty, face beaten
By hot dust and angry hands.
They taught me that the purest pleasure comes
From letting go – walking through green hills
And resting under the shade of a bent tree,
Holding the hands of children who are forced to
Teach themselves how to grow up.
They taught me that beautiful singing comes not
From perfected vocals or private lessons,
But from an honest heart.
They taught me to love first and ask questions later.
They taught me that food only fills one type of hunger – that
The soul thirsts for something much greater.
They taught me that the world I had imagined as a child
Was but a fractured light-ray, splintered into fragments
That I had invented.
I could teach them nothing in return.
And perhaps that doesn’t matter.
For what am I but a single soul touched by many others,
Wandering on a dirt path through untamed wilderness,
Holding the hands of children?

And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.
- Revelation 21:4

Personal Essay

2010-09-03T20:18:00.001-04:00

I’m a contemplator. Give me a rainy day and some lilting music and you’ll soon have a lethargic kid on your hands blabbering on about the psychology of developing infants and the triumphant irony of a mother calling her son a “son of a bitch.” I like to think about grandiose concepts and pretend I’m doing something useful. I confront notions that I don’t have time to address during the dull maneuvers of daily life: my views on abortion, my preference for brunettes, the complexity of quantum physics. I enjoy staring out of car windows and making up stories about the people that I see flash by – why, there’s a single mother battling cervical cancer while her young son struggles against the bonds of a tyrannical ex-husband if I ever saw one.
However, more than ruminating in a sea of mostly useless reflections, I like to remember. I recall, almost instinctively, moments in time when I was truly happy, or truly content, or truly devastated. And each time I remember something, I’m continually astounded by the complexity of it – the dexterous woven quilt of the entire experience that is embedded in the fleshy corners of my brain. Accompanying every vivid image, accompanying every glorious slideshow, is a smorgasbord of sensations and emotions that I simply cannot erase. Sometimes, the feeling of nostalgia is so overwhelming that I have to share it with others. Luckily for you, this is one of those moments.
I find my most powerful memories occurred in elementary school. Adults like to trivialize the emotions and reasoning of children because they “just don’t know any better.” But looking back, all I can do is appreciate the intensity of the emotions I felt at the time. Children feel – big time. And even though it may seem silly looking back, at the time it was of life-altering importance. Who’s to say that it wasn’t? If we all lived to be 500 years old, I’m sure we’d giggle at the silly poopings-about that our fifty-year-old selves did, worrying about 401k’s and sub-prime mortgages. Hogwash.
What’s really important is that we remember not just the situation, but what was going on inside our minds at the time. My childhood is filled with such experiences. It is my story, my romantic epic of me. In my opinion, it could not be more thrilling.
Neighborhood block parties took place in the New England summers, when the sun lingered in the sky and our bodies were free to roam the neighborhood in an orgy of childish glee. My imagination was uncontrollable; every stick became a magical staff, every cluster of trees a fort, every pile of rocks the makings of a giant wall. At night, we would come together and the game of manhunt would commence. I see myself running through the woods around our suburban houses, my breath drowning out the far-away cries of the other children, my feet finding sure footing on ground I had grown up on. My heart beats wildly in anticipation of having to flee the search of the older kids. My neighbor is with me; we crouch down low behind a large tree, panting and grinning with unbridled glee. We are in our element. The woods surrounding us seem coldly ignorant of the excitement coursing through our young bodies; the trees sway blackly in the night, the leaves rustle as only leaves can do.
There! A seeker comes into view, illuminated by the yellow outside lights of my house. Another joins him and they briefly converse, then spread out towards the woods, scanning the trees for movement. My body convulses in a primal expression of fear; adrenaline courses like fiery antelope through my veins. I feel my breathing become short and shallow as I prepare to take flight.
My friend breaks first with a whooping howl, dashing from cover and out into the yard to the left of the seeker. Immediately a chase ensues, carrying their frantically tumbling bodies into the darkness to join the shouts and squeals of the other neighborhood kids. I’m left alone with the other seeker. He’s a veteran of these games; he knows that hiders like to go in pairs, so that they have company during the thrilling wait in the darkness of the woods, and so that they can confuse seekers by splitting into opposite directions. He inches towards my position, then calls out,
“I know you’re there. Come out and make it easy for me.”
I oblige, sprinting to his right, scrambling over logs and through branches, not daring to look behind me in case I mimic the characters in all those movies and trip over something in my way. I’m fast, but he’s faster, and soon my legs fail me, my breathing becomes labored, and I feel the sharp shove between my shoulder blade signaling my doom.
Later, when we return to the adults – dirtied, sweaty, and grinning from ear to ear – we are disgusted by their calm, businesslike small talk and smug smiles at our tales of frantic chasing and hiding. How can they not recognize how awesome a night we just had? Such boring old people.
Winter evenings lying on the couches in my living room, the bleak sky slowing darkening outside – New England is merciless in mid-January. The trees are skeletons of their former selves, the ground is hard, but the fire inside is… delightful. NBC Nightly News with Tom Brokaw is playing on the television while something sizzles on the stove. I hear the garage door open and my dad comes in and there’s hustle and bustle as I doze lazily on the couch and listen to the fanfare of the news jingle. And when the news is over we gather around for dinner and I feel cozy. Now I can’t listen to Nightly News without expecting my dad to come home from work or my mom to call us in for dinner as soon as it’s over.
Christmas morning breakfasts with the family, when my mom always makes the same (delicious) egg and bread casserole. Christmas music is still playing in the living room, washing over the lifeless carcasses of bright wrapping paper. The fire is ancient and grizzled, an old man of burning embers and crackling logs. Somewhere in my still developing brain I recognize the feeling of absolute safety and happiness, and my child-like reasoning realizes that it’s not from the presents but from the company around me. My grandmother tells the same stories she does every year with her same made-up words (who is Shyke-la-walla and what’s a sheebee-sheebee?), and somehow it’s always new and exciting. We watch a Wonderful Life and my mom always cries.
These memories happen to me without my consent. On hazy summer nights, I think of manhunt and dirty feet and running with absolute freedom. When I hear the fanfare of Nightly News, I think of dad coming home from work and the family gathering for dinner. At Christmas, there’s that unidentifiable blanket of familiarity and warmth – that feeling that I’ve done it all a thousand times before, and it doesn’t matter because it’s all so worth it. I grew up a privileged life in New England suburbia. My unhappy memories center around throwing up, getting a bruise, and being rejected by my crush. To the outside observer, I probably led a relatively normal life. But I don’t like to make the distinction between the life I experienced and the person I am. They are one in the same. I am those memories. I am those emotions, those feelings, those humid summer nights, those dreamy moments on the couch, those dinners with the family. I am the product of sheltered suburbia. I am the same child who fought off wild beasts and evil minions with a rotting oak branch.
I am my past.

Her name was valentine

2010-08-02T19:46:00.003-04:00

her name was valentine

when she smiled,
small white pearls unveiled themselves.
she spoke as though
afraid
that her very act of speaking
were an affront to the air.
but her voice was carried on
tinkling silver bells,
and her eyes were luminous marbles
in a frothy black night.
she knew not what hellish difficulties awaited her.
so, i prayed.
i prayed that life would cradle her,
would keep her safe from
lusting men, would lift her
heart to God and cheer her
when poverty’s vice-like grip
churned the acids in her belly.
i prayed that she would find love
in our arms.
i prayed that her sheepish laugh
would never fade with time.
i prayed that life would smile at her
the way she smiled at all of us,
and she would see those little white
pearls for the rest of her days.

Haiti Journal

2010-08-01T19:55:00.004-04:00

Haiti Journal
I kept this journal in order to document the trip to Haiti I took between my sophomore and junior years of high school in July of 2010. The trip was life changing and impacted me far beyond what I imagined it would, changing my perspective on the world around me (but you can read that for yourself, of course). Before I left, I foresaw the need to document it as it happened; and, true to my promise, I sat down every evening and wrote about what had happened that day, trying to remember as many details and emotions as possible, so that I could go back later and relive what had happened. What you will find here is a highly detailed account of that week in Haiti, complete with the thoughts that occurred to me during that time and the emotions I was feeling. Hopefully, I will be able to look back at this journal for years to come and remember what happened, when it happened, and how it affected me. I went down as part of a mission group from my church, Christ Presbyterian Church, based in New Haven. The following people accompanied me on this trip:
- Clifford Bogue (my dad)
- Katherine Bogue (my sister)
- Arijana Lempke
- Christopher Battista
- Nathan Graham
- Maureen Jackson
- Lara Oehlert
- Rebekah Caldwell
- Peter Olson
- Dave Olson
- Diane Miller
- Craig Luekens
- Keri Cocchiola
- Katherine Onofrio
- Gary Winninger
- Gary Collinsworth
We went down to Haiti through an organization called the Great Commission Alliance (GCA), and they took care of our transportation and housing needs. All we needed to do was supply the funds. For all of us, the total come to around $29,000 USD, which may seem hefty but it was well worth it, as you will see. So, without further ado, I present to you my innermost thoughts and feelings.

Day One: Saturday, July 24, 2010
I can’t imagine what the rest of the trip is going to be like after this day… if every day is as exciting and eye opening, I think I’ll be exhausted at week’s end. But let’s start from the beginning.
We left our house at 1:30 in the morning, about the time I normally go to bed on a summer night. I took two Sudafed (drugs were my only recourse for sleep) and went to bed at 10:00 to get a few hours’ rest… but I spent a lot of that time tossing and turning restlessly. Katherine didn’t sleep at all; I could hear her on the phone all through the night. We arrived at the Graham’s at 2:00 in the morning to drop off our car and left in their car for LaGuardia International Airport. It was a flawless ride – quick, easy, no traffic. I envied the slumbering houses as we drove by.
But the good news ends there. We arrived at LaGuardia at the same time as the rest of the team – they had just unloaded out of all their cars and we united in front of the American Airlines terminal. It was an exciting time; lack of sleep had not yet taken its costly toll on us, and we were brimming with nervous excitement. It was going well until one destructively insidious thought crept its way into my mind – you don’t have your passport.
Long story short, turns out I didn’t. The black, zip-up wallet case that enclosed my passport and boarding pass wasn’t in my carry-on or check luggage. Desperately, we went to the lady at the check-in counter and asked her what to do. She was grim: we would have to change my flight, it would cost exorbitant amounts of non-refundable money (meaning that if I couldn’t find my passport in time for the next flight, I’d be wasting a whole lot of money), and there was no guarantee I could get to Haiti on Saturday. I was crushed – this was the worst-case scenario. Dad helped as much as he could before he had to go to catch his own flight. Mr. Graham, who had stayed after I began my frantic (fruitless) search, began driving me home as we tried to work out what to do. All I had with me was a flight reservation number so that I could call in later once I had my passport and they could find my reservation and change my flight. Needless to say, the atmosphere in the car was depressing. Everyone had gone on to Haiti without me.
It was still only 5:00 in the morning. Mr. Graham and I began working our way home, the car a miasma (at least for me) of disappointment tinged with despair. How could this happen to me? But we figured the only way to go was forward. Phone calls were made to close family friends. Josh Kebabian woke up and drove to my house; I gave him the code to get inside and he found my passport. Meanwhile, Mrs. Graham got up and met him at exit 55, and then met Mr. Graham and I at exit 41 with my passport. Things starting looking up. We still had a lot of time to get back to New York for a possible 10:00 flight. Mrs. Graham took me under her wing and we began to trek back.
Now, God shows his hand. I called the American Airlines number and talked to a lady, explaining my situation with the lost passport, giving her my reservation number, and asking for the next available flight to Haiti. She said there was a 9:30 flight out of JFK that had one seat left if I wanted to take it. But the fees for changing, and the changed fare, would be sickeningly expensive. Even if I would get to Haiti around the same time as the group, it would be to the tune of at least 1000 dollars extra. But the woman talked to her supervisor. She knew I was going on a missions trip, and – she herself being presumably a Christian – she said she commended me for what I was doing and wished she could go herself. And she didn’t want my money to be wasted on American Airlines when it could be spent helping a country in need. So she gave me the flight with no fees, no extra money paid. It was miraculous. Would things really go my way after the disastrous affair with the passport?
Well, I made it to JFK, boarded the plane, ate a sorry excuse for a breakfast en route, worked my way through customs – filling in the appropriate forms – and began my initiation into Haiti. It was truly shocking.
The poverty is evident as soon as you leave the comfort of the Western jet. The main airport in all of Haiti is little more than a rundown, two-story structure with peeling paint and no air-conditioning. The customs area was a giant shelter with a tin-roof, people milling about in a sweat-hazed mess. Unlike the meticulous checking and rechecking I was accustomed to in Europe and the United States, the agents here simply glanced over my passport, stamped it, and waved me on. Baggage claim was hectic and disorganized; I was fortunate enough to spot my bag in a pile and shove my way through shouting Haitians to grab it. The entire time, I had no idea where I was or what I was doing. I was told someone would hopefully meet me – but where? I was a cow following the herd of moving people, hoping not to get lost. I had no idea where I was, or where the rest of my team was. Perhaps I was stranded at this airport, with no one to call or contact. Images of spending the night in Port-au-Prince briefly plagued my mind, and I shut them out immediately to quell my mounting panic.
After baggage claim I was almost literally emptied out on the streets of Haiti – thrust, clutching my passport wallet and lugging my bags, into a crowd of Haitians clamoring for my business, asking if I needed a taxi, a lift somewhere. They sat on dented fold-up chairs. I felt like I was some commodity in an open-air market, set against the backdrop of pale crumbling buildings. It was disconcerting.
To my immense relief, someone was calling my name. One of the few white faces in the sea of black beckoned me over. He knew my name and said he was from GCA, that my dad was waiting for me. Okay, I was found. No more wondering what would happen. We were quickly joined in the crowd by another GCA staff member, this one a local Haitian with a warm smile and a healthy beer belly. They led me out of the crowd, flanking me side-by-side.
“Stick close to us and hold on to your bags,” the white guy said grimly.
The poverty of Haiti hit me in full-force now. It was the most visceral experience of poverty I’ve ever experienced. We were walking along a filthy dirt path that fringed the airport, and on our left was a chain-link fence, against which leaned a continuous line of children. They ran along side us, barefoot or with tattered shoes, their feet sending up clouds of dust. They reached through the fence toward me.
“Messieur, please messieur, some money.”
“Just one dollar.”
“You. YOU! Young man – some money?”
I tried to ignore their pleas. They lined the entire fence, staring at you, daring you to ignore them. The most persistent ones ran alongside you. If you looked at them, showed any signs of empathy, they targeted you like hounds in a hunt. They smelled innocent Westerner. It took all my self-control to ignore them and follow the two GCA staffers along the dirt road; it took all my will-power to ignore the tan dust that seemed to paint their skin a different color, the dark matted hair, the gaunt faces.
At the end there was a crowd of Haitians, presumably waiting for loved ones. It was a sea of sun-blackened faces, loud and unruly.
“Stay close,” said the white GCA staffer.
I felt eyes turn to me as I walked; I stuck out like a sore thumb. First, I was white; I’m not racist at all, but I cannot ignore the stark difference between their obsidian-black skin (it seemed far darker than the skin of African-Americans) and my pale hue. They seemed to notice it even more than I. Moreover, I wore clean, crisp clothes, nominally fashionable shoes, and glasses. My hair was close cut. I was clean. To them, I stank of rich Westerner. Being flanked by two men didn’t help. But I was glad for their presence as bloodshot eyes turned towards me.
Everywhere – everywhere – I looked in the parking lot of the airport I saw poverty. The cars were dilapidated and falling apart. Garbage littered the ground in smoldering piles that men in yellowed, threadbare shirts sifted through. We approached a filthy Land Rover, and I reunited with part of the group. My dad saw me, confirmed I was alive, joked about my ordeal, and then was hustled off to the other van driving people. I crawled in the back of the Land Rover with some of the CPC team. They congratulated me on my determination and that I had managed to get to Haiti so soon after my nightmarish ordeal. The drivers gave us bottles of water and we began the drive to Mirebalais.
Poverty. All around me, the filthy, destitute atmosphere of those who have nothing and must make do. Infrastructure was non-existent. Rubble lined the streets, combined with piles of never-ending garbage. The street was a war-zone; no lines, no signs, just a heavily pot-holed strip of pavement for which vied cars, mopeds, motorcycles and pedestrians. I laughed at the thought that an American driver’s license would permit one to drive in Haiti – nothing in the United States could compare one for this level of chaos. Our Haitian driver manipulated the streets aptly as we hung on for dear life, trucks barreling past, cars passing us on the left and right. It was truly like a roller coaster. Except none of it was planned and we weren’t exactly securely fastened in. And these weren’t sets.
Pressed against the road were the scenes I had previously only seen on specials on the Discovery and History Channels. Women carried baskets of water and clothes on their heads, balancing them with supernatural poise, with children running pell-mell in dusty, tattered clothing. It was like a war-zone, full of filth and lacking any semblance of order. The tent cities were like grotesque sentinels to the impoverished; seas of blue and white plastic that swayed in the wind, interlaced with gutters of trash and stagnant water. It was almost Hollywood-esque in its absolute impoverishment. Wild animals strayed amongst the ruins – bony cows and goats, mangy-looking dogs with their teats hanging down like a limp carcass. My eyes – much less the lens of my camera – could not take it in fast enough. The scenes flashed by on the left and right without cessation. It is impossible to describe it all accurately, because there is no template. Poverty does not fit a frame or format. It comes in various colors, multiple varieties – poignant details that catch your eye for an instant as you pass buy. A dejected child on the roadside; endless troughs of garbage; a burnt out car smoking in the center of the road; a makeshift mechanic’s shop composed of automobile shells and tin sheds. The flavors of deprivation are many, but the end result is the same.
The ride was long, cramped, and uncomfortable. At times the road was so rough that we all lifted out of our seats. But against this backdrop of failed infrastructure and widespread dearth there is the magnificent landscape of Haiti – low grasslands sweeping up against sheer mountainsides, still lakes set in thick brush. The natural beauty of this island is only slightly marred by its paucity.
After a long journey in the back of the Land Rover, going down what seemed to be hiking paths, we arrived at the Guest House. It’s a very nice building with air conditioning and basic amenities – enough to keep us safe, clean, and happy during our stay. Children and nearby Haitian neighbors roam freely on the property, mingling with us naturally. They are infectiously friendly, especially the children. I was thrilled to discover that my français parisien is understood here to the kids who have had some schooling. Despite my difficulties in breaking through their thick Creole accents and learning their various nouns, pronouns, and idioms, I can at least get across my message, should need arise. I look forward to speaking French with these children – we can both learn from each other.
Now I have showered and I write this on a couch in the guesthouse. Our team is milling about doing various tasks – preparing VBS materials, showering, reading, socializing. The atmosphere is that of fatigued excitement – we are exhausted from the past 24 hours, but so ready to get started. The people here need our help desperately, and we are here for them. I only wish more people would follow us when we leave. With enough free labor and willing hearts, I think GCA could really create an oasis in Mirebelais. Their plans for a church, orphanage, and school on the property around the guesthouse sound impressive. A real community could thrive here, I think. I’d love to come back next summer and see what they are doing. Now, however, I think I’ll end this journal entry. It’s not quite bedtime but this first entry is long. Another one will come tomorrow.
À plus tard!

Day Two: Sunday, July 25, 2010

After 10-11 hours of much-needed rest, we roused ourselves for our first experience in a Haitian church. Dress was semi-formal; slacks and nice shirts for the men, skirts or summery dresses for the girls. We piled into the giant van and Land Rover and began our trek across the insufferable Haitian roads. As with yesterday, we seemed to spend more time bouncing out of our seats than sitting down comfortably in them. But I wasn’t complaining – these people walked most of the distances we drove… shoeless.
More scenes of poverty presented themselves to us, but it was quite different than Port-au-Prince. Here, the poverty was of the rural kind; animals grazed in the grass, and nestled among stalks of corn and high weeds were dilapidated shacks. It was peaceful, but not idyllic. It was not a quixotic, peasant-like existence; rather, it was hardscrabble sustenance living, the people attempting to coax food from the hot, unfriendly earth.
Before I go on to talk about the church service, I have one scene to share from yesterday. After I finished writing my journal, while I was relaxing outside, one of the GCA missionaries came to the porch talking about how there were Haitians butchering a goat out back. I immediately grabbed my shoes and ventured around the back of the guesthouse with Nathan and Peter to check out the spectacle. The goat had been killed quite some time before I arrived, as evidenced by the large bowl on the ground in which rested the goat head, innards, heart, and stomach. Large slabs of meet and bone lay upon a sheet of tin metal. Several Haitians squatted around it, and one of them was hacking away at the flesh with a machete. It was simultaneously fascinating and disgusting – not repulsive because of the gore, but rather because of the flies that were swarming over the remains. In a red plastic bowl was a thick red substance. We learned that they cut the throat of the goat and then hang it up on a tree and drain out the blood.
But that was yesterday. Today, we went to church. It was an incredible experience. The people worship the Lord with incredible sincerity and enthusiasm, despite the hot building. It was merely a large cinderblock-enclosed space with a tin roof. Hard, splintering wooden benches provided seating. The people of Haiti dress in their best clothes for church and sit close to each other, rocking and clapping and holding our their hands as they sing. They sing loudly and without tiring, most of the songs memorized. When the pastor leads prayer, they pray together and at different times, raising their voices to Heaven, so that to my ears I heard simple a flood of voices, rising and falling in energy, praising and thanking God. People held their hands up, closed their eyes and shook their heads in a rapture of heavenly praise. It was the rawest form of worship – people offering their bodies and voices to praise God. And in that regard, it was stunningly beautiful.
Frank, the GTA coordinator and quasi “head honcho” here at the guesthouse (also known as “white GCA staffer” from yesterday’s entry), gave a brief monologue sharing my story of losing my passport. He offered it to the Haitian people to illustrate our determination to be here. He said that if I could lose my passport, go all the way home, make it back to the airport, and still get to Haiti just two hours after the rest of the group, then I was determined to serve God here. I was very humbled. Later, Frank told me he planned to use my story frequently to encourage people.
Craig gave a 15-20 minute sermon, intermittently translated by Marcel, our GTA Haitian missionary and translator. It was a good sermon, well-received by the congregation, about how God dwells in his people and we are thus united by Christ, no matter where we come from. The service was long, filled with song and worship, and swelteringly hot. After each pause, the congregation said “Amen!” over and over again, as though Craig were having a conversation with them, rather than the one-sided sermons I was accustomed to. Afterwards, we were warmly greeted by the congregation. They all clamored to shake our hands and touch us, welcoming us to Haiti. One woman, as we prepared to leave, starting singing loudly to us in English, drawing the eyes of everyone nearby. She was singing the songs and exclaiming how happy she was to see us, that we were one family in Christ. We sang along and clapped our hands, but it was clear she wasn’t going to stop so eventually we told her we had to go, thanked her, and left.
We got home, had a large and filling Haitian lunch (eating the goat I saw butchered yesterday – it was surprisingly tasty), changed clothes, and began milling about. For a few hours, we did our own things – talking in the shade, reading, journaling, playing “soccah” with the kids, and enjoying the freedom from the modern world. Eventually, we got called to duty – we had to package food bags and scoop flour, cornmeal, and beans into plastic bags to distribute to people who needed it. The entire team got involved and it was truly a labor of love. Spirits were high the entire time, even as we got covered in cough-inducing flour and sweated through our t-shirts. Haitian kids came and milled around us, asking for photos, which seems to be their favorite pastime (every time we’re around them, they clamor for a photo, motioning. They are fascinated by it.) After about an hour of that, we had finished, and we felt useful and wonderfully fatigued.
After that, we relaxed for a bit, and then a very large group of us decided to explore the territory around the guesthouse. Haiti is beautiful in many aspects. The immediate area around the guesthouse is pastoral. Despite the extreme poverty of the Haitians, they live a simple life. I can’t help but be reminded of Lord of the Rings; albeit with substantially more suffering and hard work, the Haitians live somewhat like hobbits. The land is hilly and grassy, and scatted among the rolling landscape are horses and livestock, tied to rocks or trees by frayed ropes. The kids run barefoot all over the area, using dirt paths that snake off in all directions. The sense of oneness with the people and land was overpowering; I was struck with a sudden disgust for the hectic, impersonal cities of the U.S. This, in Haiti, was how we were meant to live.
The walk was rewarding; we grew closer to many of the kids, teaching them English as they taught us Creole. And here, I believe, would be a good spot to expound a little upon Creole.
The best way to describe the language is a sort of very uneducated French, mutated from its core language but still retaining some of the beauty. It is relatively evident that the Haitians learned French orally but only the educated few learned to write it. As they adopted the tongue and made it their own, they worked it into writing. Written Creole is like a basic phonetic expression of spoken French. Although spoken Creole is substantially different from French in many aspects, it is still possible to understand some of what they’re saying. But reading it is impossible unless you pronounce what you see and try to match it up with French. It’s a really fascinating study in linguistics. Luckily, French is taught in the schools, so if the kids have had a little schooling, they will understand some of your French. It certainly helps to be competent in French, but there is still a language barrier for sure.
Okay, back to today. The walk was really fantastic to bond with the kids and see the Haitian countryside. At one point we came across a pool of water hidden in a grove of trees. The children promptly stripped naked – totally without scruples – and dived in, splashing around with childish glee and telling us to take their pictures. We were initially bashful, but their carefree attitude was infectious and we couldn’t help but laugh. It was dangerous to join them, because of the filthy water and parasites, but nothing seemed more appealing at the time.
After the walk, we relaxed in the shade of the porch and tried talked with the children. They seem to have all the time in the world for us, simply following us around wherever we go outside and staying until we go inside or it gets dark out. Some other members of the team and GCA were gathering together clothes and supplies for the Haitians on the front porch and had attracted quite a crowd. We helped with that and watched until it was time to go to church again.
It was difficult to get into long pants again, but we all did it and piled into the van and Land Rover to go to another church. The ride was much longer and much rougher, but we laughed and joked the whole way so it wasn’t a problem. It started pouring torrentially as we drove – we had arrived in Haiti during the rainy season. Water started dripping through the ceiling and hitting some of the members in the van, which caused a fair amount of laughter. When we got there, we scrambled up soaked steps, shielding our cameras, and into a church that was building just like the one from the morning. No one was there yet, except a few men setting up a lamp and a light bulb. As the rain poured down around us, we sat in the cool dark and began to sing.
Immediately apparent was the fact that we were all sorely in need of song memorization (with the exception of Rebekah, who kinda knows everything about everything, and Diane, who likewise knows everything). We went through song after song and could only really get through the first verse and chorus. However, it was still a moving and enriching experience for us – to just stand there in such a humble setting and sing together. During Holy Holy Holy, Arijana went into Lempke-women mode and lifted her voice above ours, filling the small church with almost angelic notes.
Eventually, more Haitians filed in and we had a much more subdued, yet still powerful, evening service. Both the Haitians and we shared testimonials, with Marcel providing translations both ways. It was powerful to see how unexpectedly happy and content the Haitians are. Three themes repeated themselves throughout the evening: “I am so happy,” “I am thankful,” “Please pray for us…” After the service, when we were back at the guesthouse, we had a time of prayer and sharing the Word, and the effect the day had had on us was clear on all of our faces. We realize now how much Haiti is already changing us – or rather, how the people of Haiti are changing us. Their happiness and reliance on God is so refreshing, so real. Our convoluted, wrapped-up lives at home, with the meaningless trivial concerns and our conceited discontentment – it’s all so unappealing now. It is almost as though our many blessings are also our curse. We fill our lives with so many things other than God, whereas many of the Haitians survive on God. It is truly stunning.
But at the same time, the magnitude of my inherent blessing is becoming terribly obvious to me. I had always vaguely known I was blessed. But it had never sunk home to me as it did now. I was blessed simply to be born into the circumstances I was. These kids had absolutely no say in their fate. They were thrust into abject poverty, poor living conditions, wrecked infrastructure, unclean water and food, rampant disease… the list goes on. For some reason, God saw fit to put them here. Their souls could have easily inhabited my body, and vice versa. There could’ve been a Russell in Haiti right now, though he wouldn’t be Russell; it would be me, with all my vices and virtues, except living on the streets, in rags, speaking Creole, living day-to-day. Perhaps I would be happier – but I wouldn’t be blessed. God saw fit to place me into privilege; he saw fit to bless me so bounteously that I took education, cars, internet, television, movies, hygiene, clean water and food, healthcare, entertainment, luxury, and so many other things for granted. Things that these kids know not of. That is pure and unadulterated blessing. It was a gift I did nothing to earn, something I had no say in, but managed to somehow acquire. For that, praise God. And praise God that these people, thrust into their excruciatingly more different circumstances, manage to get up in the morning with a smile and a prayer of thanks.

Day Three: Monday, July 26, 2010

Today after breakfast we traveled through the heart of Mirebelais to a privately run Haitian school. According to some of the people there, it is owned by the pastor of one of the big churches in Mirebelais, and is one of the nicest schools in the city – sort of the Choate of Haiti.
The worst schools in America were better than this school. It was a two story concrete structure, open doorways and windows, with a dusty and garbage-filled courtyard in the center. The kids sat on old, worn wooden benches scattered about a dirt floor that looked like it was never cleaned or swept. Some lucky classrooms had a chalkboard with pathetic stubs of chalk providing the only source of writing utensil. The bathrooms were simply holes in the ground with crumbling stone barriers around to have some semblance of privacy, the air around the dark room reeking of excrement and urine. But, it was cool out of the sun, and the kids were well dressed enough. They were ecstatic to see us.
When we arrived they were singing a song in English. We gathered in the middle with them sitting around us. An agreement was quickly reached: Haitian children are much cuter than American children. They smile with freedom and simplicity, and their eyes sparkle. It’s stimulating to be around them.
Several young men arrived to serve as translators. They were really excellent; prepared to serve us, affable, and adept at languages. Many of them spoke English and French with equal ease. Creole, of course, was their natural tongue. Several members of the team put on a skit dramatizing the Parable of the Sower of the Seeds from the Bible. We would say one or two lines and then they would translate, attempting to mimic our voices and actions. I took video of the entire skit – it was entertaining to see the translators trying to copy what we did in Creole.
After the skit, we split up into a few groups. My group explained the parable further and let the kids color in a pamphlet that summarized it. Another group had a physical activity with beach balls, while another did arts and crafts. The translators worked with a fourth group teaching them English.
It was truly rewarding to interact with the kids. They weren’t orphans – in fact, they were, by Haitian standards, very well off. But those are Haitian standards. Many of them still only had crackers for lunch. But, like many Haitian kids, they were gentle, happy, and caring. The urge to take them home was overpowering.
I got the chance to really use my French, at last. First I had a conversation with one of the translators, who was impressed that I spoke French, and then I conversed with the group of older boys. It goes a long way here, both in understanding some basic Creole and in connecting with the people. When they see an outsider who is conversant in French, they immediately warm up to you, open up more. The older kids, to whom I had spoken French, now only speak to me in French, which is nice.
We spent until lunchtime at the school, which closes at 12:30. After, we said our farewells to the translators (though we would see them tomorrow) and came back to the guesthouse for lunch and relaxation.
That afternoon, we went to a Haitian orphanage in Mirebelais. This was the first time I had been in the heart of the poverty here. I had always been around the kids – seen the fliess swarming around their hair, the dirt caking their bodies – and I had witnessed up close the ramshackle huts and filthy, garbage-laden streets; but I had never roamed about in the poverty, never woven through the squat concrete houses. Today, at the orphanage, I was experiencing for a brief hour what these people lived in. Their nicest amenities were simply rough concrete walls and floors. The children traversed the thick mud and rocks barefoot, walking unabashedly through torpid water and rotting vegetation. Even so, they were relatively well cared for at the orphanage, compared to other children. GCA had recently supplied them with food, so they were getting enough to eat, but many of them were malnourished (presumably because of worms). While the rest of us entertained the kids and mingled with them, my dad and Marcel – the super-Haitian who translates and runs everything around here – and another man here set up a small medical clinic and started seeing some of the children.
The biggest problem they saw was malnutrition. Since the kids were getting food (one meal a day, provided via funds from GCA and the local church), the consensus was that they were lacking some vitamins, they had worms, or both. We sent back some vitamins and gave all the kids worm-killing medicine to cover both bases. Some of the very small infants had latched on to members of the group; it was heart-wrendingly adorable how these small, dirty children lay across our chests so willingly and trustingly. They were beautiful children, despite the filth around them.
But as I saw them, I began to realize how desperate the situation in Haiti is. Before me I saw orphans who were considered lucky. In Haitian terms, they were blessed to receive one meal a day. Yet see – they were so frail, the little ones so listless! Look how they seem to sag in my arms, laying their matted hair against my shoulder and closing their eyes. Feel their tiny limbs, or the belly that protrudes out from worms or malnutrition or a combination of the two. They fell asleep standing up. How could I go home unaffected by this? My conscience demanded action.
We said our goodbyes at the orphanage and then drove down the road and saw the enormous property that the mayor of Mirebelais donated to GCA for construction. They’re going to build a town – called Newtown – to house refugees from Port-au-Prince. The property is an enormous 200 acres and rich in vegetation. Frank said that all the plans had been drawn up and all that was needed now was to finish acquiring all the necessary funds. The town would house about 60 families of refugees. According to Frank, their goal was to provide excellence, to strive towards American standards of living. They wanted to set an example of what living could be like for these people, so that perhaps more would follow.
After touring the property, we came back to the guesthouse and ate dinner and relaxed for the rest of the evening. Towards nightfall, many of the kids came to the steps of the guesthouse and what commenced was about two hours of American-Haitian interaction. It was such an awesome experience. I feel immense love for these kids already; it completely ruins me every time I contemplate the hardships they have to endure, and how they manage to stay upbeat about life. God’s children are truly angels.
We began teaching them English, and they are eager learners. We taught them phrases such as “My name is” and “what is your name?” Then someone brought out some flashcards and we taught them nouns: pen, pencil, map, book, table. They were delighted just to have us lavishing all our attention on them. After that, we were all milling around saying phrases in English, and the kids began to teach us Creole. I learned the equivalent of “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” in Creole. I’ve begun to build relationships with some of the kids. I know their names and they know mine. Some of the names I’ve learned:
- Jando
- Leonard
- Alix
- Alex
- Doobee
- Valentine
- Magdino
- Watson
- Peterson
- Jameson
- Evaldo
There are more children, but I simply can’t remember them all. Anyways, it was hard to say goodnight to them because I wanted to be there 24 hours a day, helping them and caring for them. I never grow weary of their presence. They’ve shared their world with me openly, and I wish I could return the favor – bring them back, somehow, to America so I can show them the world, show them everything they would otherwise never get the chance to see. All I want for these kids is happiness and health, as cliché as it sounds. They don’t need the worries and concerns of our twisted and conceited Western society. I know it sounds bad but I think they will be happier here in Haiti among the poverty, because it’s what they know. It makes things simpler. The diseases they don’t need, nor the hunger and thirst; these must be remedied, so they can live long, fulfilling lives as is their right. But having next to nothing, despite all its curses, has the enormous benefit of letting these people focus on what matters: family, God, and building relationships with each other. And because of that, I can’t decide whether I should pity them, or they should pity me.

Day Four: Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Today we went back to the school. The kids had a surprise for us – some of the girls danced for us. One of the songs was by Shakira, and the other was by Rihanna. It was hilarious to see these kids twisting their bodies in a very American fashion to these very American songs, probably having no idea what the words meant at all. After their performance we had the daily sing-along with the children, where we sing to them and they respond in Creole.
The performances and sing-along took up a lot of time, so we condensed our stations. First, I worked with some of the group and we taught a large group of kids the body parts in English. They were really enthusiastic learners, as always. After that, my station was to read the Parable of the Lost Sheep to the children and then help them make little sheep out of cotton balls and paper cups with holes punched in them for legs (fingers). I read the parable from a French Bible I borrowed from Marcel. It was sort of my pride and glory to read to these kids in French; I finally got to use all the skills I had been cultivating all these years. The translators said that my accent is really good. Word has gotten around that I speak French, and now many of them come up to me and ask if I speak French, then tell their friends. It’s my own minor celebrity status here. I’m just glad I have some skills that can be of some use.
After a great day at the school, we came back for lunch. The translators followed us home and we had lunch with them. It was great to bond with them, and we got to learn a little more about them. They were all students at the university in Port-au-Prince before it collapsed in the earthquake. They moved out to Mirebalais and have been helping the pastor who owns the school. The pastor knew that they knew English and offered their services to Frank a few weeks before we arrived. Frank pays for their rent (they all live together) and their food. They’ve been a great help.
Over conversation with the translators at lunch, I learned from one of them that his pregnant sister had died about one month ago. It was really difficult for him to tell us because it had happened so recently – the emotions were still quite raw. I could see him smile weakly to try to hold back the tears. We talked to someone else at the table to give him a break and I could see him fighting back tears out of the corner of my eye. It took him several minutes to get over it. It was really moving, really sad. I can imagine it was just one of several heartbreaks this man has experienced over the past few months.
After lunch we went to this town by a massive dam. It was incredibly scenic; we stood atop a giant concrete bridge with water cascading far beneath us, the roar a distant sound to our ears. In front of us was a gorge stretching back towards Mirebalais, the earth dancing and convoluting before our eyes. Jungle-like foliage covered the landscape. Behind us was the lake the dam created, surrounded by similar hills and mountains rising up, giving it the air of an ancient jungle basin that had not changed for a thousand years. The translators came with us, and saw it for the first time.
At the end of the dam the Land Rover was parked and we began trekking the food and supplies we had packed a few days ago up through the village. It was, like so many of my experiences here, incredibly profound. Here we are in 2010 and these people – with the exception of a few oddball amenities like weak, random electricity and Western-style clothing – are living like they probably did hundreds of years ago. They live in stone huts with dirt floors, many of the babies completely without clothes. Roosters, goats, and pigs roam among the shelters. The center of the town is a large shelter covered with a parachute they scavenged from an airdrop, giving the town its name: Parachute City.
They people here were more impoverished than those at the orphanage; they are less blessed. Literally, we were moved to tears. We could not believe the condition these people lived in, yet the still offered us benches to sit on, showing us admirable hospitality. The kids were more listless, more besieged by hunger and disease, than any I had seen previously. The younger ones didn’t even wear clothes.
We sang songs with them, prayed with them, and blessed them. It was hard for all of us, but they were very happy to see us. Dad administered to a young girl who had an infected wound on her ear. We stayed for about an hour with the translators and then left, feeling very moved.
It struck me again, coming back, how blessed I was. How these kids God had seen fit to place here, and this was their life; they knew no other. And God saw fit to place me in the most prosperous country in the world. I had done nothing – nothing – to deserve it. My standard of life was so much higher.
But conversely, I felt like the Haitian people were blessed. Their difficulties were physical; poverty, hunger, disease. But their spirits were thriving. They filled their lives with their relationships with each other, their love for their families, and their dependence on God. All our possessions and wealth serve to fill the spaces God is supposed to fill, and distract us from Him. And, like last night, I couldn’t decide whether the Haitians or we were more blessed. I guess we each have our difficulties and must learn to overcome them. We will help them live a better life, and they will open our hearts.
We came home and pretty soon Craig, Chris, Nathan and I were on an evening walk with three of the kids: Alix, Jameson, and Ivaldo. We walked for a good hour or more, the sky around us slowly darkening until we needed a flashlight to see. It was one of those experiences one never forgets. For an entire lifetime. I walked through the wild Haitian countryside, led by its 8 year-old native children, and they never led us astray. They were just happy to be with us, and we with them. We walked up to a tree on a hill that looked like the image from the Imagine movie company pre-movie promo. We stood underneath the tree, looking out across the black lakes and rolling hills, and I knew what it meant to have nothing and be infinitely happy. The kids led us back, even though we were completely lost. I love these kids with all my heart. If something were to happen to them, I don’t know how I would be able to get over it. I can’t think about it, or I’m overcome. How can such beautiful, broken people exist and the world not know of them? I just want to show them to the world, point to them and say, “See these children? These are the children of Haiti. Alix has a sage smile; Jando is a trickster; Doobee likes to act tougher than he is, but we all know he’s still a baby at heart; Valentine wouldn’t hurt a fly; Magdino lights up like the stars every time he laughs, which is at least once a minute.” I want people to realize that these aren’t just poor children. They are unique children. They deserve more.
Any of the people in Western civilizations dealing with any social or mental problems need one cure – Haiti. If you’re depressed, upset, holding a grudge, lost, confused, wondering why… anything. Come to Haiti. These people change you; this land changes you. It put things in perspective and shines a bright and unforgiving light on Western culture, all our weaknesses and presumptions and haughtiness. We have so much to learn from these people, probably more than they do from us. I just hope I can bring back some of those lessons to the United States.

Day Four: Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Before I go on to today, I just have to mention that last night I smoked a cigar and a pipe for the first time. It was not what I expected. Unlike a cigarette, the goal is not to inhale the smoke. In fact, if you do, it burns and you cough and it’s quite unpleasant. The trick is to draw the smoke into your mouth without actually breathing in any of it. I inhaled it by accident a few times, but I’m proud to say I managed to do it successfully a few times. It tasted a little poor. I think it’s an acquired taste.
Today, however, was our rest day. We went to Tou Tou’s orphanage and gave them powdered milk that we had all chipped in to buy. It was really expensive; the team chipped in $150 and it bought about 6 cans. However, those six cans will probably last at least a month, so we provided nourishment for the little ones for an extended period. That put all of our minds at ease just a little bit. We also played with the kids and gave them papers to color on. There are little ones that are painfully small and adorable. All I wanted to do was hold them, hold them forever in my arms and tell them that they were loved. They are God’s children, God’s bright little stars. They trust us, and they love us. The least we can do is give them our money and food.
After that, we spent the rest of the day at the Wazo Hotel, where the teams used to stay before the guesthouse was built. It is saying a lot that – other than the guesthouse – it was the nicest place I had been yet to Haiti, and it still had dirty rock floors around the pool and a general air of bad sanitation. But it was walled and the pool was really refreshing. We spent the afternoon there, bonding as a team. It was great, despite my guilt that here I was wallowing in fresh water, while most of Haiti didn’t have that to drink.
When we came home that evening, a larger group of us went on that long walk to the tree. Most of the team actually went, along with a large group of kids. Alix went again and he was sort of my buddy. He went part of the way there on my back, and almost all the return trip giggling next to my ear as he clung to me. It was so nice to be able to connect with the kids. All I want to do is ensure them a safe future. I know I can’t – it’s in God’s hands. But I want to have peace of mind that they will be fed, have access to medicine, and get an education. I want these kids to grow up and be happy, more than almost anything I’ve ever wanted in my lifetime.
At night, Frank gave us a presentation where he outlined the aid they need, and implored us to aid them financially when we return. He told us how much they need the money, and exactly where the money will be going. He also gave us a pamphlet that outlined all the ways one could give. He got very emotional, telling us how it breaks his heart to not be able to give more to these people. As we prayed, I felt tears spill from my eyes – the first I had shed for Haiti. All I could think of was the faces of the children I had seen, especially the boys who hang out around the guesthouse. They deserve so much. I need to help them.
I have hatched a plan this night. I will create a presentation, using a PowerPoint and the pictures I have taken here. I will present this to the entire Choate student body sometime after my return, during the all-school meeting. If possible, I will try to present it at Parent’s Weekend to the Choate parents. And, God willing, I will be able to get permission to bring it before the Board of Trustees at Choate, to see if they would be willing to give personally, or to see if they could work in a consistent aid effort to the Choate budget. I don’t know what can happen. Maybe nothing. But if I can get out there, I trust that God will move hearts and minds. And hopefully we can bring relief to the most deserving children in the world.

Day Five: Thursday, July 29, 2010

We started out the day today at the children’s school – La Fraternité, I now know it’s called – teaching them English. First, after our daily sing-along with the kids (lasting about 30 minutes) we put on a puppet show illustrating the parable of the Good Samaritan. It was very successful; the children were mightily entertained by our puppetry and voice animation. At the end, we received a rousing round of applause.
After this, we split up into groups: one taught them English, while the other did a craft to go along with the parable. I stuck with the group teaching English. Initially, I was with the older boys who – sue me – I think are the most intelligent students at the school. Diane and Dad relinquished the reins, as much as they could, and let me try to teach the kids, and it went really well. My French impressed them and they were apt listeners and learners. There were a few words they found difficult to pronounce, and our attempts to help sent them into fits of laughter. “Pink” and “purple” were both popular, the kids finding the “ur” in purple difficult, and the “ink” in pink difficult. They pronounced them “peen” and “pohpah,” respectively. It was entertaining. But we got through a lot of material: we covered most of the body parts, most of the major colors, and most of the main articles of clothing. We had even moved on to simple sentences (“this is a white t-shirt” or “that is a white t-shirt) by the end. To help teach them the body parts, we had sung the Hokey Pokey, which they found immensely amusing, not least because Hokey Pokey is an absurd name.
After the older boys, we taught the younger girls, who were much slower learners but still a joy to teach. When we finished with them, we said goodbye and started to leave. Two things happened as we left – not momentous, but worth mentioning.
First, some of the older boys asked for my email address. I was touched, and every particle in me wanted to give it to them, but Frank intervened and told me it wasn’t possible. He said it was just a really bad idea, because I had no idea where it would end up, and they would constantly ask me for things. So I declined, sadly. But we plan to get the full names of the translators tomorrow so we can be friends on Facebook.
Second, the translators revealed to Frank that their landlord had taken their stove so they were unable to cook. The last time they had eaten was Tuesday with us – two days ago. We were struck; how quietly they suffered! These were university students! Yes, they had lost their education in the earthquake and now survived on the funds of GCA, but they were still educated men who were better off than the vast majority of Haiti. And still, they went two days’ time without eating. That speaks to the poverty of the country.
Anyways, Frank gave them money for food and plans to buy them a stove. I asked why the landlord took theirs, and he said it was because she knew that they were funded by us “blancs” and would therefore get another one. Pure exploitation, but we can’t do anything about it.
After returning to the guesthouse and having lunch, we headed out for New Jerusalem, a school for the deaf and an orphanage. About 20 deaf children and 20 normal children go the school there, as well as some orphans. It was a place mired in poverty, like so much of Haiti, but the kids were reasonably well off compared to other kids. They slept with a roof over their heads, sunken mattresses and dirty sheets, and they had a toilet. It stunk, but it was there. We did the puppet show for them as well, but much slower because it had to be translated into Creole and then into sign language. Afterwards, we did crafts with the kids, letting them color and make necklaces.
Two things worth mentioning here again. First, Haiti has claimed some victims from the team. Maureen was suffering all day from stomach pain and nausea, and looked really bad well through the afternoon. They only food she had was some rice at dinner, and now she feels much better, but she was pretty touch-and-go for awhile. Also, Katherine Onofrio and Diane have colds and are taking medicine. Considering that it’s Haiti, we’re pretty well off. But it’s still illness.
Second, I met two twins today. They were seven year-old boys, extremely soft-spoken. What struck me about them, other than their mildness of manner and almost feminine eyelashes, was that they took care of each other. They put stickers on each other’s necklaces, shared crayons. When they walked away, they held hands. I felt myself getting choked up as I looked at them. It was so amazing to see them take care of each other, even though their bodies were small and frail from malnutrition. Kids in the U.S. simply don’t act that way.
We came home a little before five. I went outside to play soccer with the kids and Nathan. Almost as soon as we started, Nathan unintentionally tripped me and I took a really nasty fall on the dirt. I had to leave, but the kids were really cool about it: they kept asking me if I was okay and got mad at Nathan. HA.
But my wounds were substantial and I had to abstain for the rest of the day. I have giant gashes on both my knees, one on my elbow, and one on my back. I have a small gash on my hand. They sting something awful but it’s not so bad.
Anyways, a lot of the kids came over tonight and wanted to do the walk to the tree again, but we saw rain clouds and said it was a bad idea. So they started hanging out with us. What soon commenced was EXTREME BONDING.
First, the sky opened up. It happened gradually, but eventually it was really pouring and thundering and lightning and we were all crowded under the porch. Which was not good, because they’re not supposed to be on the porch, but we couldn’t leave them out in the rain. So they came and sat with us and we laughed and talked about the rain and tried not to get wet.
Then we all started dancing and singing. The kids were hanging off the chairs and crowded the couches and the energy was high. We were just sitting there, in the slowly darkening porch, with the elements raging around us, and we sang with all our hearts. It was awesome. The kids were loving every minute of us. Soon enough, we started getting up and dancing around and getting wet. Nathan and Arijana and Keri got soaking wet and started dancing outside, to the huge amusement of the kids. Some of the staff were outside too and started laughing and singing with us as well. The whole community seemed to be drawing close together.
Well it just got wilder and wilder, with people sliding around in the rain, the kids laughing and screaming with the energy and innocence only children can have, all of us loving every minute. Nathan and Arijana started sliding around on the wet, uncovered part of the porch, dancing and doing gymnastics and just getting soaking wet, while the kids and staff died laughing. Then Arijana started hugging the staff, making them wet, which made them really warm up to us. People took video – looking at it now makes me laugh.
The kids were exuberant. Even soft-spoken Valentine, the most beautiful little girl I’ve ever met in my life, showed her small white teeth and sang with us. I noticed that night that there were hardly any girls around the guesthouse. Most of our neighbors were boys – in fact, I only know of about 2-3 little girls who came round. I guess it’s just because the boys are more adventurous. Anyways, as much as I love these kids, I sort of wished I could see more Haitian girls, see their perspective to the poverty. Luckily, there were plenty at the schools and orphanages.
More than anything that night, my love for these children grew. I love them with all my heart, probably more than anything in my life. They’ve done so much for me, and they don’t even know it. They’ve taught me how to suffer and still smile. How to be happy with merely the company of others. I’ve never loved children so much in my life. When I’m with them, I feel so happy, because they are so happy and so alive and so precious. More than anything, I want for them to stay happy. I want them to grow up and have children of their own and live to be old men and women. I want for them to experience no more disaster and heartache.
But I know it’s unrealistic. Some of them will experience heartache and disaster and suffering. Perhaps some of them will die before their time. It’s in God’s hands, for His plan. All I can do is come back, summer after summer, and help. And donate money for a school for the kids, and get my friends to donate money. All we can do is help and pray. And, God willing, these kids will get to taste happiness for the rest of their lives.

Day Six: Friday, July 30, 2010

Today was the last full day in Haiti.
We started the day by returning to the school in Mirebalais where we’d been going almost every day. The kids were a little more subdued but still very happy to see us. Our “main act” today (we’d done a skit and a puppet show before) was to illustrate the parable of the Great Banquet via another skit. I was the master of the banquet (Jesus) and I talked about how excited I was for my feast, and I laid out lots of food. We made cards so that we could teach the kids English while the skit was going on. Then I asked Nathan to invite guests, and he went around to different members of the group and asked them to come. True to the parable, they all had excuses. Some were tired, some were sick, some weren’t hungry. They all had cards like I had for my food, so the kids learned what we were saying. The translators did a great job trying to emulate our emotions as they translated it into Creole.
After the skit, we broke up into groups and, since we didn’t have much time today, we stayed with the same group through the next forty minutes. Like yesterday, I was with the oldest boys. We started out by teaching them feelings: tired, sick, full, surprised, afraid, sad… etc. It was hilarious. We tried to show them what each one meant by acting it out, and when they repeated the word they mimicked our noises and actions as well. Now these kids can’t say “sick” without faking a cough, or say “surprised” without widening their eyes and jumping up, startled. It was really comic.
Next, we moved on to food, like from the banquet. They didn’t have problems with simple words like “beans” and “rice,” but once we moved on to “pineapple” and “coconut,” we ran into a little trouble. But they were very eager learners, like always, and the time passed quickly.
We said goodbye to the kids for the last time and piled into three cars – the giant van, the mini-van, and the Land Rover – with the translators to head back to the guesthouse. We didn’t stay long at the guesthouse, though. We soon headed back out, without eating lunch, on a very long drive towards a waterfall Frank wanted to show us. The translators came with us.
I was in the giant van and we were having a great time. They LOVE to sing, especially American songs, so we spent a lot of time just singing. I had gotten all of them to write down their full names earlier that day so that we could friend them on Facebook. Now they were really opening up to us, and it was nice. We have a few inside jokes with them: yelling “Positions!” in a French accent really loudly, shouting “Fehrenh!” (which means “circle” in Creole), and calling one of the translators “Jenskwenn,” which apparently just sounds ugly to Creole ears. It was hilarious, and we spent a lot of time just cracking up.
Anyway, after a long ride we got out and started hiking to the waterfall. I walked with two of the translators and we spoke French the whole time. It was much more difficult for me to understand them because I am used to a Parisian accent when I hear French, and they speak it with a Creole accent. But I got by, occasionally just asking them to repeat themselves and misunderstanding them a few times. Novak and Wiskins were the translators’ names. We talked about theater (Les Misérables), literature (Zadig de Voltaire), and poetry. I recited the lines from the poem I had memorized earlier this year, and they were impressed.
After a hefty walk, we reached the waterfall. It wasn’t spectacular, but it was really nice. The water dropped from high up above us and cascaded below, sending up a roaring spray. Several Haitians were bathing themselves and washing clothes in the swift current. Marcel handed out sugar cane and we ate it next to the waterfall. My first taste of sugar cane was actually last night, though, and it’s delicious. You have to bite into it and chew on the pulpy mass, extracting the sweet juice, before spitting it back out. It’s nice – working for sugar is strangely satisfying.
After the waterfall, we hiked back to the cars and went to an orphanage nearby, called Soto’s Orphanage. Soto is the pastor of the church we went to Sunday night. The orphanage has been officially out of business (so to speak) since the 1980’s, but people still work there, providing a place for orphans to go during the day to get a meal. At night they sleep with various families nearby.
When we got there, food finally arrived for lunch and we ate. After that, we did the puppet show from yesterday for the kids and then started on crafts. We intermittently sang with them as well, recycling the many songs we’ve been singing so often lately. Now’s a good point to try to get down their titles:
- Jesus Loves the Little Children
- Jesus Loves Me, This I know
- Rejoice in the Lord Always
- Hallelujah
- This is the Day
- Amazing Grace
- Father Abraham
There were probably others, but I’ve forgotten them now. We learned a lot of the Creole equivalents of these songs as well.
After spending some time at Soto’s “Orphanage,” we headed back to the guesthouse, where we said goodbye to the translators. However, I will be sharing their names with people on the team so we can friend them on Facebook. It helps to know that we may still be in contact long after we’ve left Haiti.
This evening, we went on a final hike to the tree with the kids. I’ve grown extremely attached to the children. I love them. I just want them to live happy, healthy lives... have I said before? Their playful nature and willingness to live, love, and learn is infectious, and I hope to bring some of it back with me. As I’ve sent countless times, my heart breaks for them. I have a firm resolve to continue helping them, even when I’m in the U.S.
Tonight, we had an almost 3-hour devotional. We all had a lot to share concerning how we were feeling after our week, the fears we had about returning, and the ways God has changed us this trip. It was very emotional for some of us, and I could feel us all grower closer through it.
It’s worth mentioning here as well that we’ve been learning a Creole worship song called Laba Nan. It’s about heaven, and how our hope is there, not here. We’ve been singing if before almost every meal, and the Haitian staff joins in with us. We’re planning to sing it for the congregation when we get back. It’s very loud and animated, so we’re excited to see how the sometimes stiff congregation of CPC is going to take it.
Anyways, after the devotional I stayed up very late with Nathan, Katherine, Craig, Maureen, Laura, Chris, and eventually Arijana. We were just joking around and growing closer, which was nice.
I went to bed dreading the morning, when I had to leave Haiti.

Day Seven: Saturday, July 31, 2010

Today we left Haiti.
We got up and ate our final breakfast, sang the Creole song we’d been learning, and piled into the vans. Some of the kids (Alex, Leonard, Evaldo, Jameson) came to say goodbye, and we tried to keep it short. The tears were building at the floodgates.
As we pulled out, I began to weep silently in the van, trying to keep it hidden from the 16 other people in the car with me. But it was impossible. For the next 20 minutes I sobbed quietly, the tears running freely down my face. All I could think of was how much I loved the children I had seen, at the orphanage and around the guesthouse, and how much I wanted to hold them and tell them it would be alright. They deserve so much more than what they have. Haiti deserves so much more.
This won’t be a very long journal post. Most of it is self-explanatory. We went to the airport – it was hectic. I bought a Bible in Creole. We boarded the plane. Cried as we took off. Bonded together. Etc.
What really matters is how Haiti has changed me. I think it’s pretty self-evident from the pages and pages of journal before this. I feel like back in Haiti is reality, and this is all a warped dream in Connecticut. I know it’s not the case but I can’t shake that feeling.
I want to write down the names of the translators, so it’s set in stone. I’m friends with most of them on Facebook though.
- Wiskins Pierre
- Peterson Saint-ilma
- Anthony Charles
- Joseph Mulhardo
- Gasner Louis
- Jean Emmanuel Bijou
- Alex Leon
- Ulysse Emmanuel
- Emmanuel Lambert
- RiCardo François
- Iagadère Novak Pierre
They are incredible guys and will be remembered for a long time. We all have plans to go back very soon. We’re not done with Haiti and it’s not done with us. The faces of those children, at the orphanage, at the school, around the guesthouse – they swim in my vision occasionally, smiling and laughing and running around. I won’t ever forget them. I left my heart in Haiti.

Dlo nan ge va siye
Detres yo va fini
Laba Nan peyi anro
Tripotay ap sispann
Medisans pap gin plas
Laba Nan peyi anro

Chorus
Laba anro kote papa-a
Laba Nan peyi anro
Mouin gin yon sel espoua
Ke yon jou pou-m rive
Laba Nan peyi anro

Kay la ma posede
Pap gin moguej souli
Laba Nan peyi anro
Pa gin jouri machin-n
Se chario ma roule
Laba nan peyi anro

Pap gin achte kredi
Se sou lo ma roule
Laba Nan peyi anro
Tou sa-m posede
Sou te ya ap drive
Laba Nan peyi anro

An nou tout bien amie
Kimbe fem poun rive
Laba Nan peyi anro
Sang Chris-la certifie
Que plas nous garanti
Laba Nan peyi anro

a bond of brothers

2010-08-01T19:55:00.002-04:00

a bond of brothers

the thick clinging grasses
brushed my legs under
a sun that shone through
seamlessly racing clouds
above mountains that taunted
my eyes with unseemly beauty,
and all around me the glory of God
screamed in mighty chorus.
the smell of his small, dirty
body filled my nostrils,
his all-too-frail frame clinging
to my back as i stumbled through
the hills, struggling on shoes through
terrain that they maneuvered barefoot.
in my ear his hot breath giggled,
his husky voice singing a
creole worship song.
i told him i was leaving and he said,
“take me home with you.”
those words still shadow my thoughts.
those smells still linger in my memory.
that sun still warms my skin.
i left my heart in haiti.

Poem - ra

2010-07-08T00:24:00.001-04:00

ra

the sun is a sharp trumpet blast
in an emotionless sky of thick blue,
the air a miasma of scorching angst –
slowly tightening fingers closing
inexorably over my heaving throat.
sweat sweat sweat sweat
everywhere the salty film
coats my body like cellophane.
it is less the relentless heat
than the chewy air that seems
to fill my lungs with pudding.
summertime finds me gasping
on the ground like a woman in labor
and i’m loving every minute of it.

I Saw Her Sitting on the Subway

2010-06-18T20:45:00.002-04:00

I saw her sitting on the subway, her
Pale face sporadically illuminated by the
Flickering lights, body swaying in the rhythm
Of tracks and train locked in a battle of wills,
A corpse held upright by whatever pride
God had left in her body.
She carried her face on rigid neck muscles,
Graying hair tied back in a chignon –
I smiled. She reminded me of my grandmother.
The dirt on her cheeks was poorly concealed
Beneath cakes of cheap makeup; in her viper-red
Painted nails she held a crinkled piece of paper,
An application for a job we both knew she would never get.
I watched her and felt a part of me sink into the floor
Underneath the train and die beneath the knife-like
Wheels.
Despite her resolve, a single tear tracked its malevolent
Path down her cheek and dropped onto her tweed skirt.
Yet with a steeling of the eyes and a setting of the lips,
She brushed her cheek and straightened up –
Looked the world in the eyes.

She was gone but she strove on –
And to me that was beautiful.

The Condom

2010-06-18T20:41:00.003-04:00

A condom is a funny thing.
It’s a little rubber sleeve that lords over humans,
A pair of handcuffs for procreation, a slinky
Of sperm and of almost-but-not-quite’s.
You’re not making children tonight, little sperm,
You little tools of reproduction, you
Harbingers of babies and tears.
No, you have been thwarted by the condom:
The mass-produced lifeline,
The go-to guy for sexual encounters of the
Sterile kind.
You can end your little
Dream-crushing, life-producing,
Disappointed-conservative-grandparents-rendering,
Planned-Parenthood-calls-creating
Tea party right here and now!
Fear the condom!

In retrospect, I probably should have worn one.

Another Hobby of Mine =]

2010-06-18T16:13:00.001-04:00

This is Life - A Rambling

2010-06-18T12:36:00.000-04:00

Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.
- Edwin H. Chapin
The first recorded war happened in 2700 B.C.E., between Sumer and Elam, two ancient civilizations that flourished in and around modern-day Iraq. Of course, wars had been going on for centuries – millennia, perhaps – before it; writing had only recently been developed. But let us assume, mercifully, that the first ever war in mankind’s history was also its first recorded one. That leaves us almost 5,000 years. In that period of time, much has changed: mankind has blossomed on the wild terrain of Earth, evolving from tribes to form chiefdoms, expanding outwards against all natural barriers – a nuclear-like explosion of one single species, one single mutation. In that time, the ancient civilizations have risen and fallen; the greatest thinkers and philosophers and inventors and scientists have entered the world and left it; swords and clubs have been replaced by missiles and biowarfare; mankind has experienced tumultuous, irreversible social changes; and everything we have ever thought to be true has been challenged time and time again. However, against this backdrop of relentless change, humankind has managed to remain consistent in one aspect: our ability to kill, maim, scar, and destroy.
It is cruelly ironic that our ability to cause suffering is perhaps equal in magnitude to our ability to feel it – feel it deeply and continually, more than any other life form. Everywhere in our world, we humans commit atrocities with frightening ease; children in Ghana are brutally massacred just as quickly as women in Miami are raped and strangled. These acts come thick and fast in the continuum of time, happening constantly and simultaneously all over the world. But each time someone dies, another thousand are affected. The suffering is always real, and it is always personal. If one were to look at case studies of a thousand mothers who had lost children to violence or hate crimes, one would find a wide variety of responses. But a common thread would be immediately apparent: raw, black grief. Grief beyond the trumpeting call of a mother elephant, beyond the wild hooting of monkeys in the depth of the jungle. Human grief is powerful and consuming; something in our souls recognizes when another is gone, and with that realization comes a terrible, terrible sadness. Something innate in us, beyond our flesh-given cognitive abilities, sees death for what it truly is – a setting free of the soul. And in our longing, we grieve. When the death is expected, we can prepare for it, grieve in advance; when the death is sudden, that is when we are most exposed. That is when the suffering is most apparent.
I am oftentimes struck but how often people suffer and it goes unnoticed. The injustice of it sometimes rocks me to my core. How is it fair that my death would receive news coverage all over the state while thousands, perhaps millions, of children my age suffer that same fate silently? I sit here and I’m ruined by the pure brilliance of life – the god-damned, downright gift that is life – and the knowledge, the sickening, awful knowledge, of how easily it is destroyed or ruined or changed irrevocably. When I look at a newborn infant, feel the trusting hands grasp my finger, I wonder: what trials will he face in his future that he cannot possibly prepare for now? We have been deluding ourselves for centuries that the next generation will face a more peaceful planet, will face less suffering. I think it is time to realize that this dream will never be accomplished – at least not while this world lasts. Humans may not have been made to destroy, but we have made an art of it. And we will keep doing so until the last vestiges of this world pass away into chaos.
But as appalling the physical violence is, as much as it overwhelms me sometimes with a sense of despair and nausea, I find the struggles inside us the most compelling. Never is the sense of personal struggle more immediate, more apparent, than when I’m confronted with crowds of people. I pass by the masses – in amusement parks, tourist attractions – and I look at the faces around me. They are, for the most part, smiling faces. Dark faces, acne-scarred faces, oily faces, young faces… yet all of them are linked by their stories. Every face has a story, a convoluted web that even their closest friends know little of. A web of experiences and lusts and betrayals and nights alone in the dark and paradises lost. As I get to know people, as I learn their stories, I am staggered by how many smiling, “put together” people carry burdens of immense weight. The intensity of emotion that even teenagers feel can transform us and wring us out dry. I hear stories of bulimia, anorexia, depression, attempted suicide, cutting, drinking, grief – all of it a maelstrom of tragedy and loss and some deep human longing for something better, something more than what is placed before us.
And that is the point, isn’t it? That’s what all of this is coming to. Why are we humans so unique in our breadth for emotion and suffering and cruelty? Why do we never change? When I watch the Discovery Channel, I see antelopes evading the reach of cheetah. I see a chilling, animalistic duel of life and death. The antelope, if it survives, will think little of the ordeal; it will move on and continue its life as always, living on urges and primitive impulses. But a human is changed by a near-death experience. Something in the soft, malleable fabric of our consciousness is irreversibly changed. We are affected by the world around us. For over 5000 years we have been killing each other, hating each other, terrorizing each other, and bringing more hardship than any other outside force down on each other like a relentless, driving storm. And in the midst of this, we have been loving each other to the very brink of death.
How can such a paradox exist? How can we continue in this limbo of seething emotion and never change? Why do we follow uncontrollably in the footsteps of our ancestors? Science would tell us that our superior consciousness will eventually control its urges, eliminate unnecessary hardship. But I am wholly convinced that we will suffer to the very end of our time here on Earth. And no matter how I’d like to think otherwise, the conclusion seems to loom before me. We cannot escape the cycle because it is our condition – our human condition – to love and hate in equal measure. To destroy and to cherish. To blacken and to cleanse. And all of this unrest, all of this wanting, this void that we feel and we try to address – all of it points to a destination. We people of change, we people of cultures and varieties, we various colors of life – we are bound by the rope that pulls us towards some time, some place, some ultimate destination, where all the paradoxes and suffering and wanting is ended, and we are finally, truly, able to say, “This is life.”

And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.
- ¬Revelation 21:4

The Most Romantic Thing I've Ever Been Given.

2010-06-02T23:18:00.000-04:00

A love poem? About me? Impossible... but yet... :D

Intending to see through threads;
Squinting sharply through silly wavering branches,
Like a cat centering on its target -
Or like a kitten waiting for its companion?
I hope I don't seem like the first.
He is not prey! But I search for him.
He is not a need, not a safety blanket!
But I plead to have him.
To have us.
I do not just want a body; I want him, every piece.
But I burn for the body,
As I long to be close to the soul.

What Are Friends For?

2010-06-02T22:52:00.001-04:00

--baileyjanestankus

"a good friend once told me, 'everytime you look in the mirror and you think you’re ugly, picture my face and I’m saying 'shut up bailey you’re gorgeous and I want your bebes.''

i’ll always love you, Russell, for being there for me when it mattered most. :)

out of everyone that has been there for me through hard times, you’re probably the only one who really understands what goes on in my head, even when i don’t and i’ll always be thankful for all you. you’ll let me skype chat you and talk to me on the phone for hours just so that i can bitch about one thing. you’ll never give up on me and that means more to me than anything else. i love you Russell."

"You've done so much for me and you're always there when I need you... You're always here for me and I hope you know I'll always be here for ANYTHING you'd ever need. I love you Russell."

This is what friends are for. This is life.

French Short Story

2010-05-12T22:11:00.002-04:00

Wrote this towards the end of freshman year French. If you speak French, I hope you enjoy it.

Avez Vous Envie de Dormir un Peu ?
Russell Bogue

Il fait beau, ironiquement, quand l’inspecteur arrive à la scène du crime, chez une femme riche. La femme, assise sur un canapé, s’évente le visage. Ses doigts sont nerveux – ils tremblent comme des feuilles en automne. Devant elle, il y a un corps mort, arrangé dans une position anormale, avec les jambes croisées et le visage plein de peur. Autour du corps, il y a des policiers.
« Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé ici ? » demande l’inspecteur aux policiers.
Un des policiers dit : « Nous ne savons pas encore. Nous avons pensé que la victime avait été tuée, mais la femme est sûre que personne ne peut entrer chez elle; apparemment, cette maison est comme un château fort. »
La femme se lève. « Mais c’est vrai ! » elle crie. « Mon mari s’est tué, j’en suis certaine. Il disait toujours qu’il voulait mourir, mais je n’avais aucune idée qu’il le ferait vraiment. »
L’inspecteur l’écoute attentivement, mais il s’inquiète. La femme riche est trop cavalière pour l’occasion. Si sa propre femme était morte, il aurait été inconsolable pour plusieurs journées. Mais il ne montre pas ses vrais sentiments, pour que la femme ne devienne pas suspicieuse.
« Alors madame, » lui dit-il, « vous croyez que votre mari s’est tué il y a quatre heures ? »
« Oui, Monsieur l’inspecteur. »
« Et où étiez-vous pendant qu’il le faisait ? »
La femme se fige momentanément ; bien qu’elle ne soit incapable de penser qu’un moment, l’inspecteur l’aperçoit. Il se rend compte qu’elle ment.
La femme reprend son calme. « J’étais au marché. »
« Et, s’il vous plaît madame, qu’est-ce que vous y avez acheté ? Pourriez-vous me le montrer ? »
La femme se fige encore. « Oui… je peux faire ça. »
Il y a un silence. « Feriez-vous ça ? Maintenant, s’il vous plaît. J’ai envie de vérifier votre histoire. »
La femme lui donne vite un regard furieux et s’en va. Après avoir cherché dans la cuisine pendant quelques minutes, elle arrive avec du pain.
« Le voilà, » elle dit, agitée. « C’est ça, ce que j’ai acheté au marché aujourd’hui. »
L’inspecteur examine le pain. Il aperçoit que c’est rassis, et évidemment elle ne l’a pas acheté ce jour, mais il ne dit rien. De plus, il aperçoit qu’il n’y a pas de sang autour du corps ; cela signifie qu’un poison a été utilisé. L’inspecteur soupçonne que la femme sait plus qu’elle dit, mais il ne dit rien encore. Il veut voir ce qui se passera avec elle.
« Ça sera tout ? » la femme dit avec un air irrité. « Ou est-ce que vous vous méfiez de moi toujours ? »
Je me méfie de vous depuis un longtemps, l’inspecteur se dit. Mais à la femme, il dit, « Mais madame, ne soyez pas fâchée ! C’est mon travail, comme vous le savez bien. Une question de plus, et ensuite je prendrai le corps pour l’examiner : avez-vous des témoins qui peuvent vérifier que vous étiez au marché aujourd’hui ? »
La femme sourit malicieusement. « Mais oui, il y a une certaine Mme Juillet de Bruillards qui était là. Elle pourra vous dire que je ne mens pas. »
« Bien, » dit l’inspecteur. « Vous avez été une excellente hôtesse. J’espère que cet incident épouvantable sera résolu dans quelques jours. »
Cette nuit, l’inspecteur est à la table du pathologiste pour faire une autopsie du corps. Dehors, il pleut à verse ; les arbres crient avec la force du vent. L’inspecteur, quoiqu’il soit courageux toujours, sent un air étrange et inquiétante. Il commence à frémir un peu.
« Travaille vite, » il dit au pathologiste. « J’ai envie de partir, car cette nuit est étrange, et je ne veux pas la passer dans une morgue. »
Le pathologiste sourit. « J’ai travaillé sous de pires conditions. Cette nuit ne me fait pas peur. »
À ces mots, le corps de l’homme mort commence à trembler. Le pathologiste et l’inspecteur bondissent en alarme et reculent.
« Qu’est-ce qui se passe ? » crie l’inspecteur.
Le pathologiste ne peut rien dire ; il est presque mort lui-même de peur. Il n’a jamais vu une telle scène, jamais en 24 ans d’expérience. Les morts ne se réveillent pas souvent…
Le corps ne tremble plus. Les paupières ouvrent. Les yeux regarde autour de la salle.
« C’est le monstre de M. Frankenstein, » dit l’inspecteur faiblement.
L’homme « mort » se lève. Il voit les pauvres hommes qui tremblent et dit, « Où est-ce que je suis, messieurs ? »
« Vous êtes mort, monsieur. »
L’homme rit. « Mais certainement, je suis plusieurs choses ; mort n’en est pas une. »
L’inspecteur trouve sa voix. « Vous étiez mort il y a quelques minutes, monsieur. Mais maintenant, vous… »
« Vivez ? » dit l’homme. « Oui, je vive. Que je suis confus ! Pourquoi est-ce que je suis ici ? Je ne suis pas mort ! La dernière chose que je rappelle est ma femme… elle m’apportait le petit-déjeuner au lit. Et puis ? »
L’inspecteur, comme il est tellement intelligent, comprend tout à l’instant. « Suivez-moi, » il commande les autres hommes. « Je crois avoir une idée. »
Quelques minutes après, ils arrivent à la maison de l’homme et sa femme. Ils sont mouillés de la pluie et leurs cheveux sont en bataille à cause du vent. Quand la femme apparaît à la porte dans ses pyjamas, ils sont un spectacle effrayant. D’abord, elle a peur parce qu’il y a des hommes étranges à la porte… mais quand elle voit son mari, qui est vivant, elle tombe dans les pommes.
Les hommes l’apportent dans la maison. Ils la mettent sur un canapé et attendent. Enfin, elle reprend connaissance. Elle se lève, les yeux remplis de frayeur.
« Ne dis rien, » lui dit l’inspecteur. « Je crois que je sais pourquoi cet incident bizarre s’est passé. Madame, vous vouliez de l’argent. Je ne sais pas pourquoi, parce que vous êtes riche, mais vous en vouliez. Malheureusement pour vous, votre mari n’était pas prêt à acheter ce que vous vouliez. »
« Un bateau ! » crie l’homme. « Elle voulait un bateau, mais j’ai dit que nous habitons loin de la mer, presque plus de 300 kilomètres ! Elle n’en a pas besoin d’un !»
La femme lui donne un regard furieux.
« Alors, un bateau, » continue l’inspecteur. « Elle voulait un bateau, mais ne pouvais pas en acheter un. Donc, elle a décidé de donner son mari un poison spécial. Ce poison fait la victime s’endormir pour quelques jours, et puis se réveiller comme avant. Mais pendant qu’on est empoisonné, on est comme un mort ; le cœur s’arrête, le visage devient blanc, la peau est froide. Vous alliez recevoir l’argent du testament de son mari, madame ? »
Dans l’incapacité de parler, la femme fait oui de la tête.
« Mais, ma chère femme, vous n’êtes pas très intelligente. Vous ne savez pas comment faire un bon poison. Alors, vous avez échoué à rendre votre mari comme un mort pour assez de temps. Pendant que j’examinais le corps de votre mari, il s’est réveillé. Et maintenant, vous devez nous dire pourquoi : pourquoi avez-vous essayé d’empoisonner votre mari pour acheter un bateau ? »
Enfin, la femme trouve sa voix. « Je ne voulais jamais qu’il meure ! Je voulais simplement qu’il dorme un peu. Je recevrais son argent et achèterais le bateau. Dès qu’il se réveillerait, je lui dirais tout. Vous voyez, je ne suis pas vraiment méchante ! Je voulais un bateau, et puisqu’il m’a dit non, j’ai eu besoin d’être un peu plus vigoureuse. Mais c’est tout. »
Il y a un silence profond. Enfin, le mari dit, « Tu es folle si tu penses que nous te croyons. Je te connais ; tu n’empoisonnerais personne pour un bateau, sauf s’il y avait quelque chose d’autre. Tu voulais un bateau… pour aller quelque part… pour faire quoi ? »
La femme regarde nerveusement les visages de tous les hommes. Evidemment, elle sait pourquoi, mais quelque chose, ou quelqu’un, la force à fermer les lèvres.
Soudain, la pathologiste exclame, « Ah, je l’ai ! Vous avez un amant, n’est-ce pas, madame ? Et vous alliez le visiter par bateau, parce qu’il habite un île ! »
La femme commence à pleurer. « Il y a trois mois, mon mari et moi avons voyagé à Marseille. Là, j’ai rencontré un homme incroyable ; il était parfait dans chaque aspect. Je lui rendais souvent visite pendant que nous étions là. Quand nous avons eu besoin de partir, mon cœur était prêt à arrêter de battre à cause de la tristesse. Je savais que j’aurais besoin de voir cet homme dans l’avenir. Mais pendant que j’étais ici, à ma maison, après être retournée de mon voyage, j’ai entendu des nouvelles dans le journal: mon amant avait volé une banque ! La police l’ont arrêté, mais il s’est enfui et m’a écrit une lettre qui disait qu’il est piégé sur une île. Il y était allé pour que personne ne sache où il est vraiment. La police le cherche toujours. Mais moi, je ne peux pas le voir. Le seul homme que j’aime, je ne peux pas voir. Cela me fait vouloir mourir. »
Le mari commence aussi à pleurer. « Tu ne m’aimes pas ? Tu ne m’as jamais aimé ? »
« Silence ! » crie l’inspecteur. « Il faut entendre le reste de l’histoire ! »
Le mari se tait et la femme continue. « Alors, je me suis dit que je devais retrouver mon amant, quoi qu’il arrive. Dans la lettre il m’avait écrite, il m’a dit l’emplacement de l’île cachée où il habite. Je savais que je devais y aller. Mais je n’avais pas de bateau. Mon mari ne m’en donnerait pas, donc j’avais besoin de voler son argent. J’ai conçu ce plan : je l’empoisonnerais pour qu’il soit comme un mort pour quelques jours. Avec l’argent de son testament, j’achèterais un bateau, en secret. Quand il se réveillerait, je lui dirais que je voulais simplement avoir un bateau pour voyager à Marseille et y faire de la voile. Mais je n’allais pas lui dire que vraiment, à Marseille, j’aurais utilisé le bateau pour revoir mon amant. »
Personne ne parle. Le mari pleure. La femme, elle tremble – d’amour, de passion, de peur.
« Alors madame, » dit l’inspecteur enfin, « venez avec moi. Je vous arrête pour avoir essayé de voler de l’argent de votre mari en l’empoisonnant. Le fait que vous faisiez tout ça simplement pour un bateau avec lequel vous retrouveriez votre amant près de Marseille… c’est ridicule. Cet amant est un criminel aussi ? Tant pis pour lui, madame. Je le trouverai et l’arrêterai aussi. »
L’inspecteur, suivi par le pathologiste et le mari anéanti, emmène la femme pleurant et quitte la maison.
Le prochain jour, l’inspecteur va chez Mme. Juillet de Bruillards, la « témoine » de la femme riche. Mme. Juillet avait été promise qu’elle aurait de l’argent si tout allait bien, donc elle a aidé la femme riche. Alors, elle est arrêtée aussi. Le mystère bizarre est résolu – victoire pour l’inspecteur !

French Line

2010-05-12T22:08:00.000-04:00

"Je meurs de faim. Mon corps est nourri - mais mon âme, c'est parti."

--- I'm dying of hunger. My body is fed, but my soul has fled ---

I thought it was cool how it rhymed in French and English. Made it up in church one day.

Poem: Repentance

2010-04-18T18:21:00.000-04:00

The pain of searing fire,

Compressions deep within me:

I feel a darkness uncomprehending,

The beauty masked, unseen.

Now when my lips do part to speak,

My tears their words lacquer;

Though I am crushed against my guilt,

Still blackly my hopes endure.

Freelance Editing

2010-04-08T22:17:00.000-04:00

After several failed attempts to get things rolling, I think I will finally have a professional editor take a look at my novel manuscript (for a fee, of course). For me, this is a really important step on the staircase of my novel; even if no respectable publisher will ever consider putting Deadly Intent into print, I can still have a polished manuscript on hand, something I can be truly proud of. If need be, I may look into my options for e-publishing, where basically you pay a company and they help you put together and publish your book by yourself. I would do this so that, if anyone - anywhere - wanted to read my book, I could hand them an actual book, with a front and back cover and bound pages, rather than a gigantic, unwieldy manuscript. Hey, maybe I could even send it in with my college applications. Who knows? All I know is that I'm excited to get things rolling again on it after several months of hardly looking at it. Hopefully, around all my activities this summer, I'll find time to write again.
Sorry for the long delay between posts, school got in the way again.
So, until next time!

Short Piece - February

2010-03-27T23:25:00.002-04:00

Something I wrote in February on how I make it through the month. It's based off the short story "Little Burst" in Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout.

I can get through February with little bursts. I find that each day, each week, I need something to look forward to. A day without this “little burst” (thank you Olive Kitteridge) makes the week worse, and a worsened week means a worsened month. So I’ll cling to my little bursts and make my days better, so my weeks are brighter and February is bearable.

These little bursts can be anything. Sometimes, they are actual events. Someone will be unusually kind; I’ll laugh hard enough to run out of breath; some comical or profound realization will shed new light on a situation. They’re material, worldly pleasures, small amounts of honey-time that sweeten a gray day. On Thursdays, it’s burger day. On Mondays, it’s the sort of carefree-ness that accompanies the sodden knowledge that the rest of the week is before you and there’s no escaping it. Fridays promise the weekend; Saturdays, the continuation. Each day, I search for moments to render remarkable. Through these, I patiently await the arrival of March break.

But other times, I find a different way to make February bearable. I’ll look at something an atypical way – gain a new perspective. I’ll convince myself that February is really the best month of the year; say, look at those deep, rich gray clouds, how they fill the bleak sky with a suave nonchalance! Or feel that bitter wind, hyperactive kitten claws prickling your cheeks, brushing roughly against your watering eyes! It’s the vitality of feeling, so utterly different from that of summer, that makes February bearable. It’s the unrelenting energy of the world, in tune with my heartbeat: the brisk beat of pedestrians’ footsteps against an unforgiving ground; the quick, glorious life and death of a moist breath, appearing and disappearing in the frigid air. The world is vibrant with a harried energy to do, to make, to get by. I feed off of this. I make this little burst last; I make it big and great; I make it throb with energy so that February, where teachers press for perfection, where parents nag in worried throes, where coaches demand more effort, becomes a blur of sound and energy defined by the small pearl-like drops – little things I sip and savor – my little bursts.

Poem: Writing is Torture

2010-03-23T22:37:00.000-04:00

Written last year, part of my award-winning collection "A Musing Mind."

Writing Is Torture

My fingers stammer like uncertain little boys,

Caught in the presence of adults

At a party

With cocktails

And shrimp.

You know something?

It’s painful to write.

I’m in labor – giving birth

To a poem.

And it’s not coming easily.

Get out! I shout.

The poem snickers and snuggles

Deeper and deeper into…

Um…

Nothing.

So I stammer on, trying to

Lasso my thoughts into something coherent.

It’s torture,

Like acupuncture gone wrong:

It does just a little bit more good

Than bad.

Finally - Progress.

2010-03-23T12:21:00.000-04:00

Obama Signs Landmark Health Care Bill - NYTimes.com

National Award!

2010-03-22T18:05:00.000-04:00

So, apparently my short story "Spaces" won a National Gold award for Alliance for Young Artists and Writers. It was one of 500, out of 165,000 that were submitted, to win an award. I'm so incredibly honored! I've been invited to attend a ceremony at Carnegie Hall to receive my award. I can't believe it; truly, my hard work paid off. Just wanted to let you all know!

Poem: Death by a Jar of Pickles

2010-03-20T16:06:00.001-04:00

Something I wrote about a year and a half ago, supposed to be funny...

Death by a Jar of Pickles

Oh yes, I’ve heard of those nasty accidents:
Airplanes crashing off the coast of Greece.
A cruise liner sinking to bottom of the Atlantic.
Man killed in car crash.
Careening train kills seventeen.

But they’ve all seemed far too predictable to me.
We’ve all heard them.
They’re far too ordinary, and I find myself feeling
Sorrier for the people having to read those boring headlines
Than for the person actually killed in the bloody thing.

Am I alone in this?
Are we not all bored by predictable deaths?
Oh yes, it’s horrible and all that rot.
Must be terrible, darling, simply terrible to lose your only son…
But you must admit, dear, it was rather boring.
I mean really, a bus accident?
I’d rather watch old men play croquet.
But your loss must be terrible, of course…(yawn)

The entertaining deaths, those are the ones worth living for!
Ah, that people would die in amusing ways,
How that would improve my day!
Man swallowed up by rogue hippo.
Woman suffocates on avocado.
Gaseous pig kills woman trapped in barn.

Alas, I am doomed – doomed to hear
Of boring deaths my whole life.
And – gasp – I might even die a boring death myself!
I know. It’s a horrifying thought.

Sometimes I frighten myself at night just thinking about it.

But one hope keeps me going.
If I’m ever sad, if I’m ever lonely,
If I’m ever pondering the mundane atrocities that occur every day,
I always have this one thought that cheers me up:
There is always this chance that maybe, just maybe,
I will have the most entertaining death of all…
I will die from a jar of pickles falling on my head.

Poem: Meaningless

2010-03-18T15:33:00.002-04:00

This is something I wrote awhile ago. It's not supposed to be preachy - just real and heartfelt.

Meaningless

Love

Hate

Yearning

Hold these; grasp them firmly in your hands.

You will find it impossible.

Like the aimless clouds, like the wandering of the seas,

Emotions are fickle things.

You cannot bottle love.

You cannot capture hate.

You cannot destroy yearning.

There are no equations.

There are no theorems.

There are no measurements.

Yet I dare you –

Prove to me that these do not exist.

Prove to me that love is instinct.

Prove to me that yearning is simply animal lust.

This you are unable to do.

Just as you can’t measure the scope of the universe,

You cannot gauge love in units, or meters.

Yet only fools would argue that it does not exist.

The extent of human love is cruel and flawed and beautiful.

The scope of human yearning is raw and consuming.

The blackness of human hate is unparalleled in its destruction.

Of this, all other creatures cannot boast.

So it is foolish –

Foolish to argue that those precious elements

That cannot be measured or proven,

That cannot be cemented in scientific fact,

That these are not real.

Love and Hate and Yearning and Grief…

Or perhaps, dare I mention

God?

I cannot prove Him

I cannot measure Him.

Yet to me,

He is as evident and palpable as the love that binds us together,

And the hate that tears us apart.

To say he does not exist is to deny fact.

To tell me that I am wrong is to proclaim the death of emotion.

Those who believe that we are animals of primal instinct,

These people have not heard the wails of a mother grieving for her child,

Nor felt the months of darkness that surround her as she feels that life has lost all joy.

These people have not felt the love that compels parents to lay down their lives

For their children.

These people have not experienced the joy of being human.

Being apart from the races in the depth of our emotion, our intelligence,

Our ability to love and destroy in equal measure.

As humans, our emotions have a depth and severity that exceeds the animal world.

We are terrible in our hate and ambition,

Transformed by our yearnings.

We are made with a divine image, designed apart from all races.

To limit human difference with animals to mere biology is to lose common sense.

We all feel it.

We are different in more than tissue and chemicals.

We are different in our vast complex of emotion and intelligence,

Not created by random evolution,

But by divine and unearthly power,

A patient hand that directs the flow of nature.

To deny our unproven differences is to cloud your mind.

We have feelings and thoughts that exceed evolutionary science

And branch into the tangible, yet unproven, realms of spiritual existence.

We all feel it, but our calculating minds are quick to reject that which is not proven.

Miracles are real, yet by definition

They are those events that science cannot prove.

Yet you make all your judgments based on this system that cannot explain

The most important elements in our lives.

Science is beautiful, but science is limited

And shall always remain so.

So I dare you

I dare you to prove to me that God is an impossibility; that love is simply

The lust of animals, that yearning is simply the instincts of survival.

For if that day comes,

That would be the day,

The single day in human history,

When love and hate and grief become equations,

Read about and studied and becoming vaguer and vaguer with the centuries,

Until ultimately they become, horribly, terribly

Meaningless.

Award!

2010-03-17T12:04:00.000-04:00

So, if you saw the post several days ago, wherein I talked about life, love, and the pursuit of happiness (just kidding, it was just about me and my writing), you saw that I won an award for my collection of poems entitled "A Musing Mind." I've posted some of those poems (Drifts, To Break a Leg, and Shadows). But I have more exciting news - I won another award! It's with the same contest, the Alliance for Young Artists and Writers. This was for my short story "Spaces." I was contacted by one of the directors to send in a digital copy of the manuscript to "streamline the editing process" so that they can publish it. I'm not sure whether or not this means it won at the National Competition, but it's pretty exciting nonetheless. I'm really really honored, and also immensely relieved; having one's work recognized is very reassuring to writers, who often go years without any sort of recognition or affirmation that what they're doing is worthwhile. So, just wanted to share the great news with all 2 of my readers. Have a great day and keep writing!
--rcbogue

Poem I Wrote: The Original in French, then Translation

2010-03-16T21:46:00.001-04:00

Casser un Homme

« Les bâtons et les pierres peuvent

mes os casser, mais les mots

ne me blesseront jamais. »

Jamais entendue était une phrase plus fausse,

plus remplie avec les mensonges.

Il ne faut que voir les foules

de visages, déçus, désespérés,

qui se croisent dans la ruée

de la vie quotidienne,

mais ne se regardent jamais,

grâce au dommage.

Il ne faut qu’apercevoir ceux qui

se cachent les larmes en traversant

la rue ; ceux qui sourissent même

s’il n’y pas de raison pour le faire.

Pour ceux-là, les pierres et les bâtons

n’en ont rien faire.

C’étaient les mots – les armes

invisibles, les petits oiseaux

qui volent aisément l’air

et apportent des cadeaux puissants –

qui les ont blessés si violement.

Est-ce qu’on ne sait pas

que c’est les mots, pas les pierres,

qui cassent les esprits ?

Est-ce qu’on ne sait pas

que c’est les mots, pas les bâtons,

qui sortent les larmes le plus pures ?

Les mots nous rendent

comme les marionnettes,

qui attendent avidement

l’approbation des autres.

Ils ruinent, ils encouragent, ils embellissent

ils tuent.

Les mots incitent les cœurs

et rendent sauvages les hommes.

Comme une épée éclatante,

ils coupent la peau la plus épaisse,

créent les fous et les pauvres.

Avec la touche d’encre sur la papier,

le destin d’un homme peut être

irréversiblement changé,

pour le mieux, ou le pire.

Avec les pierres, on construise les murs.

Avec les bâtons, on amuse les chiens.

Mais si le cœur est le dieu des émotions,

les mots sont les messagers, et ils peuvent

faire se passer la chute des nations.

Alors, donnez-moi des coups de bâtons,

et lancez des pierres à ma tête.

Mais quand vous me parlez,

montrez-moi le respect qui est du

à tout l’humanité, pour que

vous ne cassiez pas mon cœur.

-- non-literal translation (it's prettier in French than in English, I think) --

"Sticks and stones can

break my bones, but words

will never hurt me."

A falser phrase has never been heard,

nor one more filled with lies.

One must only see the masses

of faces, disappointed, desperate,

passing in the rush

of daily life,

but never glancing at each other,

due to their shame.

One must only notice those

who hide their tears while crossing

the street; those who smile even

when there is no reason to do so.

Sticks and stones had

nothing to do with their suffering.

It was the words - the invisible weapons,

the little birds that swoop so easily through

the air

and bring potent gifts -

that so violently wounded them.

Do you not know

that words, not stones,

break spirits?

Do you not know

that words, not stones,

elicit the purest tears?

Words make us

like puppets,

waiting desperately for

the approval of others.

They ruin, they encourage, they embellish,

they kill.

Words incite the heart,

and make men savage.

Like a shining sword,

they pierce the toughest skin,

create insanity and poverty.

With the touch of ink upon paper,

the destiny of a man

can be irreversibly changed,

for the better, or for the worst.

With stone, we build walls.

With sticks, we amuse dogs.

But if the heart is the god of emotion,

words are the messengers, and

they can destroy a nation.

Therefore, strike me with sticks,

and aim stones at my head.

But when you speak to me,

give me the respect that due

to all of humanity, so that

you do not break my heart.

Hilarious Proof that Girls are Evil

2010-03-12T11:49:00.001-05:00

jpg00000.jpg from kth.se - StumbleUpon

Poem: To Break a Leg

2010-03-12T11:33:00.001-05:00

Before I left for good, I wanted her to taste

A little anger -

Just a little smidgen

Of wrath.

So I stood still and silent and grave and florid,

Wringing my hands, mottling my face,

And generally preparing, as an actor is wont to do,

To put on a show.

“Don’t you dare,” she groaned.

I ignored her.

Thus the rant began, a glorious tirade

Of wrongs done right and rights done wrong,

Of shattered dreams and severed love,

Of piercing words and withering glances.

I bellowed and danced and spluttered wildly –

Great tempests buffeted the curtains,

Incantations echoed from the walls.

I became a tiger of words, preying

On the soft flesh of the air, until

I rose to a climax, an orgasm of righteous fury.

Then she slapped me.

What a skank, stealing my thunder. Again.

Poem: Shadows

2010-03-12T11:32:00.002-05:00

A shadow is a funny thing.

Like liquid, it can seep;

Like wood, it forms edges;

Like love, it embraces.

I find that shadows keep my heart

Company more often than not.

So I make friends with them and hope

They send me Christmas cards.

Poem: Snow Drifts

2010-03-12T11:31:00.006-05:00

The diminution of sound, the reign of silence;

Snow envelops all contrast, renders it mute,

A world of soft thoughts and phrases.

The white banks line the hill behind my house,

A veritable wave of white powder, a ramp unto my sled,

An insurmountable slope unto my feet.

Memories embodied within the colorless mass

Flash before my eyes: images of crunching

Ice, shivering bodies, iron water, damp clothes.

Guilford in the winter is like a blanketed child,

Innocent and filled with naïve possibilities,

Slumbering and at peace.

The great pads of clothing, the thick coats,

The catalogued boots and gloves – we, the children,

Are little swollen ants, scurrying upon a white

Mound of snow, sliding and falling and shaping

Drifts.

Poem: Drowning Bug

2010-03-12T11:31:00.001-05:00

Today I saw a little black bug drowning in the toilet.

It was struggling mightily to breach the surface of the water,

But never quite managed to break through the film.

I watched as the life slowly drained out of it,

Measured in the number of kicks per second it executed

In its bid for freedom and life.

When it died, I flushed it down, watching its tiny body

Ride the currents of water into oblivion.

How terribly symbolic, I thought.

Choate News Article: Cyber-Warfare

2010-03-12T11:28:00.002-05:00

Lust, anger, greed. Mankind has remained unchanged in many aspects since our first appearance on Earth hundreds of thousands of years ago. Ever since the first representatives of our species roamed the wild and unforgivable terrain that paints our planet, men have been stealing, wanting, and – well, someone has to say it – having sex. Present in this list, however, is another crucial element, one that may not, perhaps, be as ancient as the others, but is nonetheless a vital fraction of our history. This element is mankind’s ability to make war.

Of all the creatures on Earth, humans are most ill suited for fighting: we have no talons, no claws, no horns, and no fangs. Ironically, though, we have developed most our ability to kill, maim, and destroy. In just two thousand years, mankind has made stupendous leaps in our innovation for weapons and tactics of warfare: at the time of Christ’s birth, we concluded conflicts with metal and stone, slashing and stabbing in unison on wide battlefields until the enemy lay bleeding upon the ground. Warfare has developed so much since then that now we look towards a not-so-distant future in which unmanned vehicles carry out the dirty work for us. Yet between now and then lies another realm of warfare, one far less bloody but potentially exponentially more crippling. This is, of course, cyber warfare.

Cyber warfare spans a broad spectrum of actions, but what it boils down to is essentially a devastatingly effective espionage mission carried out completely in cyberspace. Frequently, the goal is simply to gain information: one company or individual “hacks” into another network (this means re-programming the system to allow access from unauthorized users) and thereby downloads the information they were after. Another tactic may be sabotage, which comes most often in the form of a virus that deletes important files or renders other actions on the computer inaccessible. On a local level, cyber warfare is akin to pranks or, in some extreme cases, destruction of property, a felony offense. It comes in the form of homemade viruses programmed by a budding young developer seeking to test his skills in a less than admirable fashion. Recently, however, cyber warfare has reached the international level, throwing the spotlight on a new frontier the U.S. must safeguard from attack.

From mid-December 2009 to mid-January 2010, twelve international companies came under cyber-attack from what now appears to be Chinese operators. Codenamed “Operation Aurora,” this attack counted Google, Yahoo, and Adobe Systems among its multiple targets. In the case of Google, the attack was a mission of data-retrieval: Google believes the attackers stole information from its Gmail server in order to gain information about Chinese dissidents using the email client. Luckily, the data the hackers were able to retrieve was limited to just two accounts, and even in those cases the hackers could only view the subject lines of the emails and the dates the accounts were created. The attackers exploited weaknesses in the Microsoft’s Internet Explorer to gain access, prompting Microsoft to issue a fix for the hole about a week after the attacks were made public.

This attack, though not overtly serious in consequences, nevertheless raises some extremely troubling questions. How easy is it to hack into a computer system? How many other attacks have gone unnoticed? The aftermath has been a simmering pot of discontent and mistrust, with Google threatening to pull out of China while the Chinese government in turn is accusing the U.S. of anti-Chinese propaganda throughout the entire operation.

Since the attack, the U.S. has begun buckling down on cyber security. Hillary Clinton, Secretary of State, said, “States, terrorists, and those who would act as their proxies must know that the United States will protect our networks.” Top Pentagon officials have been simulating cyber attacks to illustrate the consequences and test how well they could respond. Unfortunately, the results are grim: the enemy is unnamed, un-nationalized, and strikes without warning or notice. The actions that can be taken to retaliate against or dissuade attackers are narrow: a military strike may seem extreme, while a diplomatic solution seems impossible. Joseph Nye, a professor at Harvard, likened this new battlefield to the nuclear era just half a century ago: “We are now in the phase that we found ourselves in during the early 1950’s, after the Soviets got the bomb.”

But what could a serious cyber attack, akin to a military strike, do to the United States? The answer is frightening. A skilled, coordinated attack, carried out swiftly and efficiently, could shut down power systems across the country, freeze the credit market, neutralize spy satellites, and shut down air traffic control. Even worse, the perpetrators could flag their attack as coming from another country, causing the United State to retaliate in completely the wrong direction. I will leave it up to you to see what could happen from there.

The mechanics and, indeed, forensics of cyber warfare are complex and ever evolving. The enemy consists of some of the brainiest and most creative individuals a country can offer. The victims are the countries, corporations, and civilians that make up our planet. Cyber attack opens up a whole new battleground, where a country or business can be absolutely ruined without a single catastrophe or any loss of life. The attackers can hide and out-maneuver any retaliatory actions and even carry out their crimes completely unnoticed. It is a frightening world where the worst things that can happen cannot even be seen, but are instead carried out in computer code and currents of electricity flowing across wires around the world. For all you potential computer engineers and programmers out there – learn your craft well. The future of our nation rests upon the ingenuity of its brightest individuals.

Choate News Article: Seafood

2010-03-12T11:24:00.001-05:00

There is a certain wimpy daring in the eating of a raw oyster. One never knows, of course, whether or not the mollusk will end up being contaminated. It is, to be sure, a benign bringer of food sickness… and 15 deaths a year. For many, this risk is too great; they avoid eating raw oysters altogether for fear of falling ill. Perhaps this is a wise choice. But for those who cannot withstand the salty appeal of a (maybe still living?) raw oyster, the act of eating it becomes altogether more dashing.

The comments are many and varied, but all along the lines of “You would eat a raw oyster? They’re so dangerous!” to which the reply is normally along the lines of “Well they’re just so tasty… and I don’t mind the danger.” Of course, a smug grin generally spreads across my face as I tell tales of eating dozens of the salty critters at a time, confident in my ability to impress. For a moment, eating a raw oyster becomes akin to traveling the African Sahara: only the very courageous dare undertake such an adventure. There could be a wide array of poisonous chemicals lodged in the velvety folds of the creature, and eating one places a faith in the Almighty, that He would protect you on your quest through dangerous, unchartered waters. It is nonetheless a nerdy, sub-par type of macho, for who really gives a damn if I eat a raw, practically immobile, and completely defenseless gray sea creature? What am I risking – the practically infinitesimal chance of becoming sick to my stomach? What a daring man!

But I like my fantasies. So whenever I’m asked about raw oysters, I will confidently and quite smugly reply that I like them raw and wet, thank you very much, and I couldn’t care less if they might be contaminated. Besides they are really quite good you know.

Lobsters, crab, mussels, clams… the list of sea creatures I enjoy eating is very long. Fish are bland, I find. They’re generally oily, tasteless slabs of grey flesh placed upon what appears to be an attempt at greenery. But a lobster is vibrant with taste and color; the shell is firm and confidant, a fiery red that speaks of warmth and moisture underneath. The claws are placed ostentatiously in front of the furry mouth and gaping lidless eyes. The tail is strong muscular, the legs are poised even in death – it is a masterpiece waiting to be consumed. Crabs are similar, if smaller in size. But a fish is stripped bare. It is a boneless, scared-looking sheet of meat that deserves little respect – if any – unless prepared exceptionally well.

Like oysters, I enjoy mussels and clams (though cooked, I might add). Soups and stews are made fantastic by these chewy nuggets of gold folded in between the covers of steaming broth. Each one is a whole entity – no parts here! You consume the entire animal. I feel almost more respectful that way. Unlike the fish and even the lobster, we give the mollusks enough respect not to mutilate their bodies, and instead consume them whole, in one bite. They die a glorious death (and yes, I know they’re dead beforehand but remember – I like my fantasies). They die as emperors.

Seafood is splattered all across my family’s history. We’ve lived by the ocean for most of my life, vacation to beaches during the summer, and occasionally visit the Caribbean. The sea and its variety of precious fruits – an apt word, for the French for “seafood” is fruits de mer, or “fruits of the sea” – have always held a special place in my digestive system. They agree with me, and I with them; we share a common history and a common tongue (literally). Nothing seems tastier than seafood to me, nothing more luxurious – and for that, they have an exalted place among foods. They are, truly, the kings of my palate.

Choate News Article: Perspective

2010-03-12T11:21:00.005-05:00

The “Choate bubble” is infamous, especially among boarding students. More often than not, this phrase refers to the general lack of societal awareness prevalent on campus, as Choate students remain largely ignorant of the demands and realities of real life. As students, we live in an idealized world that peaks with good Chinese take-out and bottoms at a series of bad grades; this is not, of course, very representative of what goes on outside Wallingford, Connecticut. However, I would like to propose another type of bubble, one that encompasses not just Choate, but most of the world as well. To this bubble I will fondly give the name “un-perspective.”

What is un-perspective? Simply put, it’s the lack of awareness of the complexity, immensity, and oftentimes beauty that is life. To appreciate life fully, one has to consider the string of events that led to the creation of Earth, and the beauty on this planet that is frequently unappreciated.

Approximately 14 billion years ago, everything in the universe was contained in a single point of infinite energy and mass, a point that defied the law of physics – a singularity. In an unfathomably violent explosion, the point expanded outward in a blinding array of energy and dark energy, quarks and anti-quarks, matter and anti-matter. This was, of course, the Big Bang. From this explosion came the entire universe as we know it, a constantly expanding landscape of a plethora of elements that interact to form stars, asteroids, planets – you name it. The most remarkable aspect, beyond the explosion, beyond the fact that before this science has no explanation for what existed, is the fact that these various elements (and here I refer not to the elements of the periodic table, but rather to the elements of the fundamental existence of everything, such as quarks, atoms, and dark energy) were spewed forth into a world ruled by exact physical constants, without which nothing we know today could have existed. For instance, the well-known gravitational constant, were it to vary by merely one part in a hundred million million, would make our universe impossible. The nuclear force of attraction between protons and neutrons, were it also to vary, would make the formation of periodic elements such as oxygen and carbon – essential to life – impossible. This is a theme present in many different mathematical constants, which are perfectly tuned to make life for humans possible and all of which held true at the very beginnings of the cosmos to lead to Earth’s existence.

After this, the universe took shape. More expansive than anything a human mind can imagine, the universe is comprised of many rotating, individually operating, extremely massive galaxies. The galaxies contain numerous entities, most prominent of which are nebulae (clouds of stars) and solar systems. Very familiar to us humans is our very own Milk Way Galaxy, in which our solar system resides. It is impossible to imagine the length of our solar system, and the massive size of our Sun - one is measured in the distance light travels in one year (light years) and the other could contain 1 million Earths. It's even more impossible to imagine that our solar system, our giant expanse of space measured in light years, is merely a speck in the leviathan of the Milky Way; and it's truly astounding to consider that our galaxy is one of countless others that move about in the endless nothingness of space. This is something you cannot make up, folks.

I will spare you the complexities of astrophysics, almost none of which I fully understand, and fast-forward to Earth, which formed about 4.55 billion years ago. After several hundred million years of uninhabitable terrain, when the Earth was a molten rock bombarded by asteroids and other foreign space travelers, life eventually (miraculously?) began to form. It started with single celled organisms. After several million years, sea animals began to form… then dinosaurs. Dinosaurs were wiped out by a massive asteroid, hurtling from the unfriendly recesses of space, which landed on the Yucatan peninsula and covered the world in ash. This paved the way for mammals, which then further evolved into the myriad of animals we see around us today, including ourselves.

The beauty of life is apparent if you look outside the window. Look at the lush green of the trees, their ancient beauty; look at the iridescence of a fly’s wings, its intricate body armor and multi-faceted legs; feel the pulse of a small rabbit, a beating heart that pushes the blood through miles of tubing to feed cells, carrying DNA, the language of life. From the savage tundra of Africa to the thriving ecosystem of the Amazon rainforest, the variety and complexity of life is truly magnificent.

So the next time you watch a Discover Channel show, or even gaze outside your window, consider the life around you and what happened for you to exist. Remember that the giant and serene blue whale, with a heart the size of a small car, exists from the same atoms that existed at the very beginning of the entire universe. Remember that the elements that comprise your body developed from hydrogen, the first periodic element to exist, which was spewed forth 14 billion years ago from the most exothermic, most explosive event in the history of the universe. Remember that extremely precise physical constants maintain law and order in the universe, and that your breath is one of billions of breaths, coming from individual human beings, complex organisms that developed from that same massive explosion from the beginning of time. Remember that you exist, you dream and aspire, because of an impossible series of events that occurred over the length of 14 billion years and culminated in perfect cohesion so that you might be born. Appreciate this and the fragility and beauty of life around you. Through this, build a better world, have an open mind-set, and put things in perspective.

Choate News Article: The Progress Misconception

2010-03-12T11:18:00.003-05:00

World War II is perhaps the most famous conflict ever documented on Earth. Its stardom was hard earned: there were many firsts during the 6 years this blight poisoned the modern world. It was the most geographically comprehensive war ever fought, spanning both major oceans and drawing combatants from every inhabited continent, save for South America. Many modern warfare techniques were developed during this time, such as nighttime bombings and infantry supported by armored tanks. The U.S. emerged as the most powerful nation on the planet, in contention with the Soviet Union; radar flourished; even Pepto Bismol finds its roots in this deadliest of conflicts. And, perhaps most importantly, World War II saw the emergence of the most relentless genocide (perhaps a better word is extermination) ever witnessed – the systematic destruction of 11 million souls, 6 million being Jewish, in order to purge Germany of its “undesirables”. The war’s end came to the glorious fanfare of two atomic bombs (dropped on the Japanese towns of Hiroshima and Nagasaki) that together destroyed hundreds of thousands of lives in a matter of weeks. In total, over 73 million people were killed on both sides of the conflict – the deadliest war by far, one which hosted the most degradation, suffering, and anguish the modern world has ever known.

The timeline we are dealing with here is 1939-1945. That is a little over 60 years ago, during the 20^th Century, which many historians have dubbed the most progressive century to grace mankind. The 20^th Century is perhaps the most paradoxical century as well: the emergence of airplanes, automobiles, and the Internet sit side by side with extreme genocide and the dropping of the atomic bomb. Yet economists and historians alike call it “progressive”? Progressive by definition means, “making progress towards better conditions.” Is it just I, or is something not adding up?

Of course, many argue that great strides in medicine and law have brought our civilization greater life expectancy, our societies more order. We have a higher quality of life, to be sure – or do we? Poverty in African rivals that of Medieval Europe, where basic sanitation and hygiene were severely lacking. Some countries limit freedoms so ruthlessly that a bloodthirsty king of England would be seen as lenient. Our methods of killing may be less painful now, but they are frighteningly efficient, as seen with the Holocaust. One wonders if it mightn’t have been better for the gas chambers of the German killing machine to be replaced with torture chambers, if only to slow the dizzying rate of execution achieved by the Nazi death camps.

Warfare six hundred years ago was bloody – killing involved a physical ripping (or some other equivalent action) of a victim’s internal organs. Crushing, stabbing, and tearing were the name of the game. But this physical nature of killing, in which the killer must tire after some time, is perhaps the healthiest way a war can be fought – despite the paradoxical nature of this idea. I’d much prefer my enemy to have to take out my heart than sit behind a control panel and press a button, sending a precisely coordinated smart-bomb to engulf my entire town.

It seems that humankind is doomed to a certain flaw of character: namely, that we cannot move forward without taking a step backwards. Can it be that penicillin was developed on the battlefields that saw the birthplace of the machine gun? We are no angels; our ideas are inspired by good and evil alike. With every progression comes another evil: car crashes kill millions each year, planes drop bombs on our cities, and the Internet opens the doors to predators to seek out and abuse young women. What is progress, then? Perhaps it is the slow and steady decline of human decency – perhaps it is our continual perfection of our own degradation, or our self-delusion that we are bettering ourselves, even as we bring about our own destruction. That may be hyperbole, but it is sadly near to the truth; that is to say, even as we live cleaner, happier, more “fulfilled” lives, we invent and bring into being more and more ways to kill, maim, or destroy another human being. We’ve perfected the art of killing hundreds, thousands, in the blink of an eye – or to kill millions over the course of a few years. Our machines ravage the Earth, wiping out Her native species and polluting the skies. Congratulations, mankind – you’ve made progress!

Of course, this article’s goal is not to diminish the many notable achievements that have been made in the last few centuries. Many of these have indeed been wonderful inventions that have bettered the lives of many. But this is not progress if there are more ways to do harm, if every good idea yields a bad one. It is merely mankind becoming more productive, discovering more, yielding more from the bounty of the earth (or destroying more of it). True progression is a positive value; true progression means that quality of life increases only, not in unison with our ability to destroy. It begs the question: has mankind ever truly experienced true progression? The answer may well be no. We may change, we may produce more, we may discover more – we may expand our horizons. But progression shall always escape us. What is left is simply a long, twisted path that leads ultimately to a society living in absolute paradox – perfect bliss living on top of abject suffering. And ultimately we may just prove to be our own un-doing. That is the price of “progress.”

The 411

2010-03-12T10:20:00.003-05:00

Hello all,

So I realize that it has been a really long time since I last posted. I could give you a myriad of excuses (schoolschoolschoolschool) but I won't; I'll just apologize and move on. What I have been able to do recently, thanks in large part to a sizable break from school, is write some more. I've been taking a Creative Writing course at my school (Choate Rosemary Hall - an excellent place) and this has introduced me to many different poets and authors, as well as force me to write daily. I've gotten into writing short stories and poems more, skills I think every writer should have as they are quite unique and require a different skill set each. I'm thinking I'm going to post my short writings up here, so you can see what I do when I'm not working on my sequel (which, by the way, has exceeded the 100-page mark; coming along nicely!). Recently, I submitted some works into the competition Alliance for Young Artists and Writers. While I've yet to hear about the condition of my short stories and humorous pieces, I received an email about a week ago notifying me that my collection of poems had one a Gold Key regional prize! This means that the collection will go on to compete in the national competition. This was a great personal victory for me as I do not consider poetry to be my real strength. I love it, but my mind works better with plots and characters. However, after many years of hard work and great exposure to many poets, my technique has finally won some sort of recognition.

So, I'll be posting some of my poems up here, and maybe a short story or two, depending. I hope you enjoy!

--R.C. Bogue

Continuation of Sequel

2009-07-30T22:47:00.002-04:00

The sequel is up and running. The fifty-page mark is past and the ideas are still flowing. I've done a lot of thinking about the concepts I'm trying to convey, the ideas I want to express, and where I want the books to go. It's difficult work. There are certain elements that I want to be unique, and I have some ideas as to how, but they are so important that is it necessary for me to refine them until I know precisely what I want - the nature of the evil one in my book for instance.

On the note, I've been doing some extensive "name revision." Oftentimes, as a writer is writing (as they are wont to do) they are so caught up with the plot or the action or simply the act of writing that when they come across an area where it is necessary to create a name, they add in a quick, cheap, "place-holder" name. Well I've done a lot of that in my book, except the names kinda stuck (against my will, which I know is strange since I'm completely in control here...). This is not good. So I made friends with the "Replace All" feature on my handy Microsoft Word and began replacing those evil place-holder names with ones I liked better, and made more sense. This not only took off the nagging burden from my chest that I was lumbering around with awful character names, but it also tightened the script and made it more unique.

So the revisions there are complete, and the sequel is coming along. I've realized that now I care much less about getting published (although I'm still in the process of preparing my manuscript) and more about completing the promise to myself that I would create a legitimate, developed series of books. This will be completed at all costs. I will do this, even if a thousand people tell me to quit and start selling hamburgers in New York. This is one promise to myself I am determined to keep.

See ya soon!

Lots of Readers and Sequel Started

2009-03-18T20:25:00.002-04:00

So, it's been a long time... again. Déjà vu anyone? Well I have some good news. Currently my book is in the hands of several critical readers, and while giving me wonderful feedback, they're all liking it quite a lot. There's nothing more encouraging to a writer than to know that there are people out there that appreciate his or her work, and that he or she is actually doing something worthwhile. Hopefully with some hard work, I can start pitching my book to agents. Fingers crossed!

In the meantime, I realized that I need to start writing again. I'm tired of looking back over my material; it's time to feel that thrill again, to start writing and not knowing what is going to be put on the page. So I've started the sequel. I'm off to a good start and I can't wait to continue writing. This time I have a small fan base to help me along the way. I will definitely keep this blog better up to date. Unfortunately, for personal reasons, I've decided not to put up any of my work. But I can certainly let you into my world, and I hope that's nearly as satisfying.

At the moment I have about eight pages typed up (hey, I started today!) for the sequel. I hope to have the first chapter finished soon. Until then, au revoir!

Nearly There

2009-02-03T16:41:00.003-05:00

It's been a long time, I know. A few months. But things have been very busy. Since I last wrote, the year has turned and the American people have elected their first black president. As for myself, I've been frantically trying to keep up with schoolwork while finding time on the weekends to do what I love - namely, writing and playing piano (not to mention keeping up with friends). I've found some people who are currently reading my book, helping with edits, making comments, and generally supporting me. I appreciate them more than they can know. The most useful tool a writer can use is people - other critical readers, people who judge what they read with an appraising eye. After they've finished, I will pore over my manuscript (with their edits) and being the process of editing everything in sight. Hopefully after that is done I will be able to start pitching to agents. Until that time, I doubt I will be able to write another post. We will see. But let's hope I even have half a chance!

Until then, fare thee well. "Parting is such sweet sorrow." (Romeo and Juliet, Act II, Scene 2)

Beginning Edited

2008-11-25T15:11:00.003-05:00

So, perhaps one of the joys of writing is when you accomplish something that you've had your sights on for ages. For me, that's rewriting the beginning. And today, at approximately 2:00 PM, I managed to do just that. With hard work, some imagination, some music, and a laptop, I was able to rewrite my amateurish old beginning into something that is, hopefully, much better. I still need to mesh the next chapter with this one, but soon I think that I'll be finished with that awful beginning that has been bugging me for years. Whew. I did still keep the old one in a document, just in case, but I don't think I'll be coming back to it. The new one is here to stay. Now, I still need to go through with the whole stylistic edits and typo edits, but that's a little bit easier, if more tedious as well, than completely rewriting. I'll post more as I make more headway. Until then, tschus!

Update

2008-11-05T19:59:00.003-05:00

Okay, so in the process of finding/getting by work ready for submission, I've been doing research on some agents, and let me tell you: its hard work. Not only do you have to find an agent that you think matches your book well, but you have to research their submission preferences, their past clients, and countless other details that are tedious, yet absolutely necessary. It is difficult, and after you go through such work, you must wait a few months for them to reply to you - and that reply may bring rejection. Months of work for rejection; writers are truly insane to love what they do.

On a brighter note, I've finished my query letter! It just needs a little critiquing. For those of you who do not know what a query letter is, I shall tell you: it's a letter that you use to query. If that was not helpful, perhaps this: it's a letter that you write to an agent to see if they are interested in seeing some of your work, and the primary elements are basic information about your novel, a synopsis (short), and a biography of yourself. You can add in small tid-bits of information here or there that are unique to your book as well. It is supposed to be about a page in length. I can use this query letter for several agents; it will basically be my "teaser," like for movies, except for the fact that I'm not trying to sell it, I just want them to consider reading my material. The hardest part about this whole ordeal is summarizing your work into one or two paragraphs - after years of effort, its tempting to want to tell them every single detail about your novel, every page that you agonized over, consulted friends over, thought long hours in the middle of the night over... it goes on. My point is that writing a query letter is not easy, especially since you have to leave out so many elements of your book that you love so much.
So, that's done, and now I just need to continue revising my book and then find several agents, send the required submission materials for each... and wait.

And you get to wait with me!

Editing is Painful

2008-10-27T12:56:00.003-04:00

Let me put this out there -

Editing is painful.

I've been editing for a few months now, although with the start of my new school my time has been extremely limited. I have a few friends who are currently editing my book, along with me, and it is difficult work. The general consensus is that I've written something that is pretty good (or at least has somewhat of a chance in the publishing world), but in need of some revision...okay, lots of revision. There are, of course, the grammatical mistakes and typos, and then the word usage mistakes and stylistic changes, and then the few and very annoying plot revisions, where I simply will have to rewrite several pages because they are flat/boring/not fitting very well.

If anyone out there has ever written a paper, as I'm sure you have, you will hopefully understand that the amount of work I'm doing is roughly equivalent to about ten thousand 1300-word essays, or about one hundred and thirty-three 3 page papers. Its a lot of work, and thats just estimating using word count - there are some revisions that echo across hundreds of pages. Say I change a name that is used throughout the book - I will consequently have to make that change every time the name occurs... over the course of 400 pages. Yes, you are right to cringe, and probably very right to wonder if I'm actually sane to be enjoying this sort of torture. The short answer is absolutely not - in no way am I sane. But then again, I'm very sane if you realize that what I do brings me joy, fulfillment, and a sense of accomplishment. Aha, now you're confused!

I'm currently presiding on the issue of sharing my work. My parents are constantly cautioning me to be careful - my work is not copyrighted (duh) and therefore sharing it with the general public is putting it up for being copied. If you write, you will understand the immense anguish it would cause me to have someone take credit for my years and years of work - its almost more difficult to bear than having all of my work erased, a thought that sometimes gives me nightmares. But still, there is no way to gain the opinion of the general public (who, by the way, will be the people actually buying and reading my book if, by the grace of God, it ever gets published) without sharing it with them. I'm thinking of, over the course of the next several months, really buckling down on editing and getting my book much more presentable than it is now. Then, using the heavy-duty printers at my school that churn out our yearly literary and arts magazine, I would print and bind my book and present it at the end of the year. My debate is on whether or not to actually sell my book. I mean, would people think I'm arrogant to think my work is worth buying? It would be pretty costly to print it, and some reimbursement would be nice. In no way am I thinking of actually making money off of it; I just don't want to go into U.S-sized debt because of it.

That's basically where my story lies at the moment. If you have any insight concerning editing tips/selling and sharing your work/life in general, comment.

Jusqu'à la fois prochain, mes amis, au revoir!

What It's About

2008-05-04T10:15:00.003-04:00

So, I write. I guess I always have, and probably always will. If you take a look at my life, you'd realize I've been writing since first grade and have been captured by its seductive call ever since then. I won't be cliche and say, "Oh, it runs in my veins," but I must say this - oh, it runs in my veins! I can't help but write. Ideas are constantly coming to my mind, I have these moments that I can only compare to a druggie's high (to be clear, I have never experienced this nor ever will), moments that keep me writing through dinner and sleep, because I know that what I feel now needs to be out on paper before the fire dies out. And I've had a lot of those moments. Take a hundred of those, lock in transitioning passages, add (hopefully) some descriptive language, and you've pretty much got a novel I've written. But perhaps you'll be amused to travel with me through what I can remember from my past experiments with writing - I know I always am.

In first grade I wrote a song - I believe it was aptly titled, "Be Happy with What You Have." It was a boring, disorganized, amateurish mess (which I hope won't be used to describe my latest works). The song was framed and put up in our school, and that got me thinking that maybe I could write.

Through second, third, and part of fourth grade, I started my grandest project at the time. It was titled The Majestic Magic. It was a sign of my newness to writing that I made the title before I even had any idea what I was going to write about. The book was never finished; after eighty pages of single-spaced writing, I grew bored with it. The writing was simplistic, but I did have moments when I truly attempted elaborate language. What these moments resulted in were sentences similar to this: "The castle was huge, grand, amazing, imposing, towering, gigantic, and downright superlative." I think it would be obvious to an ape that I used the online thesaurus. The idea, if fully developed, was actually not half-bad; it followed the plot of a young man and his girlfriend who found themselves sucked into an alternate reality full of different worlds of magical beings. More than once, I have considered going back and reviving that plot.

Yet, I was in third-grade. I was impressionable by the ideas of the day - namely, Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, and just about any book I'd read or movie I had seen. The ideas were plagiarized to a painful extent. I had dwarven cities with the name of Uruk-Hai (the name of an orc-like creature in Lord of the Rings), worlds full of elves with pointed ears and an uncanny skill with the bow, and people with names I like from just about any book I'd read. It is amusing to read it now. But at the time, I was swept up in a fervor. I believed I was making history. I had an eye for detail - a huge part of the book focuses on describing each of the worlds in a painfully scrupulous way. I even went so far as to list in American dollars the riches of each dwarven community. Additionally, each name that I actually made up was normally no less than twelve letters. My book was a plagiarized mess full of ridiculously minute details and very long words. It was ludicrous, but that is raw imagination for you.

In fourth grade, I wrote and finished about eighty page book. It was much more sensible than The Majestic Magic, which means that it was laughable for any common person. It followed the adventure of three siblings who are told they are part of a magical group of beings called Siswi'amen and must go back in time to different cultures to collect several objects of power. In the first book, they traveled to ancient Japan. I did minimal research, and thus understood very little about ancient Japan; this resulted in a battle where samurai fought ninjas. Any sensible person would know this was very wrong. But it was the first time I finished a book, and it gave me confidence.

Since then, I have started and stopped many different books, but none worked. However, I have read books on writing, I have compared and critiqued my work with other writers, and I have, I hope, greatly improved. I have finished my most important project ever: a fantasy novel, which is currently in the process of extensive revision. It is about 130,000 words. I have been offered representation by the New York Literary Agency, but my author friend told me that they are not a respectable company; I sadly declined. But it taught me how much work must go not only into a novel, but also into finding the right agency for you. When I finish my book, I hope to be offered representation by a respectable agency.

On this blog, I will continually update what is going on in the life of your truly, concerning writing of course. I hope you will gain a deeper appreciation for the massive amount of work that actually goes into the making of a novel. Keep in mind that, at its moment of completion, my novel took about two years of hard work. The editing could take another two. But bear with me, and post comments with questions/ suggestions.

For now, adieu!