Siddhartha
June 1st, 2008
Private journal: Having been foretold that his son will become a monk, the king took all precautions to shelter his son from things that would make him think too deeply. The baby grew up with luscious mango gardens, given a beautiful wife and all of his servants were told to smile and replaced when age showed. At the age of 30, the prince saw for the first time in his life an old beggar. I wonder how the prince felt and what his thoughts were seeing someone so frail.
Connections that run through my mind: If 30% of the English language in compromised of the Anglo-Saxon warrior tribes and 60% of the Greek/Latin philosophers, does it mean it takes less words to fight than to farm in any language? One of the worst punishments on a human psyche is to want something they cannot have but be so close to touch. Sisyphus knew this pushing his rock up a hill. Legend has it that so did the Shah Jahan, the king who built the Taj as a testament of love for his wife. The Shah was legendary for his guardianship of the structure making contractors and workers alike swear to never work on a similar project and beheading those who wished to replicate it. Yet, when one of his sons desired the same, he was was placed under house arrest on the top of one of the minarets with a window over looking the Taj. Years later, that same son killed his brothers, claimed the throne and placed his father under house arrest, except this time the window to the Taj was sealed shut.
I’ve chosen to celebrate my birthday this year by visiting the Taj Mahal and the Rajastan region for my friend’s wedding. I contemplate on the reality of the situation and how my thoughts reflect so easily in this country. India in mid July is not something I can predict. I doubt that she ever predicted out of all her friends, I would be the one attending. She tells me not even her family will make it, and it makes me wonder if I’m the only one who views “family” without the prerequisite of blood, time and/or location. The warnings from previous visitors are plenty: beware of the lice, the dung, the heat, the smell, the water, the crowds, the air, the pickpocket children, and more. I think about Colombia and the kidnappings, drug wars and the roofies to render a person unconscious. I wonder if the visible filth is worse than the implication of filth.
Truth is, I don’t get it. I don’t get how people speak of pride for a place/culture/nation and turn around to use violence against it. I don’t get how politicians in countries so rich with resources like Colombia and India can engage in corruption, sacrificing many for their own gain. I don’t get many things but among it all, I remember my friend who spent many years quiet and alone without dating. I thought it was unhealthy treating herself this way…soon, she’ll be getting married. Thinking of the Taj Mahal, I finally get that she put herself in the minaret for safety and not for punishment. It’s not that we see what we want to see, sometimes. It’s that we remember what we understand and choose the direction of that which we don’t.
The prince left his town at 30 to find answers for the suffering he saw for the first time at 30. His name was Siddhartha, but later he came to be known as Buddha.
Apolitical
May 18th, 2008
“So what inspires you?” Silent fidgeting as the audience struggles to fill the empty void at the reading. Typical answers: things no one talks about, my culture, the stories of my grandmother, comic books, etc, etc. Me? I’m inspired by pictures of my throat when it was invaded by mathematically perfect spherical colonies of bacteria.
I was born in a generation that watched the flesh of my country scar and people dive hundreds of stories, screaming, charred skin, seared mouth, and from somewhere hearing: do we have a list? Angered and pained, I supported Congress to war. Seven years, 4,000 soldier bodies, and a thousands of dollars lost on a depreciated economy, I’m regretting that decision. I sat on the pinhole of a gun in slum raids at three o’clock in the afternoon, and in the cockpit watching bombs fall to a mushroom in a part of the world that I thought were only markers of my parent’s generation. After we won the war, we’d leave, right? But war is never that simple and I wonder what was I cheering for on the tv? Say mister, is that an extended cab, 12 cylinder engine SUV?
Or how about the financial uncertainty since the fifth grade that there would no Medicare/Social Security funds for me? Nothing better than a 15 minute surgery that costs me two months paycheck even with insurance. Welcome to the land of the free and watch your step, don’t want to get injured and fall financial uncertainty or foreclosure with medical bills. But those with money aren’t really affected, right?
Do you want me to say the fairness of affirmative action? No, that ended the year I applied to law school. Watching the lawyer across the way living in a one bedroom to pay quarter million school loans to get a job that pays a teacher’s salary just didn’t equate. So this artist/teacher wonders why one job should be more prized than another while society complains on issues of crime, child endangerment, etc.? You get exactly what you pay for returned with the respect that you give it. Were we better off trying to balance a situation of inequality or asking a child to be responsible even if they couldn’t get all those extras tutorials and experiences on the other side of the tracks? Or was that just a band aid for a bigger issue of inequality that no one has dared to touch?
So, is it any wonder if I choose something that can be proven, logical, and needs no translation to inspire me? I am part of Generation Bacterium. I am Googlized, idealized, generalized and egocentrically privileged to hide in the world I want…just look at my avatar. I am part of a generation of extreme information and inverted emotional disposition; just check my blog or Facebook to keep up and don’t forget to show comment love. I am the generation that has watched documentaries of thousands starving in third world countries since 1986 fed by the UN except now, there are no more crops. I wish it would be about survival, but that would be standing on those that live on hands and knees. I watch for haphazard encounters, like worms on vermiculated wood, looking for the few to change the world for the world’s sake and not to benefit their pocket.
As for the I never get political argument, I would, but it would be a two headed dog in a New York avenue looking for some time to kill.
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April 19th, 2008
I’m in the Citizen’s Gymnasium behind the baseball stadium quietly looking up from the epicenter. The matted floor hosts about 400 people in the five sections of competitions. There are about 1500 people walking in and out of the front doors, through the narrow hallways of noisy anticipation. I couldn’t sleep that night. The wakeup call was at five, to leave at seven and arrive at eight. To my right, the honorary section holds about 50 founders and professors along with police academy personnel and military. Underneath, the special five foot wreaths adorn the 15 foot-long trophy section. The elements and light are filtered through cloth and banners. I’m in love with the room full of different colors, variations and expressions of both conformity and individuality in a uniform. That corner belongs to the white stripes, this one is the only uniform in red, and of the four gyms that chose white, one etches the students name on the back, the other has red lettering and the rest are black. My mouth is dry but I resist, knowing anticipation can overwhelm any stomach.
I step away from the competitive vibe to observe. How did I get here in front of hundreds of years of tradition and interpretation? How was I so lucky to see high leaps past a barricade of 15 people, kicks 12 feet high softly landing into kneeling position that bow for grace and humility? How was I so blessed, an immigrant from la Alameda where my grandma and I crossed the city’s black water canals to reach the market every day, to witnessing/participating in a tradition and power hundreds of years old living and breathing? How did I get here on the blue tatami floor looking up, breathing in, screaming out, following my dreams at 30, exploring life?
My ears listen desperately for my name, filtering words because I don’t want to let my master down, get lost or attract attention…as if the only foreign, brown female in a bright orange gi could be overlooked. So, I try to remain anonymous: always quiet, while communication comes to me in the most efficient way possible and the past speaks to me. Every country I’ve been to, I have a teacher and a community of friends. Though it was not easy to find a martial arts teacher that would invest their time in me or work outside their language, I have found many. Yes, they all share a love of the arts, for the skill, endurance and peace it brings into their life, but from my perspective they share many more qualities. They share a nobility and faith in the arts and themselves to want to see everyone excel. My sensei in Houston is a cancer survivor, adamant to keeping the dojo in the community and one of his students is blind. They have great poise and goofy smiles that never brag or boast but welcome everyone open hearted. My sensei in Colombia has traveled the world with his art and is the sole traditional jujitsu dojo in a city of 2 million people. But most of all, they share a great sense of justice and accountability to their physical world and community of the martial arts. My kwanjamin in Korea named his gym bright light to let everyone know it was a place of honesty and principles. Nobility, faith, poise, honesty, justice and accountability, are traits that I have earned and refined from years in the arts because of my teachers. They are people who talk to me and help me see my self worth by making me better. People who go past the monetary rewards to give me self-confidence, challenges, and pride in my accomplishments. People who don’t misjudge character going beyond a five foot brown female but an individual that can. I’m aware of them, myself, and who and what I represent every where I go.
The competitions begin. I sit in line asking my breath to relax all the muscles in my body and release any competitive hesitations or fears. I won fourth place. Its a great start to next year’s gold medal.
Inspirations…
March 24th, 2008
Easter is an inspiring time because of the beautiful blooming flowers, the end of a cold winter, the celebration of Christ’s resurrection for Christians worldwide, and the overall feeling of renewal that the season brings. This weeks photo collection is
Pictures of me:
I’ve never thought of giving people pictures of me until I started traveling. Yes, it’s petal picking forget me nots in your memory prairie of toucan yellow chrysanthemums and red dripping Indian brushes, but… I’m looking at the repoused silver intricate work upon layers of beads on black felt jacket, Hmong neon pink head dress feathers, taken in the land of the elephants. Following a tradition my friend started when she came back from Iraq. This is me at 30, almost 31. Four continents touched, 7 countries explored, unabashedly sailing solo but open to addendum. So much more to do and see, but… forget me not.
Sucking fish:
My friends know when my twisted smile comes on. I struggle to detach my eyes from the little fish sucking off the weary traveler’s calloused feet that dare invade their territory. People swear by its nourishing power to bring healthier skin, but curiosity bites harder. “Arashi…” I have everyone’s curiosity as my eyebrows peak. Fine, I’ll address the proverbial pink elephant/literal feet sucking fish in the room. “Hey Arashi…what happens when the fish get too big? Do you eat them? Do they taste like feet?” Meanwhile, I’m making sure nothing is lost in translation pointing at the fat fish in the bottom left corner sinking by gluttony, motioning a fork and knife. He throws his hands at me, with an international crazy foreigner mumble. I guess answers are secondary to laughter.
Western females:
The little black number with a new hairdo and shoes, gold lip gloss and charcoal eye shadow drinking coffee by the sidewalk, is like a weed growing between concrete barrier divides in the German Autobahn: Claudia’s field research. While men peripherally look and walk faster so as not to make eye contact, females whisper to their bffs holding on to hand to hand. I smile, wanting to say, “Hey, thirty something year old lady: nice school plaid mini! I’m so honored to be topic of your conversation and give you something to bond over. Oh, dude with bright green scarf, check it: we have the same lip gloss,” but language absconds vocal sounds and it becomes a silent flick. With eyes only, I have to say, “Hey, you know there are so many things we have in common culturally, you would laugh! Do you realize group identity becomes easier with immigrant presence, so you’re welcome. I see you….do you see me?” Amid my two hour notes, I quickly put my coffee down and stop my self from whistling like a construction worker at the only guy who has seriously caught my attention quickly walking by me. Chuckling, “Oh, c’on, now!” I wonder, “Latinas can’t possibly be that scary, right?”
add to del.icio.us Dirty Feet Goodbyes
March 15th, 2008
I’m in my friend’s apartment cleaning. Every part of my body has some layer of grime. It’s the third day of packing and dust thickens the air. The back and forth motion of mopping reminds me of my grandmother’s linoleum floor, years of lower belt status wondering why I had to mop when there was enough money to hire a maid and now here, in Korea on Friday night Salsa. Looking at my blackened feet from cleaning, I wondered how it crossed Jesus’ head that he had to wash dirty stinky feet like mine for Holy week with the reason, “Such as my love has been for you, so must your love be for each other.” Yet, sometimes interpretations come from life events, like leaving good friends or having them leave you. Like my friends did for me, I helped her because I was given it when I needed it, because I knew she would do the same for me, because I wanted to see her happy and I knew this would help. And somehow, because it made both her and me feel safe; in the sense that someone is watching out for us from head to toe.
In the taxi, I rushed goodbyes to hold back tears but I always look back for three seconds to get a picture of the people I leave, why I find them so inspiring, so strong and remember that life is momentary. Happiness are moments stacked like cubes magnetically attracted by faith. Knowing that small actions are meaningful and every road has a definition, is a smile after any departure.
So ahead of many entries, I give you St. Theresa’s Prayer and my photographic journal observing all the beauty in people: “Life Story Stills/claudiapena/flicker.com”
May today there be peace within.
May you trust God that you are exactly where you are meant to be.
May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith.
May you use those gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you.
May you be content knowing you are a child of God. Let this presence settle into your bones, and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love.
It is there for each and every one of us.
Happy Easter! For Mona, Jaz, and Jentz…nothing like chosen sisters! add to del.icio.us
Twisted Chicken
January 15th, 2008
My grandmother’s fingers were always thicker than the rest of her. Sometimes, it was like they didn’t belong to her. They attracted my gaze before I saw the droop of her kind soul. She would follow my gaze to the cracked dry landscape inside her hands that looked like a carbon etching filled filled with dirt from the vegetables of La Alameda market. Clapping her hands, she’d say, “See mija, that’s why you have to study so when you grow up, your fingers will just type.” She would fold her thick hands and her skin would pleat with too much moving room to ever be seen as dainty. Her finger tips were pricked from weaving furniture in perfect honey comb octagons. Her afternoon was happy working on chair backs and watching soap operas that we both cried to. Dinner was always fresh. If I didn’t catch the chicken, they would come clucking from the market. “It’s not a farm chicken when the meat is tough and the eggs are bright orange; Those are free range chickens.” To this date I can’t match my grandmother’s cooking.
I’m 30 now, watching a man with no legs drag his torso across the market street pushing a red plastic bowl on a skate board. His speaker is blasting a prayer in another language I don’t recognize. I don’t know if to admire this man for living life four inches above the floor or be repulsed by the obvious appearance. He shoves the red bowl in front of my torso incoherently asking for mercy. His hands are dirty, protected in old fingerless leather gloves, thick, old and rough. All I can see is the my grandmother’s hands: hugging my face on my birthday, weaving furniture reeds and twisting the chicken’s head before Christmas.
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