Borat

For those of you who have not heard of this movie, here is the premise: an English actor (Sacha Baron Cohen) pretends to be a journalist from Kazakhstan. He travels across America, allegedly making a documentary about his travels. As he interviews people, he performs outrageous stunts under the guise of “Kazakhstan rituals/beliefs/customs” in order to get reactions from real American people, and he films the full extent of these antics.

The idea sounded funny and a potentially interesting way to reveal the prejudices of Americans until I realized that the entire mocumentary is filmed in the South. There, Sacha manages to find the most racist, bigoted, Confederate-flag-waving people possible to represent America. The fact that these people exist is bad enough, but to make an entire movie in which they represent our country to the world is simply one more ax-swing at a country that simply does not need to be cut down any more than it has been already. Fellow Holland-houser Carl defended us best: “It would be like filming in just northern England and making the assumption that all English people are uneducated.”

Evangelism

At the beginning of the semester, I attended a church service and one Alpha class with my Singapore friends Angela and Michelle. Michelle is very Christian; Angela is not, but goes along to see what everything is about and to keep Michelle company. That was what I decided to do, also: see how things would go and keep my new friends company. Well, the overpowering message at that service was, “We are Christians and the world hates us, so be strong! Be different! They’re the evil ones!” and at Alpha, everything was concentrated on being “feel-good.” Everyone was telling stories—mostly “witness” stories about how they became Christians because they received signs from God or heard his voice or whatever—so I decided to tell the story about how, when I was ten or twelve, I went to a Christian camp where, when I asked my counselor what would happen to my dad when he died, because he was a Jew, she told me very bluntly that he was going to hell. I explained that this was unacceptable to me on a personal level and also because the Jews were God’s chosen people; surely he wouldn’t be so unmerciful. However, the group pretty much ignored me and went on to listen to a guy who said that he had come to Alpha to learn about Christianity because every time he was feeling down, a light bulb behind him would blow out, and when he turned around, it would magically come back on. Everyone was really nice and polite and impressed. That was the first and last time I attended that church.

Today, Angela went along with Michelle to a “Holy Spirit” day, a five hour long preaching praying marathon. Everything went fine until lunchtime; Angela said it was pretty much what she expected, with people preaching about the Trinity and how the Holy Spirit can change your life and such. However, after lunch, everyone was instructed to divide into two groups: people who were already Christians on the right, people who wanted to accept Christ into their lives, on the left. Angela said that when she turned to Michelle, Michelle said, “You can leave, but I’m staying.” So Angela left. Only one other girl ran out of the room, and Angela said she was in tears.

How manipulative. I can just imagine what would have happened if Angela had asked the question she told me was on her mind: so where does the third group stand? She would have been ushered into the “save your soul” group, forced to act out a ritual to make the rest of the church feel relieved that they had rescued another soul from the fires of hell, and left feeling guilty that she had not had the courage to stand up for what she did or did not believe.

What would I have done, had I been there alone? Would I have gone along to the right, pretending I am the Christian I once was? Would I have had the courage to walk out? Or does it even matter at all where you stand amongst a bunch of people who are so terribly misled?

Why I'm giving up my iPod

Ipods are good for blocking out the world. Have a bad day? Pop those earbuds in, and you have a reason to ignore every human being around you. Don’t want people sticking fliers in your face on the streets? (Let me tell you, these flier-hander-outers occupy more street corners than the homeless do in Brighton. And they pester you more, too.) Your iPod is a perfect excuse not to have “seen” them.
However.

I went to pick up my photos from SnappySnaps today. (I’m entering an international student photo contest at Sussex University, so I needed to get a few prints developed. SnappySnaps is a digital photo developer on Western Road.) On my way out the door, I forgot to grab my iPod, which has accompanied me virtually everywhere since I arrived in England. It wasn’t worth it to go back just for that, since I was just traveling a few blocks and back, so I continued on my way, sans music.

The girl cattycorner to me on the bus had at stud through the skin above her lip. It was a stupid place for a stud, because her upper jawbone forced it to jut out of her face like a mini antennae. She and her friend, who sat across from her, wore matching coats in different colors: one taupe, one army green, both with fake matted fur on the hoods. They could only have been twelve or fourteen, but they had already mastered the art of stuffing themselves into the tightest jeans possible—a feat made apparent from the roll of skin forced up between the waistband of this girl’s jeans and the hem of her short jacket. Black eyeliner was the finishing touch.

I doubt I would have really looked at this girl, were I listening to my iPod. Did my observation matter? Not really. But I could feel my “writer’s mind” assessing her, and I need to cultivate that mind as much as humanly possible.

I guess I can sacrifice my iPod on at least one bus ride a day.

Turkish Delight

Let’s just say that Edmund was completely out of his mind. I cannot imagine any child being willing to give up his waxy Hershey’s chocolate bar for a bit of Turkish Delight, never mind betray his entire family. Here’s what Turkish Delight is: extra-congealed jelly (usually covered in chocolate) that tastes almost fruit-like…but not quite. I now have a £1 box of Turkish Delight Thins to bring back with me in case anyone would like to have a taste. It’s worth the experience, I suppose. Try to imagine being in the White Witch's sleigh when you eat it--it might taste better.

Another British specialty curiosity induced me to try was bubble chocolate. Now, the description I was given made it sound unnecessarily unappealing: “It’s just chocolate with carbonation, or air bubbles through it; you know, kind of like Swiss cheese.” The idea, I suppose, is to make it lighter on your tongue. I bought a bit for a pound (Cadbury’s, of course), and it does kind of fizz on your tongue, in a way. I’m bringing that with me, as well, for any interested American to sample. I’m really kind of shocked bubbly chocolate hasn’t swept the candy industry of America. After all, it’s a killer combination: carbonation + chocolate. They could call it “fizzy chocolate” (since we like to be so different, after all). What kid could resist candy like that?

On being home sick

Homesickness is not actually so much missing home. Besides, after a certain point in life, it is difficult to determine what should be called “home,” anyway. Where my parents live. But what about when they move to somewhere other than where you grew up? Is that still home? And what happens when they die? Where I spend the most time. That’s in a college dorm room. I’m not sure that qualifies for “home.” Where I return from work/school/practice every day. This changes seasonally. So if I can’t define home, how can I miss it?

The feeling we call homesickness is more the realization that no matter how far we travel and how much time we spend “away,” we can never leave our selves behind. This realization comes after the novelty of the new place wears off, once we have a routine in place that allows us to go about the necessities of life automatically enough to resume our old habits and neuroses. Then, homesickness is missing the creature comforts and the little familiarities that, once in a while, helped us to forget that we are stuck with ourselves, no matter where we go.