The talk covers the subject of whether or not schools teach creativity and what the implications of that are for the future. The thesis of the talk is that the current method of education does a great job of training students to be cogs in the industrial-era machine, but it doesn't do a good job of teaching any of us to be creative. This creativity is of course necessary for engendering future innovations, although the talk is heavy with talk of the arts, dance, etc.
It got me wondering whether I had some of that same creativity. After all, I do write this, among other things, I draw, and so on. But is it really creativity, or just something I do to give the illusion of creativity and cultivate that "Renaissance man" image that I crave. Yeah, I can admit it. I know for a fact that I am a product of the education factory, molded into an engineer with the "slide-rule grip" and exciting "mouse action" arms. So does my desire for creative expression mean that the system has failed (either at stamping out creativity, or encouraging it)? The whole thing leaves me wondering what future education would be like in a regime like this - would we all try to be dancers or painters or singer/songwriters (please, God, not that); conversely, who will spend their time building things and making things. Indeed, considering the suffering of artists who struggle to express themselves, is all the creativity even going to make everyone happy? And how much of this question is legitimate or an attempt to justify my own experience? All questions that can't be easily answered.
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“If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.”
I gasped, laughed and reread it. Then I debated whether or not to read the passage out loud for my Dad in case he decided I was too young to be reading that sort of thing. Finally I did and he laughed with me, and smiled, probably remembering when he had first read the Catcher in the Rye. I read that book then, then again two years later, then again 2 years after that, then again when I got to college. It was simply written and brilliant and I loved it. Who was J.D. Salinger that he had so easily written a book that described everything and so perfectly?
It appears that he died yesterday, quietly. I hadn't ever read his other works, partly out of laziness and partly because there's no way anything could measure up to Catcher. Now I feel a bit foolish, as we say goodbye to him from beyond the fence. I guess I'd better start reading.
]]>Strangely (or perhaps not so strangely) this brought up all kinds of memories, starting first with childhood memories from NY. Riding home from school in the Mission station wagon, watching the rain on the asphalt and fogging up the glass with my breath. It was always so stuffy in there, in a the back of a car filled with fidgety kids who just wanted to be home. We were always the last on the route, and had ample time to zone out to the mixed white noise of rain and traffic. This is a pretty weird memory for me since I haven't thought about it in a good long time. Mainly, it's the amalgamation of thoughts and memories from a thousand rainy days in the seven years we lived in NYC when I was little.
That was idyllic compared to the strongest memory of rain that I had. In August 1988 we were living in Khartoum, and the rainy season (the khareef) was almost on us. School had just started a week prior and was ramping up as quickly as it usually did. That evening we'd had something to eat and the moved the mattresses out to the courtyard where we would all sleep to escape the stifling heat in the house. Sleep came quickly but it seemed like no time before I was awoken by my father shaking my shoulder. "It's raining, get the mattresses inside," but we were woken up again afterward. The roof was leaking throughout the house, and water was rushing in from under the doors. We rushed to plug the gaps up with towels or rags or whatever was at hand, and to put pots under the leaks in the roof which seemed to be everywhere. Before long we were bailing the house out like the Titanic, and continued till 4 or 5am, as the sounds of white noise on the roof faded to silence.
We woke up the next morning to a muddy and partly serene world, with not a cloud in the sky. Wish the same would happen here soon.
]]>Cairo: 1992
When I was living in Egypt 18 years ago (jeez, that's a long time), I recall going to a show at the Cairo Opera House with some friends. It was my first time in the opera house which is an impressive building inside and out, and I had great mezzanine seats for the performance of Carmen. In the middle of the 1st act, as Carmen was tempting scoundrels and officers alike, I felt my seat move, and it didn't stop. I looked up at the massive chandelier on the ceiling and it was moving too, the small crystals clinking together and making a pleasant sound ominous. At first the orchestra played on, until they noticed that the conductor had left the podium and, indeed, the orchestra pit. They slowly stopped playing in fits and starts, and began to exit. Even then, the singers on the stage kept singing until it was obvious there would be no more music. By then of course the earthquake (since that's what it was) had subsided. Moments later the conductor came back out, we all clapped, and tried to ignore the fact that there had been a seismic event in a place where it was pretty much unheard of. My friends and I enjoyed the rest of the show and tried to pretend all was well. That night large portions of the poorer neighborhoods in Cairo collapsed and in the City of the Dead fires raged.
Khartoum: 1993
The summer after I was interning at Stack Labs at the University of Khartoum's medical school. I was doing data entry and other sorts of computer work, which was a nice change of pace and getting paid a pittance for it. Still it kept me out of the house which was nice, especially considering how much cooler the Stack building was than our house with the power out as it usually was on summer days. The Stack building was at the time one of the highest buildings in the city, and when it began to shake during lunch, we could hear the grinding of masonry. The room was filled with female researchers and physicians - I stood, unsure whether to stay still and keep everyone calm or to turn tail and run (ungentlemanly? cowardly? yes). Mercifully the shaking stopped quickly and we could all discuss the thrill of what had just happened. That night, as we slept in the courtyard it happened again, but I didn't hear about it till the next morning. Then the news was full of people whose houses had collapsed on them, and children who had had their heads crushed by cinder blocks falling off poorly constructed roofs. People were terrified and I was ashamed of my falsely cavalier behavior the day before.
Haiti: 2010
I imagine that it must have been similar in Port-au-Prince a couple of days ago. Unless you live in California (and even then) you cannot conceive of the earth moving unbidden. It is the most solid, reliable thing in your life and when it moves it is terrifying. Then your house falls down, or you stand by looking at a pile of rubble that was your house and you know that your mother or father or brother or sister is in there. I won't go on about the feeling of helplessness which compounds the usual feeling of helplessness that comes of living a place where you are the mercy of an arbitrary authority, where the largest part of your economy is the remittances of expatriates. Every image makes me think of that morning in Khartoum 17 years ago. So I did what I hope all of you have done already which is to donate some money. If you haven't already, please do. If you can donate something more valuable (medical skills) you might want to do that too ...
Now kiss the Don's ring.
]]>Anyway.
As you know, it's getting to be that time of year again; and if you live in a "western" nation (Japan included, and apparently China too nowadays), you are no doubt being subjected to copious amounts of forced jollity, treacly music, and reminders of how grossly commercial our lives are becoming. Call me a Scrooge, but the whole thing typically leaves me cold, and wondering what the hell I am doing here. Having said that, I do sometimes wish I could join in the reindeer games that seem to be springing up around, which makes me wonder why I feel the way I do. So, I have been thinking about it.
I think that there are several reasons for my conflicted feelings (beyond distaste for commercialism and the naked rush for acquisition during the few weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas). There's the feeling, of course, that this isn't my holiday, reinforced unwittingly by my folks. The reasons were obvious but it certainly had me scrambling for rationalizations to reinforce my distance from all the fun and merriment. The other reason, I think, is that it never lives up to my expectations (jerry-built from other peoples' memories and of course from television and movies). Even now, I look around at the lack of a raucous and potentially unprofessional holiday party at work and I'm sad. Why shouldn't we all be treated to some terrible music and enforced intimacy with our coworkers? Why hasn't corporate America given me an experience that allows me to dress formally and schmooze? It's just a big let down, and contributes to my whole "bah, humbug" demeanor.
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That’s too bad because while Mr. Sandler doesn’t have the necessary acting technique or even the natural warmth to convince you that his character cares about anyone else, he is undeniably a star, the movie’s biggest draw and its most effective and powerful presence. It’s easy to buy him as both a selfish jerk and a maudlin self-pitier, whether George is weeping alone into his designer sheets or confiding some medical news to his housekeeper, the only sympathetic ear around. With his flatline drone, stand-and-deliver gestural performance and prickliness, Mr. Sandler is effortlessly charmless, and in his performance you see the risky movie this might have been if Mr. Apatow had pushed harder.
Eat it, Sandler.
]]>The guy seems to have it all down and was doing Tron before he was doing Tron if you gather my meaning. The Nike stuff we did is pretty awesome, and frankly I can barely wait to see what he does with a full length feature.
oeuvre link courtesy of Mr Bond
Tron trailer link courtesy of Bruce-stapha
Let me explain.
SF is a small city with a large tax base. Banks are based here as are numerous technology firms, finance firms, and the like. In addition, being one of the most expensive places to live in America, it follows that the per capita income here must be high, and hence the tax revenue must also be substantial. It has tourism! And yet ...
Yet SF is dirty, and unpardonably so. It's unsafe both in real, we-were-shot-at-during-a-post-doc-party-and-the-police-were-no-help terms, as well as quality of life, I-had-my-bike-stolen-3-times-from-my-own-home terms. It's crumbling, and falling apart only to be rebuilt blandly by unscrupulous developers. Finally, it's got bad schools (though I'll admit that's mainly anecdotal, I don't have CA Dept of Ed numbers or anything like that). All of this at a not insignificant price.
Now I realize that SF is burdened with a large number of residents who are far below the poverty line, and a large indigent population. This puts great strain on city government, and that's understandable. What isn't understandable is the sloppy attitude of the Board of Supervisors and the general laxity surrounding these issues from most of the city's "citizens". This, I think, is due to the transient nature of the majority of the "citizens".
We can break the city down into several segments, each with a reason to be involved or not involved:
- Too young: who cares about school funding when you just got out of school yourself (barely) and made it out to the Big City. Wouldn't you much prefer to push for turning Alcatraz into a "Peace Center"? That sounds much cooler.
- Too provincial: I always wanted to move to the Big City, because ever since I was a little, and growing up in Topeka/Boise/Tuscaloosa I felt different! So I came here, and I want to live in a real city (cf. no real rules and responsibilties)
- Too yuppie: San Francisco is great, but there's no way I would want to raise children around all the people I spent my youth hanging out with. I grew up with a front yard and a dog, and I want that for my kids (never mind how desperately I wanted to escape that all my life)
- Too self-important: What the world really needs is San Francisco's opinion on the Iraq War. I think we should table the sanitation issues in favor of a vote on a resolution to end the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan - where goes San Francisco, there goes the neighborhood.
- Too ambitious: I want to be President one day. I'll unilaterally declare gay marriage legal and ensure that it in fact becomes illegal for the next 8 years or so (you know who you are Gavin Newsome - moron).
- Too poor: please, just leave me alone.
Which leaves those few of us who have lived in real cities, and would like to see streets cleaned before we start setting up peace centers and other fantasies. And we're in the minority.
]]>In NY I was a tough (but relatively sheltered) kid who would confidently stride into a bar to get change for the bus, but in Sudan I had no idea where anything was and couldn't take a bus on my own for many years. So I went from having little freedom but a good idea of what do with it, to having a lot of freedom and nowhere to go. Moreover, there were the questions of class.
In NYC we were part of a broad middle class, the same as the kids we went to school with, the people we shopped with (tax-free) in NJ and the guys down at the corner store. In the Sudan, where there is both no class consciousness and a range of subtle distinctions, we were in new territory. It is a world that is fiendishly complicated, and moreso when you straddle two worlds within it.
Our schoolmates were the sons of diplomats, of foreign businessmen, the wealthy scions of the Sudanese upper crust. They lived a life of social clubs, large air conditioned cars, and trips abroad in the summer. Straddling the economic divide, my siblings and I got to travel, but also visited members of our family who lived with more modest means. I didn't think anything of it, until I mentioned what I did on the weekend. With my family I went to visit my cousins in Alkalakla, which is a sprawling neighborhood to the south of Khartoum. Its residents typically are of modest means, with small homes. They are hospitable and open, and in some cases, they are related to me. Unfortunately for my social standing at my posh school, they are also ... well, not rich, I guess. So I was roundly razzed and felt embarrassed, twice: first for being not rich, and then for being ashamed of being not rich.
This was to be the first of my many run ins with my upscale peers. It was also the first indication of the (at least) two worlds I would be living in. The Sudan is not a rich country, and at the end of the 80's the days of a more or less level economic landscape were almost over. In addition to the general poverty (which mind you, many people, including myself didn't quite notice) there was an influx of refugees fleeing war in Ethiopia, in Chad and in the Sudan itself. These unfortunate people were scattered around Khartoum, the lucky in the poor quarters, the rest in shanty towns. It's not hard to see them unless you're not looking, and I looked.
It's simultaneously interesting and heartbreaking, and that feeling is made more vivid by the contrast between the worlds I inhabited. I witnessed many examples of those contrasts, such as the bottomless boy sprawled out in the sun on the ground outside the school gate. I looked to my parents for some indication of how I should handle it, and it seemed to be a combination of down to earth pragmatism and distaste for the ostentation of the well-off. This is something I've carried with me into my current life, and leaves me on the odd side in the class wars despite the advantages I've had. In terms of my relationship with the Sudan, particularly, it's left me with a discomfort around modern comforts. I much prefer to be in the homes of my "normal" relations, sitting on metal frame beds in the living rooms and drinking tea out of simple glasses, and eating traditional Sudanese food instead of the globalized cuisines that have sprouted in the capital. I prefer to walk around in my traditional clothes rather than slick blue jeans and brand new sneakers. I prefer to be Sudanese and not a visitor to Sudan.
]]>I could go on and on, reminiscing about the first time I heard the Thriller album, but I'm doing a crappy job of eulogizing the guy so I'll kick it over to this short piece by Ray Smuckles.
]]>While the evidence is not exactly super-compelling, there are a ton of similarities which just serve to make me love both shows more. You should follow the links to Muppet-ized 30 Rock episoides, but even more you should watch the Muppets' appropriation of 30 Rock!
And if that's not enough, watch Tina Fey, the "Bookaneer" - adorable.
]]>Examples abound: my parents would have Sudanese friends over; friendly brown people who smiled and sat on our sky blue velveteen sectional (I loved that couch) and speak broadly about the latest foibles of Benny Adam. "This Benny Adam doesn't know what he's doing! The Benny Adam is so selfish, or shortsighted ..." etc. It got so sometimes that I wondered why they were still friends with him! For God's sakes if a guy is that unreliable or fickle then it's time to just scratch him out of your address book. Now this might not seem funny to your non-Sudanese (although to be honest, some Arabs might get it), it's a hilarious mistake on my part. "Benny Adam" is not a person at all, it's the Arabic expression, "bani Adam", or child of Adam, or in short, human being. It's an archaic expression that has made it's way into the 21st century, seemingly unchanged and caused me much confusion as a child.
Things didn't get much better once we moved back. With NY accents, my brother and I stood out despite our attempts to blend in. Our Arabic wasn't very good (and, I would argue, it still isn't that great) either and it made for more errors, and finally refuge in reading and sports (and anything else that wouldn't require a lot of talking to people). Back in the Sudan, we were quickly pulled out of our nascent interest in basketball, football (American) and hockey and thrown pell-mell into the crucible of football (soccer). Our classmates seemed to have been born with soccer balls tethered to their feet, and like a good nerd, I did the one thing I could do and studied the game. Unfortunately this was pre-Internet and football (soccer) can only be learned by watching and doing. Doing brought confirmation of one's ineptitude so watching was the beginning. Luckily, every Friday a match from the German Bundesliga would be televised after lunch and we would huddle around the tv with cousins and friends to watch (and take notes). Still my brother and I were confused, in every game there seemed to be a guy named Harris Merma. The guy seemed to change teams with alarming frequency, always playing goalie for one side or another. His performance was spotty though, some days a veritable wall in front of the goal, others a sieve. It must have been almost a year before we figured out that "Harris Merma" was actually "haris marma" which is Arabic for "goal tender".
It takes getting used to, the idiom, and frequent adjustment. You have to adjust between the language you use among your peers, and the language you use with adults; between the language of the street and the language of polite society. Now of course I speak fairly fluently (although I lose some of my fluency from lack of use), though of course I speak like older men speak, since I spent a lot of time among my father's friends, but that's a different story.