Author: sangreal79

Hello Boomaners!
I hope all is going well with all of you…
I have been debating and considering enrollment in the New York Institute of Photography; one of the oldest and best photography schools in the U.S. and, by general acclaim, the best distant learning photography school. The thing is that I am not sure if distant learning in such a hands-on-tools business as photography will be a good decision to act on, especially for someone without a solid background in the field. Has anybody enrolled in an online photography class? Did it work for you? What were the best and worst aspects of such an experience? Do you know anybody who has enrolled in the NY institute I am telling you about?
Diane has explained to me that there are many photographers and other people passionate about photography writing for Booman Tribune who could have some good advice on this…
Your advice, suggestions and ideas are greatly appreciated…
Thank you!

To Eric; the man in my life and a wonderful human being…

When does a non-American begin to feel the flooding surge of Americanness – or should I rather ask WHERE? A possible answer seems to be: upon encountering exclusively American phenomena; icons and surroundings unshared with anything known before. And where else could such an insight into those American “things” be gained other than on the United States East Coast; the heart of America’s beginnings and the very substance from which Americanness is made.
Whether in American studies classes or within International students’ circles the one debate reigning over all discussions of the meaning of America has been predominantly concerned with deciding whether regionalism is the sole factor in determining what Americanness mean or should we look for some other details? In other words, is America more American on the East Coast, West Coast, Midwest or how exactly could we ever arrive at a valid concept? American students firmly believe that it is here, in the Midwest, in the Heartland of the United States, that the authentic soul of America is to be savored and the true, genuine meaning of Americanness is to be understood. But why do most international students disagree?
Whether these convictions are factual or speculative remains an individual decision. We do not even know if there’s any sound basis on which to build these statements other than what our personal experiences dictate; our encounters with the multiple faces of America.
But it is this very multiplicity that should always alert us to the dangers of speaking in generalities and making final, irreversible conclusions.  To some America equals power; to others it symbolizes ruthless savagery; to others it is synonymous with a specific political or governmental structure and still to others it is merely Hip-Hop and R&B!!!
Even though my experience of the United States is not yet full-fledged I have learned to keep my heart and mind open whenever I am about to encounter something new this country promises to offer. America and I were able to make friends as soon as we met even though we had our clashes and minor differences; we got to know each other better and then we fell in love. And like the world’s greatest love stories our relationship is built on faith, trust and respect. I accept what it has to offer and I simply trust I will not be disappointed; we will be taking care of each other and our experiences will enhance our love and nurture our relationship.
Experiencing the East Coast is probably the best way to bring those debates over the meaning of Americanness to a satisfying closure. Having learned about what Americans themselves believe to be “The Authentic American” in the Heartland it was time to test my own non-American notions of authenticity! Have I arrived at a more perfect understanding of authenticity? I don’t know. Let’s see. You be the judge!

Christmas Eve in Charm City!
Baltimore or Monument City or B-More (as my boyfriend likes to call it!) made its first appearance from my airplane’s window; a city basking in sparkling lights winking seductively at me from down below and a modern, glamorous cast. The lower the plane descended the better I could predict what to see later. Upon seeing the way it sits beautifully within the Inner Harbor I gradually began to understand why Baltimore has often been referred to as the sister city of Italy’s Genoa.
The aerial overview instantly brought to my mind thousands of pictures I have seen of Genoa’s ports and harbors; an association that soon extended to what I was looking at while we were driving. The reflection of the glistening city lights on the sea waters in the heart of the city was probably the loveliest detail of all.
As we were moving deeper into the heart of the city I realized that Christmas time is probably not the best time to experience new cities after all for there’s always the people’s desire to secede from the city scene and go into a more familial phase but, as I said, I have learned to keep the faith and remain
open-minded. And I was right! “Bless Cecil Calvert wherever he is right now!” was all I could think of and suddenly I felt myself battling with the facts of history which say that this city is a little bit over 300 years old!
Eric is strongly aware of my almost abnormal obsession with everything Italian so he took me straight to Baltimore’s Little Italy; a cozy community cuddled up between the harbor and historic Fells Point – or so was my conception of the geography!!!
Our plan was to be able to attend the midnight mass at Saint Leo the Great, the heart and soul of Baltimore’s Little Italy, despite the pressure of my flight times. And as we were cruising through the quiet and faintly-lit alleys trying to find Saint Leo’s I found myself hoping that I would never be disappointed with the fact that I have chosen to study Italian-American communities and the Italian-American experience in the United States. The excessive serenity of the place has probably planted such a fear of frustration in my mind, and the only way to purge all traces of doubt was an immediate human interaction.
That life-saving moment (or should I say thesis-saving!?!!) was to be found in the packed interior of Saint Leo’s teeming with attentive listeners of all ages with strikingly Italian features. Eric and I elbowed our way through the standing crowd and found ourselves a nook next to an elegant statute of the dead Saint Leo.
Pastor Michael Salerno radiates with all-Italian warmth of character and sense of humor. The tenets of his sermon, spoken in strongly-accented English, were unmistakably Italian. But it was his emphasis on the traditional Italian ways of life and how they helped Italian immigrants survive in their adopted country that finally helped me break free from any previous skepticism concerning the validity of my inquiries. Salerno passionately spoke of the Via Vecchia (or the traditional Italian ways and lifestyle especially as adhered to and practiced by southern Italians); a topic on which I produced my first full-length project during my first semester. And that’s when I found myself cheering inside: YAY!
When Salerno’s sermon okayed my research interests and eased my restlessness I found myself finally able to relax and redirect my attention to other details. Saint Leo is a uniquely Italian place with strong colors and intimate feel. The delightful fusion between gold and fiery red both set against a background of beautiful marbles inspire enticingly warm sensations and a pleasant peaceful ambience. As a matter of fact, it is this sweet, unaffected familiarity and homelike atmosphere that sets Baltimore’s Little Italy in sharp contrast with that we found in New York City – But let’s not spoil that for the moment!

D.C. for Two!
The next morning we woke up to a rainy Christmas Day. Baltimoreans completely retired themselves from any outdoor activities and cafes and restaurants endorsed the decision by staying closed all day long. But we were too hungry to give up! At last we found an open store where we grabbed some snacks and set out for Washington D.C. Eric has often explained to me the geographical oddity of D.C. being somewhere between Virginia and Maryland, but it was only when we were driving through it all that I began to figure out the geographical blend – pretty much the same as the Kansas – Missouri debate (well, ok, to some extent!)
I have always been told that one needs more than a day to explore D.C. The holidays, the rain and the pressure of time all prevented us from doing so. However, Eric opted to drive to the most emblematic symbols of D.C. – but without saying so! Minutes later we were on one of the major avenues (Maryland or Pennsylvania, I am not sure!) leading straight to the United States Capitol.
My reaction was the bomb! My reaction was a surprise not only for Eric, but for me as well! The car was too small to contain my thrill and excitement, and I just had to step out to make sure this was not a dream. Eric joyfully watched me explaining that he didn’t actually think it would be such a sensational experience for me (Of course, it’s just Capitol building and I have driven by it God knows how many times!) So he started to enjoy the game pointing out different monuments and landmarks while keeping me in the car – until it became absolutely unbearable!
We parked and I stepped out like jack OUT of the box! Eric was enormously enjoying my childish jumpiness and so was I! What is so out of the ordinary about encountering an all-American attraction for non-Americans?!? I could not help but wonder…
The beauty of a rainy day in D.C. and the bracing freshness of the crisp cool air were doubled by the scarcity of human existence around us. The monument area was virtually empty with the exception of friendly gulls who greeted us so cheerfully and hospitably that for a minute I thought I had no fear of animal problems anymore and occasional runners who obviously enjoyed losing weight under the rain!
Soaked in rain and overwhelmed with enthusiasm we stepped back into the car and drove through the surrounding areas. Washington D.C. is a modern recreation of Classical Rome. Sometimes, one gets the feeling that the city boasts more Roman buildings and monuments than Ancient Rome itself. D.C. is the treasure trove for anyone wishing to explore the survival of the Classical in modern-day United States – another reason for my instant attachment to this culturally affluent city.
But Eric did not want me to leave without getting the big, complete picture – and it wasn’t very hard to capture! I have always noticed the change of surroundings and settings within towns and cities from graceful to grubby, from stylish to squalid and it doesn’t take more than a few blocks until the transformation is evident. There is always an abrupt schism among the different vistas one sees on a typical drive. It is a pervasive phenomenon that often had me wondering about how different classes in the society of the United States interact or clash…
In D.C. Georgia Avenue was the dividing line between the nations’ capital as it is known to the world and D.C. as completely obscured from perhaps every single visitor. But I had an insider guide! Eric prudently steered into the heart of Georgia Avenue while counting the number of shops and stores that have been stormed and ransacked over the last few days! Georgia Avenue is an all-American ghetto; one that is consistently portrayed in the popular culture marketed to the outside world. As a result, whereas it is a high-risk zone for a native; it is a tourist Arcadia!
It is only later that I learned that Georgia Avenue is actually a historic neighborhood rich in Civil War as well as African-American history. But since the internet can’t tell you everything, make sure you have some good company while you do your exploring!

A Tasty Bite of the Big Apple
Reader, let me tell you about New York City. I know you’ve been there before and walked the walk and have seen it all, but allow me to invite you to see it through my own eyes. Trust me, it will be different…
We needed an intelligent and resourceful plan while visiting the Big Apple. To make the plan work we had to make the outskirts of New Jersey be our initial stop rather than venturing into taking the car into the heart of  NYC. Eric found a favorable compromise in Newark Liberty International Airport and its NJ Airtrain Transit system with lines taking commuters to NYC’s Pennsylvania Station. As it is to be expected, even though the system is highly convenient it still can be too overwhelming. After the trip to NYC I read an article in the New York Times by Erik Torkells in which he said “I’ve lived in New York City for 13 years, but when I took the Airtrain from Newark Liberty to Penn Station last year, even I almost got off at the wrong stop. (There’s a Penn Station in New Jersey?)”  The irony is that this is exactly what happened to us! We got off at NJ Penn Station with confused looks on our faces that literally read “But there is an NJ Penn Station?!?!”
After reading that article I called Eric and told him that if this guy was about to get lost after 13 years of being a New Yorker then we really should not be too hard on ourselves!
The only way to settle the dispute was to revert to our common sense – or should I say artistic intuition! Pennsylvania Station was supposed to be one of the world’s best and most famous, but this so-called NJ Penn Station was far from being anything worthy of universal acclaim. On the other hand, it served as my first initiation into a completely different face of America – that of the busy, ethnically diverse and complicated lifestyle. No more easygoing, laidback Midwestern archetypes! Be grateful that your shoes are comfy today!!!
As the train was pushing through the highly industrial grimy ghettos on the fringes of Newark my eyes were gazing alternately on the scrapheap and junkyards close by and the towering NYC skyline in the near horizon. Inside the train I let my eyes travel and wander freely and extensively into each single detail – human or not. My brain was buffeted with a barrage of insights, observations, revelations…all hitting at once and in unison…Suddenly I felt tired…
But when Eric declared that we were finally at NYC’s Penn Station my blood was rushing again, and a faint voice inside my head warned that I will need all of my strength and energy in order to be able to handle what was coming next.
At last in Penn Station, lost and confused. Maps are not helpful. People are moving insanely fast. Signs are not enough. My previous mental fatigue was soon carried over to Eric. Wavering from one map to another and from one spot to another frustration was creeping in. We needed some fresh air to recollect our powers – mental and emotional!
We randomly selected an exit that took us up to the street. As we were approaching the final few steps a breeze of cool, refreshing air brushed over my face. I slowed down to enjoy but faster heartbeats prompted me upwards.
And there it was! A breathtakingly energetic New York City street! A vision of modern glory and unrivaled charm. Everything I have known  or envisioned or read about this city from Washington Irving to Carrie Bradshaw flashed before my eyes in split seconds. Encountering New York City was the final confirmation I truly needed to know that I have actually crossed the Atlantic! NYC  gave me a warm flattering pat on the back…
Dazzled and panting as if thunderstruck, both of us, we pressed our backs against a wall behind us as if wanting to steal a moment to let it all sink while looking upward to the colossal buildings and architectural wonders  around us. NYC’s skyscrapers are its Vatican, its Notre Dame and its Parthenon. Nothing sets Old World models against those of the New better than its major cities’ skyscrapers.  
Tired and overwhelmed? Maybe. But also too agitated to remain glued to a wall and be content with seeing one corner. I had to step forward and I thank my lucky stars I did! The most representative symbol of NYC and perhaps the United States in its entirety was right there to my left – standing tall and proud, in full bloom, the Empire State Building was winking seductively and welcomingly at me; a playful, naughty child hiding behind a mass of buildings until it found the perfect moment to make its appearance right in front of me and set me aflame!
“Oh my God! It’s the Empire State Building!” I literally yelled in the heart of a crowded, busy NYC street!
Eric was still affixed to his post and too reluctant to make the step forward; he was perhaps still too enervated to get too excited too quickly that he even suspected it is what I say it is! But nothing could confirm the building’s identity better than my exhilaration and watery eyes and the electrifying shakiness of my body. We forgot about subways and trains and metro cards – “let’s go up there!” was the immediate and only decision we cared about…
Walking closer (or should I say jumping!?) towards this magnificent edifice I would occasionally stop and look up and rejoice in the charm and grandeur of every single structure and every single all-New York detail. It is beauty in an intimidating, majestic way…
The streets and intersections leading to the Empire State Building were packed with another NYC icon -NYPD Training Academy graduates loaded with hopes and beaming with happiness. I pored over their elegant spotless uniforms and the big smiles on their ethnically- diverse faces and suddenly I felt lucky and grateful that I am equally happy as any of them though our motives are different. The truth is I wondered if anyone’s happiness was in any measure comparable to mine. I wrapped my arms around Eric and I fell in love with life and human existence all over again…
We made it through the jolly crowd to the entrance door of the Empire State Building where we took a quick tour around the first floor and then prepared to get tickets to get to the top. I anticipated a long line of people and long it was, but not too annoyingly so. Heightened security procedures might have had a hand in stalling visitors, but to keep this building safe and sound I am glad they were.
New York City from the top of the Empire State Building is an intimidating, yet intoxicating vision. NYC enjoys uniqueness more than anything else and that’s why even from 1, 200 feet high what you look at below is unmistakably NYC. And even though you don’t see the subways or hear the noise or shove through people or worry about getting lost, still, what you look at instantly generates associations with such moments and such experiences. The cold wind was severely cutting through our faces at that height, but the spectacle was too beautiful to walk away from so we held out as much as we could before finally descending back down on earth!
Once more into the fast-beating heart of NYC being lost was fun only to the point where it was manageable; while roaming through the spacious streets and gazing at the monumental structures for exploration’s sake. But when it was time to make a transition to another part of the city we needed to know where we are and where we’re going. But even after purchasing Metro Cards we opted to take a cab to NYC’s Little Italy!
Eric rejoices in my kinky obsession with Italianness perhaps more than I do. As we were approaching Little Italy he teasingly started pointing out Italian flags and restaurant names playing on my mounting excitement and growing impatience. As we were striding along the neighborhood’s congested streets with joyful hearts and empty stomachs I felt more assured that making Italian-Americans an object for academic investigation was a wise decision. New York’s Little Italy is even more alive and brimming with Italianness than that of Baltimore’s. However, it has grown to be a highly commercialized tourist attraction. In Baltimore, the commercial harmoniously entwines with the domestic, and private residences are easily spotted alongside the neighborhood’s eateries and businesses. But New York’s Italian community still tenaciously holds on to the language, the heritage and the roots; a cultural legacy perhaps preserved by first or second-generation Italian immigrants whom I was able to espy occasionally in the neighborhood.
Between enjoying a delicious Italian lunch and touring gift shops I was basking in Little Italy’s festive lights and relishing in the neighborhood’s warmth and familiarity all heightened by Eric’s sweet and devoted companionship. A few blocks later we were on another continent!
Chinatown is curiously tangled with Little Italy – even to the point where one cannot identify the borders of each. “Where else in the world would Chinese and Italians live in such physical and cultural proximity than in NYC?!!!?” I found myself marveling. Suddenly I found myself deploring my own people’s intolerance and their fanatic inclination towards bloodshed over minor ethnic and religious differences that the entire history of the country refuses to even recognize as “differences”! Here they are – Asian blood and European stock amicably sharing a neighborhood – let alone a country!
Back on a subway to explore Times Square by night – did I say night?! Times Square after sunset really prompts you to think twice before stating positively that you are talking about nocturnal activities. Shakespeare believed that his heroine’s cheeks, eyes, whatever …are bright enough to shame the sun and provoke an envious moon…I wonder what would his reaction be to what Times Square has to offer! Reader: the sentence “Times Square is a sunny day” is both a grammatically and a logically correct!
But who could successfully be there on Christmas time? Here are a few suggestions: the physically fit (but if you are a slow-mover that would be just perfect! Fit to our purpose!) , people who jostle people resourcefully, the tolerant (you know, someone who rejoices in diversity rather than be troubled by it!), and the stoically patient (because it might take forever to move from A to B!). Claustrophobics, bigots, speed-lovers and edgy people – keep your distance…This might not be the experience for you…  
After a short break away from the frenzied Square inside the warm and intimate Starbucks we set out to explore the Rockefeller Center and its famous skating plaza – and, of course, the giant Christmas tree.
The Rockefeller Center and its surroundings were charged with a passionate festive spirit; one which endowed the holidays with a more dreamlike, magical aura. The most fascinating elements for me were the flags (200 flagpoles, as I learned later) and Paul Manship’s gilded statue of Prometheus, which was an object already familiar to me thanks to my American art class this semester. What an appropriate monument in a fitting locale! Prometheus seems to be stealing fire from every single corner in the universe and accumulating it all in the heart of this city. Flags, on the other hand, somehow symbolized tolerance and liberality to me. They figuratively communicated ideals unique only to a diverse country like the United States.
When we departed from the Rockefeller Center we began to feel refreshing drizzles of light rain washing our faces and that of New York as well. Too immersed in the city’s magnetic allure we lost our subway again! Eric is a seasoned travel, East-coast and big cities resident but NYC was the ultimate challenge for him; a matter of “to defeat or be defeated!” And a great portion of the highlights of my experience was centered on the pleasures of watching him defeat and break down the complexities of NYC into manageable bits and pieces. But subways have this power on foreign visitors which leave them constantly wondering “how much time does one need in NYC to finally become familiar with this system?!” But we were finally able to find our platform.
When one descends into NYC’s subways and then climbs up to its glowing streets and avenues a striking revelation bursts in: New York City is a two-faced creature; someone with serious schizophrenic issues! The glitter of the streets upwards sharply contrasts with the relative murkiness of what’s down below. Every human being is alert, alive and full of energy in the heart of Times Square and other busy corners; on a subway counting the numbers of slumbering commuters is a real fun way to spend time on the way to your destination! But the one thing in common among every corner and every nook and cranny is the mentally challenging, nay, exhausting diversity which permeates NYC in truly inexplicable ways. Every time I looked around me during our sojourn in NYC I found it hard to identify race, language or any feature indicative of any distinctive ethnic type. Oftentimes, I turn to look at Eric and I find myself concluding that he is the only white, English-speaking American male I have ever seen in NYC!!! A shocking conclusion that brought me back to the introductory classes in American studies at KU, the ones that were primarily concerned with the question – what is an American? It is the question I posed when I first set out to share those experiences with the world asking `How are we to identify Americanness? What is authentically American?
The irony is that before I set foot into the United States I came with the conviction that the term “American” is an idea, an abstract concept – never tangible, never identifiable. A few experiences later helped me form a framework or a reference point to return to whenever I am using such elusive terms as “American” and “Americanness”, but what New York City did is demolishing every possible structure I thought I was able to construct to understand the country that is the object of my academic pursuit. New York City literally bulldozed every theory, every concept, every conviction and brought me back to what I have always known long before any theory had to be tested on U.S. soil, that is, conceiving the country as an idea, rather than any conventional, orthodox ways of discussing nations and the character of their peoples.
When we walked away from NYC I missed it instantly. And as I lay down in bed that same night ruminating over the events of our busy day I felt I was missing an old friend; someone dear I have not seen in a very long time but have not had the chance to spend as much time with as desired. It was a rare, precious feeling knowing that the happiness I was living this Christmas was worth all the wait and the pain till it was realized…I fell asleep peacefully knowing that I had it all – love, happiness and my dreams…

Christmas is my favorite time of the year. Somehow, over the last few years, it has acquired the symbolic quality of a new and refreshing beginning since I would spend virtually all of December setting goals and resolutions and making binding, self-enforced commitments to accomplish them. It has truly become a time which has a powerful cleansing effect and an invitation to go back to the simple, pure and spontaneous; a word reminiscent of children’s smiling faces, loving families living in harmony and cities basking in resplendent lights and dazzling decorations…
Many people ask me about what was Christmas like in Baghdad and, in order to be able to answer this I have to always ask the inquirer to be more specific. In other words, to set the time limit between pre and post 2003! Before 2003 Christmas was a secular holiday celebrated by almost every ethnic and religious sect all over Iraq. It simply signified the beginning of a new year. To be sure, Christians enjoyed the additional religious aspect of the holiday, but they were not expected to celebrate Christmas simply because of this religious affiliation. Surprisingly, the level of tolerance was extremely high in pre-2003 Iraq that many Moslem Iraqis celebrated the religious component of Christmas along with Christians in churches simply out of fascination with the Nativity story, the romantic quality surrounding the life of Jesus and his peaceful message of love and compassion which all seemed to appeal to many liberal-minded people regardless of their religious orientation.
The staple ingredients of Christmas, such as Christmas tress, Santa Claus and Christmas presents were all familiar and recognized. Exterior house decorations and wreaths, however, were not known. Frosty the Snowman is also an alien figure (I suppose he enjoys a strictly American folkloric quality!). Holiday cooking was a more important holiday tradition for Christians than for other religious sects. Actually, some holiday meals and cookies were believed to be the specialty of Christians and Christians alone that non- Christian women had to go the distance to learn to make them. Some recipes die with their creators; whereas others pass from one generation to another. Christmas carols were sung in Churches, but they were no Frank Sinatra classics! They were mainly religious ballads and or Bible verses set to music all sung in standard Arabic and inside Churches. Some music stations do switch to Christmas stations and they played Christmas songs and carols all December long, and you could find Christmas CDs and collections in some music stores and choices ranged from Folkloric American to Hip-Hop and R&B versions of them!

To cut a long story short, it might be appropriate to say that Christmas in post-2003 Iraq is simply the absence of all of the above. Some Christian families tenaciously clung to the spirit and ways of Christmas time, but the event lost much of its festive spirit as it has become solely religious, and a threatened one for that matter. And the only way to evade those threats was to make it a secret ritual; a celebration confined to the walls of the house and one which does not go beyond holiday cookies and exchange of presents.
But even in its heyday, Christmas was not as much of a commercial holiday in Iraq as it is here in the United States or other strictly Christian nations in the world. Many of my friends have tried to point my attention to the overwhelming commercialism surrounding Christmas celebrations in the U.S. As a matter of fact, one of my professors is probably possessed with the habit of detecting a commercial implication in virtually everything he sees or touches! It is an established fact, to be sure, and one that seems to be a natural phenomenon in a first-world, highly-industrial and technologically- advanced country as the U.S. Recognizing facts is essential, of course, but, when you’re a student, the downside is that it affects your faith. One day you’re discussing American Exceptionalism; the next they tell you “it’s all about the money!” and your faith is anything exceptional suffers badly…
Although, on the whole, I always have many bones to pick with American Studies as an academic discipline, I always can’t help but appreciate the flexibility which it affords making virtually every single observation, no matter how insubstantial it might seem in the beginning, capable of extensive study and investigation. As American studies students we have this habit of pausing and saying “Hmmm…there’s a dissertation hiding there somewhere!” anytime anything captures our attention or forces us to stop and wonder.
Christmas definitely provides one of these moments. Whether it is the way the face of towns and cities – or even homes change as Christmas approaches or the way people interact with the event or anything in between, there are definitely numerous insights to be gained from closely examining such cultural elements. When my boyfriend and I were touring neighborhoods in Lawrence and Kansas City we noted a disparity in the way homes were lit up with Christmas lights and decorations, and the standard we used to measure the level of the festive spirit of each home depended on how well-lit – or, to be more precise, how exaggeratedly-lit homes were! Commercialism or not, there’s a revealing cultural text to be read in every single detail. But the beauty of it is that we’re not looking for answers; we’re simply seeking knowledge for knowledge’s sake…
Another Christmas component that is unknown in Iraq or other Mideastern countries is the concept of gift cards. And there is an interesting cultural kink behind it. In the United States you give somebody a gift card so that they choose their gifts for themselves. In the Middle East, the act simply sends the message that the person was too impatient or too grouchy to brood over a possible gift. Roughly speaking, it sends this message: “And you couldn’t take the time or make the effort to get me a real gift instead!” By the same token, gifting in the Middle East is not necessarily associated with the idea of utility. In the U.S. it is always appreciated to get somebody something they need regardless of its beauty or symbolic meanings; Mideasterners, on the other hand, experience unparalleled joy in the beautiful and the artistic – and in some countries, in the outrageously expensive!
I had to learn my lessons the hard way to break free from some of the age-old conceptions surrounding the celebration of the holidays, but whereas the idea of gift cards still does not sit very well with me although there is a persistent voice somewhere that protests “but it makes perfect sense!”; that of utility is slowly sinking in and gaining ground.
Happy Holidays!

Hello Everyone!
It’s past Saturday midnight here in Lawrence and KU students are availing themselves of a lovely and much-awaited Fall break here or somewhere else. The surroundings have swiftly assumed a more peaceful and quiet atmosphere as soon as the break kicked off; no more fast cars or diehard bikers and the bus stops look painfully lonely around my neighborhood – let alone on campus! I did not wake up this morning to the loud music emanating from a certain angle typical of every Saturday morning here in my apartment complex. The party moved somewhere else, I suupose!
The Fall break took me by surprise. I did not know about it until quite lately, and I am still not my calender’s best friend as my eyes are always more attentive to how everything is looking on my weekly or daily schedules. And now it’s three days since the break started and today was another comfy day for a homey girl!
Earlier today, I was reading a fascinating essay by a notable American Studies scholar, K. Scott Wong, called “The Transformation of Culture: Three Chinese Views of America”. It was an unbelievably good read and one reason behind its appeal to me is that the writer discusses the lives and views of two notable Chinese scholars who wanted to study and understand both American life and culture as well as Chinese-Americans, and who were courageous enough to write profoundly insightful and objective accounts of not only what they saw and experienced, but also of qualities and “cultural deficiencies” in the national character of their own people. It is always admirable to me that a scholar, a writer or even a casual observer is able to trasncend fanatic loyalties based on racial, religious or family ties and be able to see thoroughly, judge objectively and open-mindedly. I was so able to identify with much of what these scholars were investigating that I found myself thinking about the time when I started a blog to talk about what I thought were “cultural deficiencies” in my society and which I believed were responsible for the chaos that keeps ripping the country apart. Liang Qichao is one of the scholars Wong discusses in his essay. He has written a rivetting account of his travels in North America, but most of what he included in his final work called “Selected Memoir of Travels in the New World”, is based on his study of Chinese-Americans in San Francisco’s Chinatown. Simply put, the study led Liang to conclude that “the Chinese did not possess the qualities required of citizens in a democrcy!” I read that line and was thinking to myself “when will an Iraqi scholar be bold enough as to strip himself or herself of arrogant centrism and be wiling to highlight what’s culturally, mentally and emotionally wrong?!?! Liang discusses everything from the way his compatriots walk, talk, eat, work to the way they make life-determining decision and every word he writes seems to be striking at a very sensitive string within me “Yes! Exactly! I have always believed that!” But unlike Liang when I wanted to give an outlet to my views I had to remain disguised under “D” – otherwise I would be wounding the pride of my fellow fervently patriot anti-American, anti-Irish, anti-Italian, anti-anything-outside-the-Iraqi-borders and be conceived of the Do~na Marina of Iraq!!!
But, anyway, back to our Fall break! I put down Wong’s essay with a deep sense of gratitude to my professor having made a wise choice of reading material this week. No more whining about definitions of American Studies as an Academic field, I hope! Or about Weeds being the proudest and sturdiest American West objects since they esxpress raging defiance against white colonization and exploitation of land!
It was time for a snack. It is really amazing how food became such a comfort zone for me as soon as I started living on my own. I don’t know whether it’s missing my mom’s dishes or the Food Network here in the States! My mother still has a hard time believeing that I actually cook – and that I actually enjoy it!
And then it was time for TV. Isn’t this the way most hard-working students reward themselves after a serious study session!?! The thing with television is that it either has absolutely nothing interesting on or, otherwise, every single channel collaborate against you and all together bombard you with lots of all-time favorites that you end up clueless which to pick. It wasn’t too hard for me this evening, though.
“Father of the Bride” – one of my favorite American classic masterpieces of all time. I am not sure if the movie has ever been reviewd as a “classic” or a “masterpiece” before, but there’s a first time for everything, right!? When it comes to art, objectivity is necessary but very hard to abide by and; therefore, we grow attached only to what has a personal impact on us, to the things that touch us deeply and permanently and with which we easily identify. Timeless works of art, including cinematic works, are those which simply act as mirrors into which we look and see not only ourselves as we know it, but also what’s missing and what we crave to have. As such, love stories are always amazing but they enjoy a special appeal to those who would like to see the stories reenacted in their own life…Stories set at a particular hitorical setting often impress a historian or a film critic, but they deeply gratify a nostalgic history enthusiast and in completely diferent ways. In “Father of the Bride” the missing central element in me as a viewer is the Father Figure. I have always thought of the father-daughter relationship as the noblest, most sublime of all human relationships within the family. It has a different feel and a special humanistic quality. My attachment to my father and having been “daddy’s little girl” for all the time he was alive definitely make my emotional response to this particular movie a lot more different than other categories of audiences. Besides, the movie is another example to illustrate what Hollywood is capable of; on the one hand we get heart-warming, tear-jerking movie as “Father of the Bride”, on the other there’s “Texas Chainsaw Massacre”, “Natural Born Killers” and “American History X”! And in between you get a fond, adorable compromise in “The Wedding Singer” and “Shakespeare in Love”. Would it still be difficult to realize the global impact of American popular culture once we examine such remarkable diversity in artistic production?!?
So down to the end of the day i reclined on my sofa like a proud peacock wondering whether there should have been ways to spend the Fall break in less traditional ways. After all, tonight was probably the 500th time I watched that movie…I enjoyed it as did for the first time…I cried “Yes I cry while watching intense movies!” – though my boyfriend think I am a cry-er anyway! But seriously, what about less traditional, more adveturous ways?!?
Lawrence is a nice little collge town. I findit to be typically American only in the eyes of Americans themselves and not for an outsider. There’s nothing American about it for me as much as there’s nothing Italian about China!!! I am just like any other non-American who when asked about the United States the answers would be based on New York City and Washington D.C. America for us is skyscrappers, sleepless big cities and constant rush hours. Some of us don’t even mind slums and underworlds only to apply and match the preconceived notion of this nation with what’s there in reality. My boyfriend lives in a big city on the East Coast and the more he complains about Boston, NYC and D.C. the more agitated my curiosity gets and my imagination is reset aflame. It simply feels at time that it’s hard to inhale, digest and comprehend all that this country has to offer without breaking free from the confines of a small peaceful town. There are mornings when I would be still lying in bed making a pledge to myself I know I am not likely to keep, though I don’t know why…I tell myself I would check my schedule, find free time, get on a plane, and set out to explore a new American territory. My argument is that “This is the States! What’s the worst that can happen!? You have to do something that was simply unthinkable in your home country!” A persistent voice inside my head keeps pushing “just do it! You already survived major airports and it was only a first time!” I don’t know why I haven’t yet gathered courage sufficient to unleash a certain amount of wildness in me…I know it’s lurking somewhere…I sense it whenever I look back fondly on memories of the Chicago skyline becoming faintly visible from the plane’s window…of the look on the check-in officer’s page once he reads “Iraq” on my passport…of not knowing how to get a hotel for a one night in the O’Hare surrounding area…of not knowing which terminal to head to…of not knowing where to get the Shuttle from Phoenix to Tucson…of not having coins to call from the airport…of enjoying a short stop at Dallas on the way to Kansas City and sensing something different about Texas…Of me and my notebook jotting down unsorted observations of men, women, children; businessmen and cowboys, kids with I-pods and children with books on pirates, sleepy old couples and young kissing ones very much in love…Airports were for me the official department of American studies! Here volumes could be writtern and lifelong national experiences occur within minutes – why can’t I go back?!!?

Hello Everyone…
This is Dena, Diane’s friend from Baghdad, Iraq…
Diane has managed for so long to make me a very well-known person, on this website and elsewhere, that an extended introduction might not be necessary!
I have known Diane for so long and she is a person that has touched my life in the most beautiful ways with her sound advices, motherly love and adorable sense of humor. She has introduced to a galaxy of wonderful people that has made my very first experiences in the United States dearly memorable. She has often spoken to me about how the members of Booman Tribune are sympathetic to what I was experincing before and after arriving in the U.S. and I know that this probably an extremely belated thank you to each and every one of you, and that i should have been on this website a long time ago, but I am hoping that you consider all the difficulties I had to overcome to arrive, settle and adjust until the time for such leisurly undertaking as writing could come. Besides, I only use the word “leisurly” ironically because writing is never a leisurly, relaxed process for me. It is rather an emotionally and intellectually consuming endeavor to communicate thoughts, feelings and experiences, and my perfectionist tendencies in this respect always cause me to call off the task altogether! So once again I apologize for not being able to take the time and join your brilliant community and thank you for all your dear wishes and heartfelt prayers that has, as I see the evidence around me day in day out, made the challenges of settling and performing well valuable lessons to learn from life…
Settling and learning to adjust was not an easy task, to be sure. When you come to the United States you come loaded with hopes and aspirations. You become an incarnation of all of those who came long before you seeking long-lost dreams and a much-craved sense of security, happiness and peace of mind. But when you come here from a place which has ruthlessly and constantly ailed you, consuming your lustiest and most spirited youthful years and depriving you of even your most basic human needs, the bulk of your dreams and expectations becomes incomparable to that of any of those who traveled on the same plane that landed you off here! There is a sense of suspense, anticipation, unease – even helplessness and fear. You are determined to succeed, to become the smash hit in your field of study or expertise, to write the next great American novel, to become the next American legend (or Idol, depending on your interests!) – or simply to become your own hero and pat yourself on the back whispering “Good job! You did it!”
All of those around you, everywhere, can sense the excitement in the air – the passport check-in officer at the airport smiles constantly for you and there’s a “welcome aboard” statement written beautifully on his face, and the old couple sitting nearby are smiling dearly at you probably musing “How young and adorable! If only we are 26 again!”, your orientation leaders assure you that this the “honeymoon” period of your life, and you call home asserting boastfully that you are doing amazingly great and that they need not worry because you are a superman – or woman! All is clear and sunny and happy – until….
Until…you wake up one morning and it suddenly hit you that you simply not that mythical, super-powerful creature who will work miracles soon and make mom and dad the proudest parents on earth…the creature you only yesterday claimed yourself to be! You stare at the “to-do” list lounging lazily on your bedside table, gazing teasingly back at you and challenging defiantly “I dare you to take care of you, or get a thing written on me accomplished!” You relinquish the challenge and admit that the list subdued you. You fall back hard on your head, very hard. Everything turns all black or white. Initial numbness and then total paralysis.
What happened?! How has the Mighty fallen?!?
Change. That tricky transition that can either make you or break you. Becoming free, responsible and alone – and becoming all of these in a very short time. The rhythm of your life and your daily performance has been seriously disturbed. All familiarities desecrated. All known structure demolished. The surroundings, nay, our entire lives, have dramatically changed – and so must we.
I cannot remember the exact time when all has crumbled down around me. As far as I can remember, the disintegration was building up and accumulating a mass of tensions without me knowing about it. It all happened behind my back! There was not one perfect moment to explode. The forces of change chose rather to make themselves visible only occasionally until the moment of total collapse finally imposed itself. And when it occurred, it was so powerful that I opted ending my own life rather than letting it continue to rack me the way it did…The grief was too much to be contained and the pain was too much to quench…These were feelings where individual will has no say at all. Depression becomes a lifestyle without giving any promotion whatsoever. Tears do not give prior notice before drowning eyes and face. All that was rosy turns pitch-dark and all that was beautiful is now too hideous to look at. Utter ruin.
Such mystery was this transformation for me! I have known far more agonizing times throughout my life, but not even once had I contemplated taking my own life as the only possible, remaining choice – even though fits of depression were not entirely uncommon…Not a single suicidal thought could manage to find access into my life before. What has changed now?! Such a transformation was simply frightening! I have always been hopeful, cheerful, confident of good things in store yet to happen and come my way and with such powerful passion and such love of exploration and expanding and experiencing all the beauty and mystery and strangeness that life has to offer…That was me even though my life has never been particularly generous in bestowing enough reasons to help maintain such a positive attitude…What happened now?!
This chaos had to stop. IMMEDIATELY.
Our outlook on life does not change overnight, and the most crushing burden is our expectation that it should. Therefore, the key for me was to learn to not to be too harsh on myself and allow time to take its course. Thoese images of the Superman and the Unbeatable are all self-taught. We label ourselves according to what we rather like to be, and not who we really are. We are young and verdant and so vulnerable at times. It is ok. Admitting that it is where the challenge is! Stripping ourselves of preconceived notions about who we truly are, allowing ourselves to miss loved ones and feel nostalgic to all that’s familiar is indispensable if any healing is to be effected. This is not easy because the expectations are always too enormous, not only by others but also because of what we ourselves expect to accomplish having raised the bar extremely high giving no way to any compromise whatsoever. So besides your professors’ voices in your head reminding you that you are a graduate student with a completely new and highly demanding set of responsibilities, but it is also your own voice humming that scary, forceful tune “Be Super!” inside your head all the time…
Once I was able to make that initial move towards acknowledging my “human substance” I began to see it becomes easier to find further compromises to help adjust and feel better, enabling me to turn homesickness into an emotion whose main purpose is to promote your sense of belonging to the familiar people, places and experiences where I came from. Look back at them sympathetically, dearly and joyfully – like the old couple at the airport!
The sweeping changes that have stormed our modern world affect us more than we can ever imagine. These have sneaky, obnoxious ways of taking their toll on us, and it is only after a considerable damage has been done that we come to the realization that we need to reinvent ourselves to rise above the commonalities expected by a deeply established culture; a culture so threatening to our sense of confidence and self-worth. Our culture, as students, expect us to conform to a set of “cool” and “wow” stereotypes in every single detail of our lives: studying, friendships, and relationships. Those of us who choose to deviate from those time-honored stereotypes are very likely to have to face some tough challenges every now and then. But here’s what I know… I know that it is only after we succeed in overthrowing stereotypes and allowing ourselves to just be who we really are then we are likely to experience any peace of mind. If we, as young men and women, can succeed in reforming our own lives in a way that meets our own expectations and not that of the predominant culture, and preserve our sense of importance and self-worth and giving ourselves the right to celebrate being a man and being a woman, then it is very unlikely that our lives will continue to have the same bleak and dull aspect anymore.
We all have heard such maxims as “Expand your horizons” and “think outside the box” (Diane, thank you for introducing me to these two Americanisms!!!) I know that some of us are sick and tired of hearing them again, but they still work! How dare me be so confident!?? Experience. How much you are willing to experience with expanded horizons and dumped boxes will eventually determine the quality of your life. It works very much the same way a marriage works two or three years after the honeymoon; it is up to the couple to make it a living hell or a blissful paradise! What you get back will always depend on what you put in there in the first place…
I haven’t yet recovered completely…My thoughts go out to my mother sometimes in the strangest ways awakening me from the deepest and most reposeful sleeping hours…Love is in the details; the smell, the voice and the sound of laughter of someone who has dedicated their entire life to make you the person you are today – that’s what my mother did. And even though it could endanger her own life to make it known to the world that I have made it this far, she still opts to boast proudly my successes for her own self-gratification…
It is only when I contemplate this much love that I feel more confirmed in the belief that love is what all this life is all about…