Archive for January, 2010


I met an extraordinary man this week.   A security guard at the Getty Villa.   He sat in a little booth at the back gate of the museum, checking visitors’ passes and controlling the automatic bar that lets through the approved cars.  He drew my attention by his courtly manner, announcing me to my waiting party as “a very beautiful woman” and requesting that I be treated with special care.  It was not his flattery alone that captured my attention.  It was the dignity of his bearing – he was in no way pretentious, but somehow courtly – and his strange accent that I could not quite place.   His voice had an Indian lilt to it, yet with a touch of something Germanic, and his face could have come from Eastern Europe.

He manned that gate again a couple of days later, and this time we exchanged a few more words.  He said that he knew a few phrases in Russian, including “do not touch” – a must for a museum guard and a sentence he could say in many tongues, including Chinese.  I asked him the origin of his diction, and he replied that he had studied for his Masters Degree in India and then taught in Germany.  What did he teach, I asked.  Persian languages.  He did not look Iranian, but that intrigued me less than the fact that here was an extremely educated man, a savant and a teacher, earning a living in this lowly job.  And yet he was serene and sweet, with no trace of bitterness about the injustice of life.  When I commented on how so many people are forced to change course abruptly and harshly – especially these days – he responded that there are so many Russian immigrants – doctors, engineers, other professionals – who have come to the states and had to adjust to humble work.  Yet we can still create our own unhappiness.

Wazir’s (I read his name on his badge) predicament struck a resonant chord in me.  In this wretched economic crisis I have been forced to descend the spiral staircase of my ivory tower and embark on a hungry wolf’s quest for employment.  It is a difficult task under the best of circumstances;  in this climate it is a dispiriting prospect.  It is a harsh landscape in which to re-invent myself.  Although I have a Ph.D. from a prestigious university, have written and published 6 books with major presses, have received big prizes, taught college students, been invited to speak at international conferences – I am suddenly a nobody, chasing after jobs that are below my qualifications because I have no clearly defined specialization in the job market.  I can write beautiful prose in my sleep, can conceptualize projects and ways to accomplish them with clarity and creativity, readily charm people with my intelligence and tact, think with acuity and learn in no time.  Yet I have no credentials for “regular” jobs that can be demonstrated by an employment history on a resume.  I can do so many things if someone would give me a chance, but that someone remains elusive.   For the moment I have to forget my training and my successes and start from scratch, somewhere, somehow, in some job with a modest list of requirements that would give me at least some income, and maybe an opportunity to prove myself.  The process is distressing and unmooring.

And yet, here is Wazir with his smile and his sanguinity, his noble bearing in a guard booth.

I Googled him, to find out more about him.  He received his undergraduate degree in Pashto literature from Kabul University and within 3 month of graduation was hired as an assistant professor there.  A lover of languages, he traveled to Delhi to study Sanskrit and earn his MA in Linguistics.  Probably escaping the war that ravaged his country in the 1980’s he moved to Germany and taught Pashto and Dari languages at Humboldt University in Berlin.  I do not know what brought him to the States and what happened to him in the last three decades.  I will be sure to ask next time I come across him.  I am fascinated by his history, and by his ability to weather its challenges with such grace.

I will admit, no matter how Zen I wish to be, I am not ready to reconcile myself to a job as a security guard, a secretary, or something else that so jars with my occupations to date.  I hope that life will not play cruel games with me and that I will find a fulfilling application for my talents and skills.  But I also hope that despite whatever difficulties may lie ahead, I will be able to preserve my dignity and radiate peace, wisdom, and benevolence, like Wazir.


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Fairy dust

We, people, seem to have a faulty wiring.  The only time we can inhabit at any given moment is NOW, yet staying in the present is one of the hardest things for us to do.  Dogs have no problems with it:  my pooch is napping now, begging for a treat when she sees an opportunity (even thought she may have just gotten one a moment ago and knows very well how to score another one from me in another minute);  she greets me with kisses and wildly wagging tail when I come through the door, regardless of whether I was gone for a hour or a day – the joy of my return resides in the instance of me entering her field of vision.  Humans, however, have a hard time with what should be the most basic existential truth.  We are haunted by the past, worried about the future, tortured by the conditionals.  Yet so much of the time nothing especially dire is happening AT THIS VERY MOMENT.

I love tango for focusing me on the moment and suspending the whirl of time and thought.  In fact, when I can’t put my anxieties out of my mind – the scurrying rats that gnaw at scattered remnants of the past and chew holes in the fabric of the future – I dance terribly.  I can’t connect with my partners, can’t find the flow of my inner rhythm, can’t enjoy the music and the movement through space.  This week I’ve been preoccupied with processing some problems.  As I went out to dance two nights in a row, I could not chase away the dark rodents inside my head.  I typically dance for most of the evening, invited by a succession of partners.  But these two nights I must have been radiating tension and gloom, because even the usually friendly faces seemed to shun me, and I sat in my chair most of the time, adding worries about my ruined tango future to other temporal self-flagellation.

Yet on good nights, it is tango’s ability to suspend time and to retain me in the moment that serves as a drug that keeps me addicted to this dance.  The complexity of coordinating my own movements – beautifully and creatively – to those of my partner and the music occupy my mind enough to erase worries about anything else.  The flowing pleasure of gliding to the shifting lines of music compels me to savor a given minute.  The fantasy world tango creates – in which I am an alluring spirit connected to my partner for the duration of the song by fine golden filaments – removes me from my mundane world of money, work, or relationship angst.  I float away from these boulders to peachy clouds that are not weighted down or darkened by whatever traumas that happened before or disasters likely to occur soon.

Tango allows me to live in the now.  That’s one of its holds over me.  Whenever I stray into over-thinking and over-worrying, I fumble my steps and ruin the pleasure of the dancing conversation I am sharing with my partner.  Firmly, yet seductively, tango reminds me to remain true to it, and in return it rewards me with euphoria and fairy dust that draws men to me song after song, asking for the pleasure of my company.

It seems so simple and instantly beneficial to live in the moment with confidence and joy that compel the world to do your bidding.  Yet is it so difficult to achieve in the course of regular life.  Worth trying though.  Worth taking the lesson from tango.

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Ordinary people

I have spent many happy years living in the ivory tower.  I liked my residence:  it was quiet and comfortable, it gave me freedom to do what I wanted – which is write books by myself all day, talking to no one but my pup, it comfortably limited my contacts to a small circle of academic friends, and let me indulge in my self perception as a misanthrope.  Being fairly introverted and moody, I preferred socializing when I felt like it with like-minded people.  Non-intellectuals needed not apply.

Then I fell in love with tango, and slowly, subtly, like a river burrowing its way through a dry landscape, it began to change me.

Tango is a democratic dance.  It brings together people from all walks of life.  So it exposed me to men and women in whose direction I would not have looked before.  What would I talk about with a construction worker, a dentist, or a computer geek?  What do I have in common with a nursing home operator, a media producer, or a television starlet?  Yet suddenly there I was, surrounded by these people whose lives and preoccupations were foreign to me, who did not read books, did not entertain deep thoughts, and spent their leisure hours just dancing.  I found them fascinating.

It seemed a miracle to me that someone who spent his days tromping around building sites in dusty clothes, wielding tools, scaling scaffolding, and issuing orders to laborers could don elegant attire by night and become a swan, gliding around the dance floor with grace and nobility that entirely masked his regular life.  I was amazed to see how tango transformed people into entirely new beings, erasing social and cultural differences.  I fell in love with its cosmopolitanism, the way the Greeks mingled with the Turks, the Asians coupled with the Persians, the Russians spread their wings next to the Indians.  Of course some of this mixing of nations reflected the internationalism of LA.  Yet there is also something about tango that draws people from all over:   ordinary people, unremarkable people, quite uninteresting people – and makes them appealing once the music begins.

Then I remembered what attracted me to tango in the first place, many years ago, before I the thought occurred to me of learning the dance myself.  There was a show touring the country, called something simple and predictable, like Tango Argentino.  I went to see it in LA.  What impressed me then, and stayed in my imagination for years, was not the sexiness of the younger performers with lithe and erotic bodies, but the sensuality of older dancers, men built like refrigerators and women whose bodies have born children and expanded in all predictable directions.  Yet as they danced together, they became weightless, breathtakingly graceful, indescribably sexy.  They looked like ordinary people, but they moved like gods.

And now I was witnessing this miracle first hand as I myself began to dance.  I, who have long thought that I do not like people and do not care to know their lives, became suddenly curious:  what was hiding behind this or that tango persona, what did this man do in his normal life, what about him was capable of the metamorphosis from the mundane to the sublime?

My old, skeptical, curmudgeonly self mumbled that I was being idealistic and giving people undue credit.  My new self, freshly lured out of the ivory tower, chirruped back:  “Maybe there is something to everyone, something more interesting than first meets the eye.”

Or do people come to tango in order to become someone else, someone more interesting, more exotic, more passionate, or connected, or glamorous?

The promise of some kind of ascendance is definitely one attraction of this dance.  The fantasy of escaping one’s reality for the evening – a great allure.  The pleasure of meeting people outside my comfort zone – perhaps briefly, for the span of a tanda and the length of a couple of sentences between songs – has been a revelation to me.

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The strange rituals of tango

Those of you who know me are well aware of my tango habit.  Those who are not familiar with this dance need to understand that it is a powerfully addictive substance.  Once you get hooked on it, you crave it despite its strange rituals and contradictions.

For example, you would think that tango is a very social activity.  People take it up to meet others, to become part of a community, to have a friendly pursuit to look forward to at the end of the day or the week.  Yet tango is full of anti-social behavior.

If you are a woman, you do not get to know many other women, and if you are a man you know even fewer of your own kind because, if under normal circumstances men are sparse talkers with each other, in tango they are even more so.  While tango is all about making a connection, you connect mainly with members of the opposite sex, for a few minutes, then, like a bee, fly off to another flower.  You exchange several words in the pauses between songs, and once the dance is over, get busy looking available to be invited again, if you are a woman, or finding an available woman if you are a man.  Chatting with others, and particularly with your own species, distracts you from the crucial task:  making eye contact.

Invitations to tango are a fraught affair.  A woman is not supposed to ask a man to dance.  She must wait for him to make eye contact with her and incline his head subtly towards the dance floor.  So between dances she scans the room in search of a pair of eyes that would propel her into the next tanda (a set of 3 or 4 songs one daces with the same partner).  However, making eye contact has its constant counterpart—averting eyes or letting them glide along non-committally in order to avoid undesirable partners.  For eluding people you find for some reason disagreeable is as important as capturing the desirable ones.

Rejection is abundant in tango.  A woman can sit unbidden in her chair for many tandas, watching enviously as her more fortunate sisters glide past her and wondering what allures they possess that she lacks.  A man can muster enough courage to approach a woman directly and ask if she would like to dance, only to hear, “I am resting at the moment,” which is a polite form on NO.  Solid, mid-level dancers pine for the best partners who do not even look in their direction.  For tango is cliquish, and elite dancers stick together and do not mingle with mere mortals.  Meanwhile, former novices who had been grateful to be invited by anybody when they were making their first steps learn to ignore their erstwhile benefactors once they become more proficient.  Dancers whose skills or style have somehow displeased their partners are doomed to be shunned not only by the displeased party, but also by his or her friends.

Even when a man and a woman do successfully couple up for a dance, it is not an opportunity to get to know each other.  The rule of tango is that you do not talk during the dance.  It is considered bad form because it distracts you from the music and the movement.  If you are chatting away, you are apt to stop paying attention to your envorons, crash into other couples, kick them with the deadly stiletto heels worn by the women, or lose balance and fumble your moves.  In fact, you don’t even look into your partner’s face.  Men scan their immediate surroundings so as to navigate successfully around the crowded dance floor;  women tend to dance with their eyes closed so as to follow the lead better.  When the dance stops, you say thank you and move on to the next person.  For, as one friend described tango, “Dream over.  Next.”

If tango dancers do not socialize much during the dancing, they seem even more reluctant to do so when the music is not playing.  They may hang out in small groups before or after the milonga (the dance party), but at events that try to precede tango with dance-free conversation, tangueros show up once the music has begun so that they could plunge right into the dance’s Byzantine rituals.

So, given all these anti-social aspects, why on earth would some get addicted to tango?

Ah!  I’ll have to tell you that in the next post.

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On evil

I got an e-mail this morning that broke my heart.

Some time ago I have signed an electronic petition protesting the closing of the UCLA art library, a measure induced by the current financial crisis.  Since then I’ve been receiving all sorts of pleas for help.  A couple of them stare at me every day as I turn on my computer.  I will admit that I tend to trash them because I cannot sign on to every cause.  But today’s message unmoored me.

It told a story of a lovely Great Dane that had been locked in a garage by its owner and left to starve.  The dog weighed 53 pounds when it was discovered – astonishingly, still alive – having lost at least half of its weight.  It was literally a skeleton, its spine and ribs barren of any meat whatsoever—just a carcass covered by tight white skin.  The American Humane Association that found it has a Second Chance Fund which helps give such pets the necessary medical treatment.  They were asking me for a donation.

Fighting back tears I reflected on this message as I went on my morning walk with Audrey.  (I petted and kissed her with great tenderness and gave her extra snacks, as if such little acts of indulgence could help that poor Dane — who has, fortunately, been adopted and brought back to health by a loving family — and other such abused pets.) I find it incomprehensible that people can be so horrifically cruel to defenseless animals.  Why not take a dog you don’t want to keep to a shelter, or, as awful as it sounds, kill it quickly, rather than subject it to a torturous demise?  I am, of course, a dog lover, so naturally this story resonated with me.  But it also made me think of unimaginable instances of children being subjected to abuse.  And of how much – or little – can be done to stop this kind of suffering.  Some animals and children are, luckily, discovered and saved.  But not all, and not for all times.  The money I might send today to the American Humane Association will not preclude other cruelties from happening again and again.

We are all regularly approached via regular and electronic mail, telephone calls and street campaigns to contribute to charities of all kinds.  There are so many problems needing to be solved.  Most of the time I walk away from these entreaties.  I may be in a hurry, or deep-down indifferent to a given issue, or feel hopeless to make a difference.  I am pretty broke at the moment, so would $20 I might be able to give really do much good?  Or is that a lame excuse for inaction and washing my hands of someone else’s troubles?

I have been mulling over these questions all day, feeling dispirited by the endlessness of evil and haunted by the image of that miserable dog.  What can I do, can be done, to remedy such disasters?  Are small acts of kindness towards those around you meaningful contributions to making the world a bit better?  Are big financial donations a more effective solution?  What constitutes a significant act of goodness, given that wickedness will never vanish?

It feels important to me to give time to such reflections.  Perhaps to try to do something more specific:  send a check, or maybe spend some time caring for pets in a shelter.  At the very least, to not let myself fall back into complacency and forget this and other such stories, and to more consciously do any little thing that might be put in the scales to counterweigh the evil.

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Russian New Year

When I was growing up in Moscow, our winter celebration was New Year’s night (well, it still is, though until a few days ago I have been thinking about it in the nostalgic past tense).  Since religion was deemed by the Soviets the “opium of the people,” Christmas was not much in evidence.  We put up and dressed in fragile glass toys and tinsel a New Year’s fir and gathered on December 31 with family and friends for a great feast.

As the day progressed, apartments filled with anticipatory buzz (Soviet citizens did not live in houses, but crammed together in tiny flats, with 9 square yards allocated per inhabitant).  My grandmother spent hours in the kitchen, stirring up magic over the miniscule stove.  Our next-door neighbor concocted the Napoleon (layers of filo pastry interspersed with velvety crème patissiere) the very thought of which kept me salivating for a full week beforehand.  Towards 10 pm we set the table, crowding it with a profusion of salads, cooked beef tongue stuffed with slivered garlic, bread and herring, potatoes and cheeses.  Bottles of vodka, cognac, and wine provided vertical accents.  Having hungrily awaited this moment since morning, we took our seats with delight and, to the sound of smacking lips, toasts, and anecdotes fluttering over the plates, devoured the lovingly prepared food.

Sometime around 11 pm we began to usher out the old year, recalling its travails and drowning them in glasses of clear, amber, and burgundy spirits.  Then we turned on the TV, and in place of the Time Square ball dropping, watched decrepit Soviet leaders mumble their holiday address to the by now thoroughly inebriated and well-disposed nation.  As the clock on the Kremlin tower struck midnight, we greeted the new year with champagne, hopes for better times and more freedoms, and presents – exchanged then, often just one per person, and received with genuine gratitude and joy since there was so little to be bought in Russian stores and everything seemed precious.

It’s been years since I’ve celebrated the New Year in this way.  There is something to Russian gatherings – the directness of interactions with no carefully guarded personal space (physical or emotional), the quantities and types of food piled on the table, the small rituals that order the proceedings — that is different from such evenings with American friends.  Somehow, for most of the New Year’s eves since I left Moscow, ions ago, I have not made the transition from the old to the new calendar in the company of Russians.  Immigrants can be quirky that way.  Some stick primarily with their kind, others make a break from their past as they forge a new life in a foreign country.  I’ve been the latter kind, never cultivating friends on the national principle.  Yet now, as of five days ago, I feel that I may have lost some lovely opportunities.

This year I made Russian friends for the first time in many years.  Not because they are fellow-countrymen, but the commonality of culture – the fact that we “get” each other without having to explain anything – has nurtured the bond between us.  They feel like family to me, and they are subtly returning me to my roots.  I met the New Year at their table – a table nearly invisible under bowls of salad, plates of pickles, bread, cheese, and cold-cuts, home-made blintzes of sublime tenderness and tastiness, and other treats in such quantities that there was enough food for many subsequent meals.  We ate ourselves to the point of breathlessness, said our farewells to 2009, and at the stroke of midnight clinked champagne glasses and exchanged presents.  It was not a rambunctious celebration, but there was something to the tone of it, the warmth of our rapport, the coziness of the atmosphere, the pace of the evening that was distinctly Russian, bridging the gap between my childhood and the present, the old continent and the new.  I think I would like to commemorate the passing of each year with my people from now on, marveling at how even as I tried to spin out into another orbit, I ended up returning home, spiritually, if not geographically — and relishing the fact.  I could not make this discovery without my Russian friends.  I think I am going to dedicate 2010 to them, and to the powers of friendship.

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