Month: May 2023

A picture, then a thousand (or so) words:

The modern and the primeval. A brave CNG (Compressed Natural Gas) taxi beneath the brave trees that remain. Down the road from the Asian University for Women.

In the Muslim world, Friday and Saturday make up the weekend. Here at AUW, I teach from Sunday through Thursday. A slight shift, but one that has thrown me off in some small ways. I’m at the tail end of the weekend (see title) and my friends and family in the States are just starting theirs. How can this be? Let’s see:

Yesterday, I startled my mom by FaceTiming her at 6:45am Pacific Time. I thought it had to be early evening in California, even though I had just finished my dinner of vegetarian pizza with chili sauce at Beans ‘n’ Cream, an unappetizingly named but delicious local restaurant. She wondered if I was okay; the jury’s out.

Beans ‘n’ Cream ‘n’ Crocs ‘n’ Me.

Then: Last Thursday I told my students to have a good weekend and that I’d see them on Monday. They cheered until one woman betrayed her classmates and said, “But don’t we start again on Sunday?” (“Judas!”).

No one likes a snitch. On the wall outside a local school where copyright infringement is not on the curriculum. (Am I reading this right?)

And: I thought I’d amble home last night from a movie and, in doing so, stepped into the most visceral definition of a throng imaginable. Chok Bazar was packed with thousands of people, all socializing and shopping after the Friday evening prayers. I got lost–and more than a bit panicked–amid the crammed tea stalls and cycle rickshaws and sputtering florescent tubes and the ceaseless honking horns that sound like hell-bent, furious geese on a mission to derail every single train of thought. I finally hailed a three-wheel taxi and found I was four minutes from my apartment. Oh, well.

On the way home. I wonder what this shop is peddling.

Time, time, time. Studies have shown that the abrupt changes brought about by Daylight Saving Time cause drivers to misjudge braking distances; without being aware of it, we adjust our depth perception based on lengths of shadows and subtle shifts in ambient light. When we leap ahead an hour, all that subconscious information gets mangled. We crash. And now my weekend’s a whole day earlier.

Perhaps I’m trying to over-compensate for my confusion with aggressive pedantry.

Don’t women observe Daylight Saving Time? And serve in Congress?

I also make it sound as if I casually slipped into a movie theater last night and caught a film. This is untrue. I haven’t figured out how to spend my free time here–right now the power is off and I’m sitting in my boxers, typing while trying to keep my sweaty arms from touching my sweaty sides (InstantMessage me for photos) (kidding, Mom)–so I’ve leapt at any opportunity to do anything. A colleague from last summer invited me to a Jean-Luc Godard screening-and-lecture at the Chittagong Alliance Française. I made the fifteen minute walk through Chok Bazar and, miraculously, found the building. The speaker earned enthusiastic bursts of applause along with some good laughs; he switched back and forth effortlessly between French and Bangla. I only caught the words “New Wave” and “film” because, well, they were in English, but I didn’t care. It felt good to be around people in a somewhat familiar setting. I dozed off during the double feature, giving my (sweaty) body over to the mosquitoes who were drawn to the French New Wave.

I saw this…

…at this. Didn’t know a single moviegoer, but I was so grateful for their company I kept nodding at them as if we were long-lost chums. I guess we are social creatures.

As I left the Alliance Française (whose hashtag is the unfortunate af), I took my life in my hands, fastening myself to more experienced Bangladeshis who scrummed me across the street in one cohesive unit. Once on the other side, I let out a sigh of relief, took a deep victory breath, and was immediately pummeled from above by a hard, oblong object. Paranoia took hold. I thought, “Who’s throwing rocks at me? Or potatoes? What did I do this time?” My face flushed with anger (“What the hell??”). As I reached around to rub my throbbing shoulder (it really hurt) I saw a security guard run out into traffic and retrieve the thing. “A mango!” he said, pointing to the tree above and then holding it up for me to inspect.

Jackfruit grows here in Bangladesh as well. In fact, it’s the national fruit. If one of these had fallen from on high I’m not sure I’d be typing here today.

Had this happened in a Jean-Luc Godard film my reaction would have been blasé and provocatively arbitrary. I’d have whipped out a pistol, shot the mango, grabbed the security guard by the hand, and then run laughing (why?) into the night. The soundtrack would have swelled as if to say, “We will now toy with your expectations, little fool.” The security guard would not solve my problems–nor I, his–but we would not care. We know time is passing; that is all.

We are birds, trapped by the sky. (I love this mural.)

Time is passing, if a bit slowly. Am trying to set up some improv workshops and connect with people from last year; my hope is that I’ll get busy enough to stop thinking so much about home. To counter this, I’ve been getting out of bed at 5:15 every morning to take a long walk. Chittagong is quiet and cooler at this hour (it’s still hot af)(je suis désolé). The simple act of walking gets me out of my head (although yesterday the song “It’s a Jolly Holiday with Mary” from Mary Poppins wormed its way into my mind) and I can feel myself actually being here. In Bangladesh.

Bert and Mary, if they were French.

It’s the improv maxim: Get into your body; get out of your head. I’ve been having my Intro Psych class do physical activities at the midpoint of our 75 minute class to give them a break from the sitting and note-taking. Last Thursday we all hummed together and then let out our voices to find a musical chord. It may not have been pitch-perfect, but we spent the second half of the class in a much better mood. Today (it’s finally Sunday) we talked about ambidexterity and then shook out our dominant and non-dominant hands to the count of 10. At least it gets them laughing. Doing this also gives them an emotional experience upon which they can attach this (sort of) dry material. “The neural impulse will always be connected to the day Professor Robinson made us shake like chickens.”

Here are some photos from my walks. Again, Bangladesh is a beautiful, complex country. I wish my photographic eye could genuinely capture it for you:

Road leading up to the haunting War Cemetery.

Cheerful soccer players outside the AUW at 5:45 in the morning.

Obliging proprietors of one of the billions of tiny shops in Chittagong.

Weary cat outside a Kali temple near the AUW.

Inside the Kali temple. The cat did Kali’s work for her the previous evening (see crow, taking credit).

Another neighborhood cat, acting all innocent. I miss Omelet and Eisenhower.

It’s all been said before.

Handsome Bangladeshi.

Um…

Glorious.

And now, some WONDERFUL, hopeful advertising. I have to emphasize this: My Bangla is non-existent except for a few words. If I ever become more adept, I hope I infuse their language with as much optimism as the Bangla people have done with English. Snark would be unseemly here, so I offer these photos with all the good humor they brought me:

My melancholy will have a mint lemonade, unless you have a side of homesickness to go.

I wish there were a comma. Duh.

So what’s the rush?

Wicked Bean!

So, we drink it?

At last. An advertiser who dares to speak the quiet part out loud.

There are no mistakes.

Just got back from lunch in the cafeteria. I sat with a Bangladeshi journalist and a Chinese philosopher. I left humbled. There is so much about this country that I can’t see on the surface. Of course.

That’s all. Please send a comment; I’d like to hear from you, my friends.

(I’m a sucker for this stuff):

Come Saturday morning, just I and my friend

We’ll travel for miles in our Saturday smiles

And then we’ll move on

But we will remember long after Saturday’s gone

Dory Previn/Fred Karlin

I lurked around the swank, chilly bar at the Chittagong Radisson Blu last evening, trying not to lose my mind because the internet at Thames Tower (my current housing) will not cooperate. Thames Tower, by the way, is located in the Beverly Hills Residential Society, hovering over the Sun Valley campus of the Asian University for Women. Despite the aspirational and intimidating real estate references (and the coy internet), I like my eleventh floor apartment. Here’s evidence, both high and low:

Chittagong, from my (temporary) Thames Tower perch.

Sleepy lane outside Thames Tower.

The Radisson Blu Wi-Fi proved equally elusive. I even ordered a banana smoothie from the suspicious bartender just so I could get their password to work on this blog. Has anyone created a new English word for internet insanity? “Applerage”? “Blogplexia”? I fell back on the old standards, none of which is appropriate for this blog (hi, Mom).

The graffiti on the wall near Beverly Hills, Chittagong clarified my plea:

If I could grow up again, I wouldn’t spend half my life trying to establish an internet connection.

My one success last night–and it felt significant–involved an elaborate pantomime with the three-wheel taxi driver. Somehow he figured out that my flailing arms and anguished face meant that I needed to be deposited at the Beverly Hills Residential Society. I think we’d make a formidable charades team.

You’re a goose! Wait. No. You’re a waterfall going backwards! Huh? I know! You’re Charles Nelson Reilly making a pineapple pizza! You’re a Holstein calf!

Which brings me to this AUW banner. It’s perfect. Why waste precious time screaming at a screen when the actual world exists? (Well, for one thing, my students need to access Google Classroom) (a.k.a. “hell”). I also love that the advice at the bottom leaves you hanging. Just like the internet.

The future is both unknowable and constantly being written. And, most of all,

You’ve taken time from your precious life to read these ravings, so I’ll get down to business with some photos from the last three days (but I’ve lived here forever, it seems):

I accidentally chose Arabic as the language for my movie screen on the plane and couldn’t revert to English. A trend emerges.

Landing in Doha. Incredible!

More advice, this one from the staff of the Two Spoons cafe across the street from the AUW. I’ll take it to heart.

You don’t want to hear my First World problems?

Maybe an HR seminar would boost morale. (Hi, Jen Scott!)

I went to the main AUW campus with Reza, my soon-to-be roommate, to buy stuff for my new housing situation. It seems I’m being demoted to the first floor at Thames Tower. My life in the penthouse can’t be justified by the AUW (the apartment is for visiting dignitaries; I knew nothing of this). Alas. Reza’s a photography instructor from Dhaka and promises to be good company. He bought cleaning supplies at this mini-mart on MM Ali Road; I found some British biscuits and stood under the air conditioner while Bangladesh pedaled past:

A spectator’s view of things.

The AUW banner’s advice haunted me, so I got up at 5:30 this morning and went for a walk around the neighborhood. It felt good to be out among the dripping trees and the sleepy packs of feral dogs. The incessant honking hadn’t started yet; I shared the road with a few other early risers, men with red-henna beards and women in full-length hijab over trendy white tennis shoes. By the time I got home the heat and noise had returned. I washed my shirt in the shower with Head & Shoulders. The internet was down.

Beautiful early morning Chittagong.

Not to make a meal out of this, but the digital world can drown out our inner voice (mine at the moment: “What’s the #*$&#@# password!”). Trying to cling to things–even important ones like staying in touch with loved ones at home–just amps the anxiety. I’ll make my one improv observation here…scenes only work if we give our full attention to the moment; when we make demands on the outcome we’re doomed. Bangladesh won’t cater to my digital needs. It certainly won’t bend to accommodate my desire for peace and quiet. It offers fascination and complexity. Who do I think I am?

C’est vrai. (Regarder! C’est Vicky Leandros, chanteuse gréco-française qui s’est classée quatrième dans le cadre de l’Eurovision 1967 avec cette chanson!) (Merci Google Traduction!)

Oh, yeah: Some levity to leaven the absurdity. The Muzak in the AUW Sun Valley campus elevator offers a constant loop of the 1967 Luxembourg Eurovision entry “Love is Blue.” The fifth period Mixed Chorus singers at Matthew Gage Junior High School, under the direction of Mr. Williams, also sang this song in 1971. To Mr. Williams’ credit, he allowed us to sing the lyric “Red, red, my eyes are red/Crying for you, alone in my bed” if we promised not to snicker at the implied sexual relationship. He also suggested that I end my singing career with his class.

Enough levity. This is Alan Turing, the man whose computational gifts helped Britain intercept the Axis powers’ encoded messages. Some argue the Allies defeated fascism due to Turing’s unparalleled contribution. He was also chemically castrated by the British government for being gay. Teachers in Florida can’t talk about his fate and his sexuality, how the people whose lives he saved betrayed him.

Would Mr. Williams be fired, now, if he worked in Florida? Or Texas? Or any of the 20 other states that are riding roughshod over education? Because he acknowledged sexuality in a melodramatic pop song? Quite possibly.

My students are adults, but I hope I can trust them like Mr. Williams trusted us. Class started yesterday and already there’s a revolt underway. They asked to give presentations on mindfulness and the Stockholm Syndrome instead of focusing on Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and anxiety disorders (my suggestions). This morning, before the revolt, I talked about the power of intrinsic motivation, how following one’s interest is, often, reward enough. I suppose I have to walk the talk. Listen. Try to understand what compels them, not try to control their minds (ha!).

I look forward to my students’ presentations on Jon Kabat-Zinn and Patty Hearst.

Stockholm.

Important: There will be questions on Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and anxiety disorders on the exam, however. And there will be extra credit.

Poster featuring nihilist quote by mathematician and poet Omar Khayyám. On the fifth floor of the Asian University for Women.

Obviously, I got the internet to work (or, really, I followed the internet signal to school where I have been since 7:30 this morning). The Omar Khayyám quote on the poster above moved me, partially because I’ve been rolling impotently along ever since I arrived. In a week I’ll have a very different view of Bangladesh and the Asian University for Women. If the past is any predictor, I’ll have found my footing, at least a bit. Or I’ll know that it will take another week. Or two. Or more.

Khayyám’s words also move me because they’re so bracing: “Lift not thy hands to [the sky] for help.” Maybe the staff at the AUW is emphasizing that we need to learn to take care of ourselves and each other, not rely on that big bowl in the sky. True and kind of treacly.

Speaking of treacle:

Blue, blue, my world is blue,
Blue is my world now I’m without you,
Gray, gray, my life is gray,
Cold is my heart since you went away.

Red, red, my eyes are red,
Crying for you alone in my bed.
Green, green my jealous heart,
I doubted you, and now we’re apart.

When we met, how the bright sun shone,
Then love died, now the rainbow is gone.

Black, black, the nights I’ve known,
Longing for you so lost and alone.
Gone, gone, the love we knew,
Blue is my world now I’m without you.

(lyrics by Pierre Cour)

Does this still work?

A door in Lucknow. Years ago. Is this a liminal space?

I’m sitting at SK Coffee in Saint Paul, shaking my right foot and holding my breath while I worry my new dental implant with my tongue. In 48 hours I’ll be boarding the plane in Seattle bound for Doha; from there, I’ll fly to Dhaka before landing in Chittagong to teach for eight weeks at the Asian University for Women. A handful of AUW students will be completing the soon-to-be-defunct psychology minor. I, like the dodo, will waddle these soft-scientists to extinction before flying home in mid-July.

I’m sorry for the tortured simile.

I’m nervous, mostly because I’m neither here nor there. Summer has finally arrived in the upper midwest. We can sleep with the windows open. Cherries threaten to shrivel in the refrigerator before we can finish them off. The humid air smells of asphalt; the potholes admit defeat. Friends have big plans. I think I’m having anticipatory homesickness.

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota/Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass. James Wright

And, of course, I’m so lucky to go. My friend Carol (hi, Carol!) pointed out that humans wrestle with transitions. We live in a constant liminal space, always transitioning from one moment to the next, never really sitting still, always yearning for security. Since this blog is about improv, I’ll point out that improvisers seek out the changing moment for inspiration, for energy. We try to let go of our stories and our plans and our illusions of safety. We jump.

Still, I love being at home.

Ruminating on the couch in front of the TV.

We can’t be in two places at the same time, but we can hold two contradictory ideas in one moment. Duh, I suppose. Here’s to the privilege of travel, the yearning for stability, to Dennis and the cats and the chance to return to Bangladesh.

Improvisation is based on the principle of “Yes, and…” Acknowledge the moment, then proceed with curiosity. Leave me a comment; I miss you, each and every one.

More soon.