Type Two Power Points

Living proof that anti-sweat iontophoresis may become the greatest medical/electrical advance of the 21st Century. I hope I don’t sweat to death before its unveiling. Also, there’s a green-and-yellow foot next to my face. At Dhaka University.

A caveat to start: Things are looking up. My students keep me on my toes. I’m getting lots (and lots) of improv work. The monsoon has arrived and, for three seconds this afternoon, I thought, “Wow. A breeze!” Oh, and this: I broke down and bought processed cheese slices. I don’t regret it. And sure, I enlisted half of Chittagong to help me find contact lens solution (it’s only sold at “optic stores”); together we overcame the traffic and language barriers and found an optician who sold me some saline solution.

Bangladesh continues revealing its beauty:

Beautiful Chittagong as seen through the rain and contact lenses.

The red sun from the Bangladesh flag, symbolizing a new day and an end to oppression. Chittagong University arboretum.

“Trees are the earth’s endless effort to speak to the listening heaven.” Rabindranath Tagore, Bengali poet.

Where the walls aren’t succumbing to climbing vines and crumbling damp, the murals work their magic:

Challenging the mind/body split.

A student interpreted: “It’s in my blood.” (Apologies if I misremembered.)

Beauty and birds. Chittagong University.

I’ve also been having a lot of Type Two Fun. Here’s a definition from the internet, a perfectly reliable source:

Type II fun is often hot, wet, muddy, or uncomfortable. Examples of Type II Fun include hiking, trekking, camping, kayaking, or going on some other grand adventure. It’s only fun in hindsight. Type II Fun refers to the type of adventure that you “want to have had”, but don’t necessarily “want to do.”

Kids playing soccer at 5:30am in a nearby park. This is Type One Fun.

I had two days of wonderful Type Two Fun at Chittagong University this week. M.K. Jatra, an expressive psychotherapist, invited me to join him for some workshops and lectures. I agreed, only to find myself (happily) baffled by the cavernous gap between my expectations and reality. Two thoughts eclipsed everything else.

The first, and most obliterating: “What is happening?”

Secondly: “I can’t wait to write about this.”

I’m not sure I’ll be able to capture the experience, but man alive: it was Type Two times Two.

Some fragments, photos, and captions to illustrate:

We don’t know each other and I’m not sure why I was a guest at the international law lecture. I learned a lot. For instance, both Bangladesh and the United States declared a “Unilateral Declaration of Independence.” We left West Pakistan and England behind, respectively.

A sobering prelude to the Type Two experience:

After listening to this international law lecture–which explained Bangladesh’s deeply traumatizing extrication from West Pakistan–I was invited to lunch in the faculty canteen. The talk hung heavy in the air, at least for me, a relative novice to the topic. Bangladeshis take pride in the sacrifices they made to gain independence; memorials to brave martyrs grace nearly every traffic circle and public park. Universities in Bangladesh keep these wartime memories vivid with sculpture and mosaics and commemorative posters shellacked to the sides of dining halls and dormitories. This makes sense: the genocidal horrors of 1971 targeted the academic community with chilling precision. I couldn’t help but look at these current professors and their families and think about their compatriots, killed in their beds as retaliation for seeking independence just two generations ago. As a teacher I feel free to say this: academia can certainly be fusty and arcane, but sitting with these professors in the context of their recent history made me proud to be associated–however remotely–with them. The stereotype of the bumbling, ineffectual professor brings out the brute in many of our politicians (who often are the beneficiaries of the Ivy League educations they cynically disavow). They relish the role of the playground bully, stoking violence against anyone whose power isn’t physical. The students and professors in Bangladesh showed courage as their country emerged from the bloody fight for independence. For a moment, apologizing for being one such bumbler felt like an affront to these brave souls.

Lecture finished.

Nope. (The Bangla actually says, “Dear Girlfriend.”)

Bas-relief on the wall by the Catholic Church in Chittagong. Bangladeshi citizens during the Liberation War of 1971.

Life goes on, somehow. The present moment pulled me out of my rumination, as always. I’m sharing some snippets of conversation that shook me out of my pondering and into the Type Two Fun I mentioned above. Internal monologue included, as necessary:

To the gracious student server in the faculty canteen:

ME: “I’m a vegetarian, so I’ll have the rice and dal.”

GRACIOUS STUDENT SERVER: “Yes! Have the mutton, too!”

ME: “No, thanks!”

GRACIOUS STUDENT SERVER: “Okay! Then fish for you!”

With the husband-and-wife faculty members, trying to understand their soft, clipped English while standing by the generator underneath a decapitating ceiling fan:

HUSBAND: “Our son is in the United States for graduate work.”

ME: “That’s great! Where?”

WIFE: “Estrogen replacement.”

ME: (to self) “What?”

Walking into class with my laptop to give a lecture:

PROFESSOR: “Do you have your PowerPoint lecture ready?”

ME: “Yes.” (I hate PowerPoint presentations, for the record.)

PROFESSOR: “Do you have your adaptor?”

Me: “Yes.”

PROFESSOR: “There is no projector.”

Theater students, released from the tyranny of the PowerPoint presentation.

On both visits, Jatra introduced me to many illustrious faculty members (“My name is Jim. Nice to meet you!”) (“Why are you here?”), got me endless cups of tea (only once did I confuse the sugar with the salt), showed me how to eat a local pome fruit using the husk as a spoon (“Jim. You do it wrong”), and signed me up for eight more workshops, all of which were cancelled by the time we left campus.

I finally got to fire up the infernal PowerPoint. Three slides in the load-shedding began.

Headline from Al Jazeera News: “Bangladesh suffers long power cuts amid worst heatwave in decades.” Not sure my slide deck would have alleviated any of the misery. We improvised instead.

Later in the afternoon, I had an audience with the Vice-Chancellor of Chittagong University. A powerful woman with a bemused, regal presence, she chuckled as I confronted a plate of orange slices. In many Asian countries–Bangladesh included–most people eat with only their right hand. The left hand is considered unclean. I could live here until Time is Done and never figure out how to peel fruit with just one hand. As an elegant host, the Vice-Chancellor allowed me space as I threw citrus around her tasteful sitting area.

My grandmother lived a few blocks from the Parent Navel Orange Tree in my hometown of Riverside, California. My dad and grandfather sold smudge pots to keep the citrus from freezing during cold snaps. My high school colors, in honor of the orange groves, were orange and green. I let my people down.

Admittedly, these are small (fusty) moments, worthy of a chuckle I suppose. We all survived these cultural misunderstandings with good humor and tact. Bigger forces were at work, though. Before catching the bus back to the AUW faculty housing, I asked Jatra why he hadn’t joined me in my lectures and workshops. He had been interpreting for me, but with his extensive knowledge and experience in art therapy he really should have been leading the classes himself. He gave me a shrug, so I asked again:

Over tea in the faculty lounge:

Me: “Why don’t you conduct these workshops? No one knows who I am here. Really, you should be in charge.”

Jatra: (touches my arm) “Yes. But you’re White.”

It’s not over.

Of course.

His truthful response sent a chill up my spine. I didn’t sense any resentment, but what did I know? I’d been dense. I was grateful, too, that he trusted me enough to share this hard–and obvious–reality. We sat quietly for a minute. It would have been easy to brush off the remark, say that he was mistaken and that racism is a thing of the past. Instead, we agreed to be co-presenters next week when we return to Chittagong University to talk about art and mental health. We spent most of yesterday morning compiling a joint PowerPoint presentation to accompany our talk. This collaboration feels better, more just, although I came to find out that Jatra is a stickler for font size and has intransigent, furious beliefs about color choices.

I still hate PowerPoint.

The light breaking through at Chittagong University. The brutalist architecture tries to contain the encroaching natural world. A fascinating duel.

That’s about it. I saw a riveting production of Oedipus Rex at a local arts school. The actors spoke Bangla so I had to rely on my recollection of Sophocles from Mrs. Bishop’s English Honors class at Riverside Polytechnic High School. Our 1974 production involved standing in a straight line and shouting the chorus’ words in unison. If we redefined the play, it was by accident and not for the better. In this Bangla version the chorus moved around the stage like a wave, constantly crashing into Oedipus and threatening to drown Jocasta with each terrible revelation. Gripping.

The chorus takes a curtain call. Oedipus Rex, 2023.

And I have many more portraits ready for the next blog. Here’s a teaser.

M.K. Jatra in front of poster for Oedipus Rex. He clearly has taste; I think our PowerPoint will be all the better for it.

Here’s to all the teachers out there. Please send comments. I beg of you. In the meantime, another quote by Rabindranath Tagore, the Bard of Bengal:

“Don’t limit a child to your own learning, for he was born in another time.“

Rabindranath Tagore: 1861-1941.