East or West

I just read this on one of the blogs I check into now and then, (Zany Mama):

"whining doesn’t suit me (not to mention the fact that it’s off-putting), and I am not a “naked” blogger – one who shares every feeling that comes to mind, no matter how morose or self-pitying."

Hmmm. Something to think about, there.
Certainly, the world doesn't need more whining or moroseness. It does seem that if I sit down with more than a few minutes to myself, what wells up into my mind is not the pleasant Saturday morning surprise birthday canoe trip I set up for a friend who is turning 50, rather the knotty, problems to be unsnarled, the things that aren't going well.
Things I need to think about before I can move on them.
Right now, for example, I'm thinking that it is time to get my gear on and get my daily walk out of the way. Therefore I blog.
Anyway, not to be coy, I will address the "almond-eyed life."
Hmmm.
On one level it's just a phrase that popped into my head during the set-up of this blog. I forget the question that prompted it, but the first couple of answers were rejected, so I picked something that I was pretty sure no one else would. A private joke, if you will. I had no idea it would be publicly displayed, and I feel a little foolish when I see it now.
As for what it was doing in my head in the first place, that's a little harder to explain. In brief, because I grew up in Hawaii, one of my first jobs was as a sales clerk at Tutu's Grass Shack in the Ala Moana Shopping Center, just off of Waikiki. There I learned to speak a very rudimentary Japanese. In those days, everyone more or less had to take Japanese as a second language in High School, except the dummies, who took Spanish, and the stuck-up Haoles, who took French (that would be me). Whether one studied it formally or not, Japanese was the language of tourist sales in those days, and probably still is.
Later in life, I found myself working for an import/export company in Central California, working on market development in Japan. When my grim, jean-clad, agragian co-workers discovered my abilty to translate faxes from the East, they were both surprised and unduly impressed. One day, as I was being hypnotised by the monotonous tedium of running mass copies, the Packing Shed Foreman bent down to murmer in my ear something about "a certain almond-eyed exotic traveler something something something." I was startled, not only be the fact that I hadn't seen him coming, but he was kind of a little too far into my personal space. Plus, I had no idea what he was talking about. I also noticed peripherally, that a couple of secretaries nearby had stopped to look at what was "going on." After a minute or two, I realized with a click that the Shed Forman was talking about a recent shipment of promotional products I had requested. There was something a little insinuating about his manner, though, that made me ponder that strange choice of words. I wondered if he might have been talking about me, in some way. I did feel then, during my first years on the Mainland, like an outsider. Here I was in America, but I felt as foreign as ever. Where in Hawaii I had actually made an effort to cultivate a European persona, here, among "my people," I felt more Asian than anything else.
As for my physical appearance, my eyes do not have epicanthic folds, and do not appear particularly oriental to anyone except those who have never really seen any actual people from Asia. I am caucasoid. My mother emigrated from Ireland in 1950. That said, we are not the blue-eyed, freckly, blond kind of Irish people. It turns out that 2 generations back, her great-great grandfather was himself an immigrant to Ireland from Portugal. Furthermore, he was from a part of Portugal called the Azore Islands, which were once Phoenician colonies. So we do have a kind of Spanish-y Mediterranean look to us. We have high cheekbones and actually, from certain angles, my mother's eyes do look slanted, as I suppose do mine as well.
I don't want to talk too much about my personal appearance, or post pictures of myself, because the great thing about blogging, and the internet in general, is that I don't have to. Women, especially, are so judged by their appearance, and it is freeing to be able to sidestep all that. At the end of the day, I have a fairly generic look, -- I blend. I do look more or less Iranian, and Jewish, and Mexican. In France I was asked several times if I was Lebanese. Even as I shook my head I would think "Well, maybe!"

My Life as an Iranian

One sunny, subtropical morning, when I was a Sophmore at University, I stood dreaming at the window of my work-study "job." Italy, and how to get back there, was on my mind. Suddenly, like the answer to a prayer, a very Italianate-looking boy crossed my field of vision. Light-eyed and olive skinned, he turned and our eyes met briefly. Turning, he disappeared without breaking his stride. "Wither thou goest," I thought.
Approximately one and a half minutes later, he was standing in front of my desk with a question,
"Do you want to go dancing?"
Uh, no thanks, Complete Stranger.
"So, what, dinner? Do you ever eat at the cafeteria?"
Now I'm scared. No thanks, no thanks, NO THANKS.
He came every day at the same time, same question. Bringing coffee with cream and sugar. He told me he was Mexican, and a cook. Strangely, he didn't know what a quesadilla was, though. Hmmm. I told him I thought he looked Italian when I first saw him, he said he was "half." I asked him what part of Italy he was from, and after a little more BS, he finally told me he was from Iran, here studying Engineering.
That was interesting.
I had seen photos of the Shah of Shah's Jubilee, or whatever it was, in National Geographic. Images of fabulous, over-the-top floats, peacock colours, Byzantine-like potentates, berobed, bejewled and bedazzled. Marching bands, school children waving flowers, military battalions from ancient biblical kingdoms, Hittites, Chaldeans, Assyrians. The photos looked like the freizes from the Louvre had come to live, rows of men with black beards, gold armbands, white kilts looking fierce and pretty tough, I must say. Not so much like the Hollywood version as you might think.
Anyway. He continued to stalk me, and find ways to entice me into spending time with him.
"I'm going to an Iranian New Year's Party Saturday, would you like to come? --There will be a lot of foreigners, it will be very interesting. You can try the food."
How could I say no?
Eventually, all my spare time was accounted for, I had new clothes, rides everywhere, and I was a Girlfriend for the next 6 years.
He was a great guy, though. So were his friends. Actually I learned to cook from his roomate, Saeed, who had been in political prison in Iran. All the guys who had been in prison could cook, I guess they all had to take a turn in the kitchens.
I know now, and I knew then that he loved me and wanted to marry me. He told me once that no matter how hard he tried to be worthy, he thought that somehow I didn't trust him, which I didn't understand at the time, but maybe I do now. I knew he would never cheat on me with other women, or treat me badly. I did believe that he would always do what he could to protect and take care of me. He was always coming up with things I needed before I even knew that I needed them.
Somehow, I was restless though.
You know, Italy.
I think maybe I was afraid that he was so good at distracting me and pulling my strings, that if I gave him any more power, my whole life would be gone out of my hands, and I would be swallowed up and stuck. -- Like that didn't happen anyway!
In the years that followed, after I left and came here, I did think a lot about Islamic and Western societies, men and women, and freedom and family relationships. I missed that tight little world, where everyone is always together, and the rules of fraternization are clear. Courtesies are observed, boundaries are respected. The people are the most important thing. When I was alone, in Graduate School on the mainland, I didn't miss my family, but I did miss Saeed's cooking, Masood's girlfriend, my ex-boyfriend's shoulders.

Oooh...Sparkly!

I am obsessed with a certain infomercial product I saw recently. Not even the whole thing, just the first and last 5 minutes. -- That's how I watch all TV, up and down, in and out. Anyway, this one was for yet another calisthenics exercise program, packaged under the name "Fluidity." Just for thinking of that name makes me want to give these people money. Yeah, FLUIDITY. Doesn't that sound cool and easy? Like floating down a river. Plus the images they kept flashing of what were obviously professional ballerinas delicately poised on one toe in gravity-defying positions, every rippling muscle highlighted and caressed by some seriously sophisticated lighting. I want it! Plus, it comes with a barre, which folds up and is easy-store. For only $200! The thing is, 3 years ago I lost 30 lbs. My regime was simple, one meal a day, processed carbs only when I cheated, 30-45min of walking every day, and an hour of this same type of exercise about 3-4 times a week. I used one of my high-backed dining room chairs as a barre. I slimmed down, felt better. Oh also I took some prescribed medication. Then, as is the usual (98%) scenario in these cases, circumstances changed, my job changed, I ran out of my prescriptions, the old coping mechanisms crept back, one by one. And so I find myself back at the exact same point of my all-time-heaviest weight. The real problem is that I can't seem to get back on the horse and do what needs to be done. Is it that I'm defeated by defeat? If defeated feels like a dull, heavy anger, than that certainly might be it. I think there might be something here about the general lack of control over my life going on as well. Can "Fluidity" be the answer? Wu-wei*? On the one hand, I don't need to buy anything to practice this regime. On the other hand, sometimes a new toy can be the missing motvational factor. On the other hand...uh, foot, I really don't want to spend money on toys right now. Hear me, oh Universe! Send me motivation! *http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wu_wei

Cosa Nostra

Here's a thing. My First Husband has lost his business, and so I can fairly expect my fortunes to change. It seems exciting, like the clean scent of winter in the air. He informed me that he would begin divorcing me right away, so I shouldn't worry. I don't follow the logic here, but I told him there is no particular rush.
Yay! I returned paragraph!
Anyway, there is no discernible difference in the day-to-day. The bills are paid, the same amounts are deposited in my bank account, noone can tell that my measly $600.00 a month is our family's only income. Still, I can feel the desperation and fear emmanating from his wretched apartment.
He won't discuss it, and resents any of my attempts to bring it up. The question is, what is my role here exactly? Should I quit my job and go back to full-time, top wages? Or wait until I'm asked? I have the feeling now would be the time to move to Florida, as in his secret heart of hearts he is wishing we would all just vanish off the face of the Earth, and leaving him free of any and all responsibility other than wallowing in self-pity. On the way home from work today, I heard several ads for The Sopranos on the radio. Big Tony kept insisting, "Once you're part of this family, there's no getting out." I feel like that pretty much sums up my marriage vows. So, I'll hang for a while. And twist.