Hàng Ngày

All good things must come to an end. As of October 1, 2009, this blog is out of commission. Thanks for reading!

Massive walls of concrete and glass rise out of the hazy dust of the crowded highway. They hover at various points on the horizon, inching closer as the horns blast around me and the panhandlers with their whistles directing traffic in  hopes of a few 200 Rupiah coins. The scent of hot oil fills my nostrils, wafting over the hoods of cars from the pushcart on the corner. In my mouth, particles of road and dirt and exhaust fumes combine in a gritty, bitter poison. My jacket sticks to my arms and my pants cling to the sides of my legs and my arms clutch the motorbike driver at various intervals to keep from being thrown backward or forward into the throngs of traffic.

They say it is a disaster of urban planning; the paved superhighways the only arteries of movement from one skyscraper to the next, each nested in the confines of its own gated compound, surrounded by pockets of slums and shanty-towns, villages in their own way, and completely removed from the luxury of the modern structures; the juxtaposition of the tin-roofed shack sinking into a canal of sewage silhouetted against a sparkling blue skyscraper with glistening spires and palm fronds spilling from marble balconies.

The energy flows in ribbons of tail-lights down a jam-packed freeway, four lanes of white and four lanes of red opposite, snaking through the maze of random buildings and over other belts of energy slicing the city into pockets of mayhem and calm. In the southern suburbs beyond the glow of the financial buildings, shopping malls, posh hotels and swank apartment complexes, an old man bikes his glass pushcart filled with fried dough down a narrow alleyway. “Roti! Roti!” he sings as he passes with a clatter of rusty bicycle spokes and the voices of children chattering like chipmunks across the way echo off the close walls of the crammed-in houses. In the distance a persistent metal hammer chinks away at the steel foundations of a newly constructed home. A bird, ever so infrequently, twitters above the sounds of daily production.

At 4:30 a.m. I am called from sleep by a melodic chant and I sit up and turn off my fan to listen to the imam beckoning the entire neighborhood to prayer, his voice rising and falling with the praises of Allah and his followers. The chanting halts, granting me a few more hours of restless sleep before the piercing sun breaks through the slit in the curtains and falls across my face causing tiny beads of sweat to form above my upper lip and I am awake, awaiting the day, lying sprawled across the grass mat spread for me on the floor, thinking of the night before and trying to draw my dreams back into my head, begging them to continue for one more moment, to no avail. My fits of restless sleep, tossing and turning to avoid the pinching bites of mosquitoes, have left me unrested but not groggy.

A splash of cold water over my head shakes the remaining droplets of sleep from my eyes and I close them against the froths of soap bubbles dripping from my hair. The buckets of water rain down the sides of my body, opening every pore to the morning air and washing the clammy sweat of sleep from my limbs.

And the leers from the bajai drivers as I pass on the road, and the smiles from bajai drivers as I pass on the road, and the stench of seething sewage simmering in the sun wafts to my nostrils and fills my mouth with a sweet taste of rot.

And the glint of tin roofs in the sunlight, the parched earth strewn with garbage and the children playing football in the street with the remnants of a battered ball, their bare feet striking the scorching pavement with calloused ease and the lanes of the highway stretching out in front of me and behind me like black tarred ribbons and the glistening blue windows of the Ritz Carleton in the distance taunting us all like a blueberry-flavored lollipop that is stuck behind glass in a candy store on Fifth Avenue that only rich children can afford.

The shopping malls rise from the superhighways on both sides of the road, displaying objects for conspicuous consumption by consumers who are trapped in the air-conditioned virtual reality of their own prosperity. “The Biggest Mall in Southeast Asia” is its claim to fame and even teh bookstore displays a fine collection of architectural volumes dedicated solely to the glorification of this new artform of consumer culture. The Ritz Carleton looms above the rows of bajai drivers and the bajai drivers smile, their legs draped carelessly across their steering bars, cigarettes hanging from their lips and shining diamond glints in their eyes.

After a 40-hour trek across the world through five different airports, I am back in my old apartment in San Francisco, jet-lagged and already nostalgic for the past six weeks of work and life in Southeast Asia. The last six days were spent in Yogyakarta, Central Java, Indonesia, where I met with old and new VIA volunteers and friends, saw all the necessary tourist attractions and sampled a number of local delicacies and traditions. Some highlights:

Being a tourist with Dave Eng’s family

I spent the first two days in Yogya hitting up the major tourist attractions in and outside of the city with Dave Eng and his parents. Dave was a VIA volunteer in Medan, Sumatera, from 2008 – 9 and it was serendipitous that he and his parents happened to be in Yogya at the same time as me, as Dave speaks Bahasa Indonesia and they planned a tight schedule of all the best tourist traps. We visited the Kraton (sultan’s palace) where the current Sultan of Yogya still lives as well as the Water Palace where former sultans kept their concubines and spent most of their leisure time. This also included an unplanned tour of the back streets of the old city, climbing over walls and wandering half-lost through back alleys where people seemed not at all disturbed that we were basically invading their back yards. I guess they’re used to it? Lots of big smiles. We had “nasi gudeg” or rice with stir-fried jackfruit for lunch, which is apparently a Yogya speciality. Maybe not one of my favorite things ever, but definitely a new experience We also explored the market and some of the street art of Yogya. Yogya is a student town and has a lot of youth culture and a big art scene. Street murals abound and you might be walking down the most unassuming street when you happen upon an amazing piece of urban street art (Picture 3).

On our second day we rented a car and drove out of the city to the north to visit Borobudur and Prambanan temples. The first is a Buddhist temple and the second a Hindu temple (Picture 1), each built roughly around the 8th century AD, before Islam arrived in Indonesia. This is one of the things I found fascinating about Indonesia: not the slabs of rock that formed these impressive structures but the cultural implications of such a mish-mash of influence over the years. The archipelago of Indonesia has hundreds of language and ethnic groups, each with its own traditions, foods, dress, and beliefs. The diversity is immense and even where I was in Java, the economically and culturally dominant island, I could see, hear and taste the different flavors of these diverse peoples and cultures. We stayed at Prambanan temple through the evening and saw a ballet of the Ramayana, a Hindu epic play. The sparkling costumes, precise movements of the dancers and real fire on stage were quite impressive (Picture 2).

Buka Puasa

I arrived in Yogyakarta on the first day of Ramadan, the month-long fast that most Muslims in Indonesia follow each year. The fasting is called “Puasa” and requires followers to abstain from eating or drinking anything from sunrise to sundown each day. This leaves the streets devoid of eateries and of people during the day, particularly in the afternoons. The tourist attractions were notably quiet. Each evening as the sun sets the stalls begin to open again and by the time it is dark they are packed with people breaking the fast (“buka puasa” = opening the fast). I spent one evening at the gates of the biggest university in Yogya enjoying the frenzied madness of students rushing to stalls serving sweetened drinks and little snacks of fried dough and one evening at the home of one of VIA’s partners. This was particularly special, as all the new VIA volunteers and a few old VIA volunteers still in Yogya came together and enjoyed a traditional meal with the director of Dian Desa, a local non-profit organization, and her extended family.

Climbing Merapi

If you look to the north on a clear day in Yogya you can see the shadow of Merapi looming over the city, smoke oozing out the crater at the top with the impending doom of eruption. In fact Merapi did erupt back in 2006 and has only recently been re-opened to tourists and climbers. After hearing about the amazing experience from a few VIA volunteers who had done it the week before, Lisa and I (a friend who was a VIA volunteer in Indonesia beginning at the same time as me and who has remained in Yogya since 2006) decided that we should give it a shot (Picture 4).

Merapi is typically climbed at night to avoid the oppressive heat of the day and to provide the climbers with the best views of the volcano and surrounding area at sunrise. We were picked up on the side of the road at 10:15 pm and drove for an hour and a half to the town of Selo, on the opposite side of the mountain from Yogya, where we were dropped off at a small house and served hot sugary tea before our 1 am departure. Clad in fleeces and headlamps Lisa and I along with a few Frenchman and two Indonesian guides began our trek up a paved road which quickly turned into a steep, narrow, dusty trail up the mountainside. When we stopped for breaks the points of light that were stars and the points of lights that were houses in the distance blended together into the darkness. The mountain loomed ahead of us.

The trail turned from dust (we later found out it was ash) to rocks and our trek turned from hiking into bouldering: all four limbs were necessary for much of the climb, and there was no trail per se. Our guide stopped frequently to reassess the trail and ensure that we traveled the path with the least likelihood of rockslides. Another reason they climb at night, I found: no one in their right mind would climb during the day when you can see what you’re getting into ahead of time!

We reached the top just as the suns bright orange rays were spreading across the clouds on the horizon. The view from the top was breathtaking: haze and clouds covered much of the surrounding countryside so that only the peaks of various mountains and volcanoes in the distance were visible (Picture 5). Smoking vents at the top expelled noxious sulfuric gases and we took a long break to watch the sun creep up on the horizon .

The way down was much more painful than the way up: less adrenaline, more fatigue, and a new route that led us not down the rocks of the previous night but instead skidding down the ashen northern slope of the mountain. I must have slipped and fallen in the ash at least 10 times so that by the time I reached the bottom I was covered in dirt and grime. My legs have been sore for the past two days and I have been couging up volcanic ash and dirt for two nights. On the way down one of the French guys in our little group of hikers commented that I had a lot of determination and stamina to climb the mountain (others had stopped mid-way and one of the women in another group was basically dragged up the last hour by her poor guide). I just smiled at him and said, “Well, I went to a women’s college.” He didn’t get it, but he’s French, so I guess I can forgive him

To be continued…

Indonesia is a vast and diverse country and I only scratched the surface with this brief trip. I really can’t even say I went to Indonesia, but to Java. Everyone I met asked if I had plans to visit Bali and was surprised to hear that I did not. I guess I’ll have to go back sometime to visit Bali, Sumatera, Sulawesi, Papua…so many places contained within one country. And the cool thing is that Bahasa Indonesia is easy enough that I became marginally functional in the language after only 9 days, so I imagine a longer trip would provide ample opportunity to pick up more. Anyone up for a vacation to Bali anytime soon?

Throughout my college career I faced the challenge of having to defend my college against he onslaught of those who believed it to be superfluous.

“Why do you need to go to a girls’ school in this day and age? Isn’t it like reverse discrimination? Women are totally equal in society these days, so why would you want to go to an all girls’ school for college.”

My reactions were as varied as San Francisco weather in April: some days I responded with an angry tirade of expletives about the questioner’s naivete regarding the progress women have made over the past century; other days I offered a polite and measured rebuttal to their claims; and sometimes I just responded to the questions with a smile that told the listener: “I just know something you will never know.”

I knew that Barnard was special from the first time I visited, the blustery February day turning my nostrils to icicles and my cheeks a bright shade of flush from the biting New York wind. I couldn’t tell you why. It was just a feeling.

During my four years at Barnard I was repeatedly asked the question, “Why Barnard” and I devised a few clever answers, my favorite being: “Most colleges prepare you to graduate as educated people. Barnard prepares its graduates to be educated women. They’re different because in our gendered, biased, unequal society, people are male by default. Barnard is different.” This usually shut people up. It sounds smart, right? I do believe it’s true. But that’s not really all of it, because that intellectual retort doesn’t capture the feeling of Barnard that I find difficult to articulate in anything less than an expression or a mood. Words are certainly not enough.

Tonight I found myself in the living room of one of VIA’s Board members among a group of soon-to-be Strong, Beautiful Barnard women. These graduating high school seniors had gathered to hear remarks from the Dean of First-Year students about course offerings, matriculation, orientation, and other opportunities for first-years at Barnard. I threw in my own two-cents now and again, but mainly just stood in a corner and watched the energy dance around the room. Even before they have embarked upon their Barnard paths, each these women evoked a unique sense of passion and spunk that I rarely find in such large doses.

Two weeks ago I attended Barnard’s commencement ceremony with two friends from my Barnard class. The commencement address, delivered by one famous Secretary, encouraged Barnard seniors to take their Barnard experiences out into the world and share them with women who are less privileged. A useful message, and quite politically savvy. The most impressive speech to me, however, was delivered by the president of Barnard Student Government Association, and spoke to the uncertainty of the current career climate and the fact that the graduating class would have to make tough choices. What she advised her classmates to do was maintain connections with the Barnard women around them so as to live their different paths vicariously through shared memories and experiences. What an amazing message! I felt instantly reconnected sitting there, arms linked with my former classmates.

I felt equally reconnected this evening when speaking with this new generation of Barnard women, encouraging them to break rules, to ask important questions and to follow their dreams. Sure, maybe I would have done all of those things without Barnard. I probably would have become strong and self-confident even if I hadn’t gone to Barnard. That’s what coming of age is all about, right? But the point is, I did go to Barnard. And I owe Barnard and the people who surrounded me in class, on campus and in New York City for four years more than a small amount of credit for what I am, and am becoming in the world.

Maybe I haven’t articulated it any better here on this blog than I have in past attempts. *Sigh*

But really, the old cliche that “a picture is worth a thousand words” holds true for this example. I don’t have a digital copy of my high school senior year picture to post here, but I wish I did as a comparison. Wait! I was just tagged in this photo on facebook: a picture from my high school graduation. See the person’s back turned with curly hair? The skinny one? Yeah, that’s me!

Another thing that someone talked about at Barnard’s commencement was that Barnard women are not afraid to be fully present, to be loud, to go against the crowd, and to take up space. If you compare that senior year picture to a picture of me now, almost ten years later–damn, I take up a lot more space. And that’s why Barnard exists. Sure, I probably could have learned to take up space somewhere else. But I didn’t. I learned it at Barnard.

California. Ha. Just kidding.

So I wrote a post about a week ago. Then I didn’t publish it. This is why I could probably never make a living with my writing if I tried. I wanted to write because of an email my mom sent me telling me she missed my writing. I wrote a few paragraphs and they came out all wrong. Or maybe all write (pun intended, I think), but in any case they were unpublishable. Perhaps this post will turn out the same way…

So I’ve been thinking about moving. Not to a new city. Just to a new place within the city. This neighborhood is too quiet, too safe and too predictable for a white girl from St. Louis. It’s also pretty far from where I work, considering I ride my bike downtown (and back up) every day, rain or shine, wind or fog, early morning or late evening after a long day’s work.

But tonight, on my way home, I was thinking about why I’m thankful for this ride. Maybe it was the wind biting my cheeks, the sun setting in front of me or John Mayer’s rendition of “free fallin’” strumming in my right ear (don’t worry mom, only in my right ear. My left ear is for traffic). These rides, particularly the rides that take longer because my legs don’t want to pedal up that hill, or the wind is forcing me to pedal hard downhill into the wind, are a good time to reflect on my day, my week, my life thus far, and the state of the world.

Tonight I had a heated debate with my former boss about the global “financial crisis,” the sustainability of the world, and the future of humanity. Yeah, I know. I miss working with this guy. But anyway, at some point he decided to sum up our entire discussion thus far by saying “basically it comes down to the fact that humans are first and foremost out for their own selfish interest, or the interest of their own families. People talk about communal uprising and collective revolution, but basically those people are all doing it for their own selfish reasons.” I’m probably misquoting him, but you get the point.

So ok, on my way home I was trying to reconcile this statement, which I consider to be true in so many ways, with the altruism, the self-sacrifice, the spirit of community that I see every day (more on that later). And what I started thinking about on the way home was that there are people who don’t only think of their own self-interest. But why? Why do they think of others? Why do we sometimes stop to give that guy a dollar on the street? Maybe that’s a bad example. Why do we hold the elevator? Why do we perform the random acts of kindness that help others and have absolutely nothing to do with our self-interest? We’re acting not in the interest of ourselves or our families, but in the interest of the human species. Some more than others. But ok, there is something that allows people to do this. It’s simple. They can. They have the privilege of having their own basic needs taken care of. They have the resources. They have the time. They have the money. They have the mental capacity, because their self-interest is already taken care of. Part of the problem (yes, it’s all about propaganda) is that some people’s standards for what is necessary to fulfill their own self-interest have risen to really unnecessary standards. The internet is necessary to fulfill my own self-interest (ha, I write on my blog), really? Really? Really? No, not really. But because my basic needs are met: I have food, I have shelter, I have work that engages my mind and my body on a regular basis (work defined very loosely), I have friends. I have family, therefore I have emotional content. My needs are filled. I am privileged enough to think beyond my own self-interest. Now. What if, what IF everyone’s basic needs were met so that we all could think beyond our own self-interest? Would we? It would be an interesting social experiment (I’m sure social scientists would laugh at this post, as the research has probably been replicated countless times throughout the course of social science history.) It might work on a small scale. But on a global scale? What would it take to get there? A revolution, yes. But what kind? Revolution is kind of outdated, in my opinion. What does revolution look like in the real-time, joomla!?, facebook era??

Segue.

This is really what I’ve been thinking about lately (the above ties in somehow). I hope that I’ve lost some readers by now. Because this is probably one of those things that I will regret publishing in the morning.

So I have found three new places to spend my time, and I have been spending most of my time over the last month or so in these places, and my time not physically in those places at least mentally in those places. I will start with the most predictable and finish with the most outlandish and earth-shattering.

About a month ago I went to a happy hour event for a non-profit focusing on Chinese microcredit projects called Wokai. For $10 we got an interesting introduction to the organization at a swankey bar in the financial district (I felt like I was back in Manhattan, sigh), plus a free one-month membership at Crunch gym downtown. My colleague and I have been going several times a week for a few weeks now. I forgot how much I like lifting weights, pumping iron, if you will. Especially with my broken foot issue that has kept me fairly imobile (for me) since October, it has been wonderful to exert myself and feel the day-by-day increase in physical strength that comes with pumping iron. Number one.

I have been looking for an independent music venue in San Francisco since I got here. I have been to several clubs, cafes, pubs, etc. and had yet to find a place where I felt I was supporting independent artists with real talent and potential. I found The Red Poppy Art House online. I read about several concerts, and the first even I attended was a lecture series entitled “MLK and Jazz.” We talked about history, about music, about philosophy and the human condition. During one of the lecture sessions I spoke with the artistic director of the Red Poppy who told me about their musical performances on Friday and Saturday nights. I already knew of the performances, but her endorsement encouraged me to make plans to come back on a Saturday evening. I went alone the first time. The next week I took my roommate and saw an amazing female singer-songwriter named Meklit Hadero. Amazing. Captivating. Her voice was mesmerizing. Hypnotic.

The atmosphere in the Red Poppy is unlike anything I’ve found elsewhere in SF. The crowd has been amazingly diverse, regardless of the type of event I attend. And they are excited about the music, and the art, and the space, and each other. It’s a community, a family, focused on creative and expression and exchange. So my social and cultural self has been engaged. Number two.

Ok. Those were easy.

A few weeks ago I joined a group of Japanese university students who were studying homelessness and poverty in the US for their spring break. On Saturday we went on a “street retreat” with an organization called Faithful Fools. We walked around the Tenderloin in downtown San Francisco and spoke with homeless people. That deserves its own post, but anyway…On Sunday I joined them for their tour of the city.

We began with a service at Glide Memorial United Methodist Church. The celebration, as Glide calls it, included singing, hand-holding, hugging, praying, contemplation and rejuvenation. I was surprised at how much it moved me. There were a few moments during the songs when I almost grabbed for the tissues being distributed by the ushers.  No, I’m not kidding. I don’t know what it was that brought such emotion in me, but there was something that echoed in my chest and every fiber of my body the way that a perfectly harmonized chord rings in your ears.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it all day. All week. And the next Saturday evening, I thought to myself, “Maybe I’ll go to Glide tomorrow morning. Just to see what’s up. Just for the singing. That’s it.”

I have been going for a month now. I can not yet effectively describe what it does for me. A close friend asked me to articulate it. I’m not very good at it. I can not say with honesty that I have “found Jesus.” What I can say is that I have found a community of individuals who are focused on social justice, compassion and building mutual understnading among diverse groups and individuals. It happens to be a church. It’s crazy. It’s absolutely crazy. I have to slap myself every Sunday I stand in front of those pews and clap in time with the spirituals. I laugh at myself. I laugh more. There’s something going on with me spiritually that I can’t really articulate yet. Number three.

Although my life is in most respects removed from the current financial crisis thus far (I still have a job, I don’t have a mortgage, I am not relying on my stock dividends to pay for my retirement in the next few years) I have taking more of an interest in the issue as friends, family, colleagues, and perfect strangers discuss their concerns on the subject and ask my opinion.

At first I wasn’t really sure. I am hesitant to throw my hat into any circle before I know exactly what it is the circle entails in terms of values. I am still uncertain and still lack all of the necessary macroeconomic expertise to understand the problem intellectually, but this is America after all, and even those with no knowledge whatsoever of a given subject are entitled to their opinions.

So here’s mine (or the pieces I’ve cobbled together thus far). My initial ideas about this whole mess stem from my reaction to a New York Times article I read yesterday. (click here to see what I’m talking about). The scene opens in Japan and the story unfolds of families who have weathered difficult economic times and adjusted accordingly. From Mrs. Takigasaki and her cottage soup solution to the high price of fresh vegetables to college student Risa Masaki who just wants “a humble life” and doesn’t indulge in expensive cosmetics or fashion, Japanese families, according to the story, have performed what Mr. Obama has been asking of all Americans since before his innauguration: Sacrifice. They don’t spend beyond their means. They save what they earn and prepare for harder times. Novel concept.

The attitude of the NYT article struck me and prompted me to write this reaction. The article speaks of a rising fear of deflation in the US: a downward spiral of price and wage driven deeper into the ground by people’s inability or unwillingness to spend money. I agree that we don’t want to fall too deeply into such a spiral. However, what disappointed me about the NYT article and about most of this conversation in general is people’s inability to think outside of the current economic system for solutions to the problem.

The tone of the article conveys the opinion that it would be almost morally wrong to find ourselves in a situation here similar to that in Japan. People should be spending. Our economy is based on growth, constant growth, and I feel that perhaps what this economic crisis has taught me is that maybe that economic model is just not working. (OK, macroeconomists and communist/socialist haters, have at me, this is your signal). I don’t exactly know what the new economic model would look like. I’m not an economist and my two economics classes in college certainly don’t qualify me to draft any sort of macroeconomic policy for the world. I guess all I’m saying is that maybe the solution could be found if we are willing to sacrifice a little more. Sacrifice not only in the sense of personal sacrifices that many Americans and others around the world have been forced to make because of hard times. But sacrifice in the sense of letting go a little of the principle that constant economic growth and consumption is the most practical model for our economy in the 21st century.

That’s my 2,000 VND (now worth about 12 cents US.)

Applications came in today. I was told application deadline day was crazy. It was going to be a flood, a deluge, a torrent of applications flowing into “applications@viaprograms.org.” Indeed the programs overall did well, many more applications than last year. Can we blame this on the declining economy? The increased visibility of VIA due to new marketing tactics? A collective answer to Barack Obama’s call to service and sacrifice? Perhaps.

But somehow, Vietnam was forgotten in this call. I didn’t even receive enough applications to fill the number of spots I anticipate having open in 2009-10. I pray that all of my current volunteers choose to stay on with VIA as opposed to coming back to the wretched job market that is the United States (not just because of number but because they are awesome!) But I know many of them are looking to move on to new experiences and this is perfectly understandable: they have served their 1-2 years and it’s time for a new batch of Americans ready for a cultural experience that will be jarring beyond their wildest imagination.

I am trying not to let this mild disappointment spiral into disillusionment and despair. I tend to feel things like this quite personally, especially given the amount of time, effort, blood, sweat and tears (ok, not much blood and no tears) I put into the recruitment process this past fall. I am trying to keep in mind what this is all for, but honestly, it is hard when one day someone tells me that I have to figure out a way to cut my program budget and the next day a collective someone tells me “people aren’t really interested in what you have to offer.” Not even to mention that “what I have to offer,” the opportunity to a deeply, potentially life-changing cultural experience, may not be something that many people want.

I’ve been reading The Fountainhead again. I tend to read The Fountainhead once a year, or at least every other year, just to keep me grounded. This is not to say that I subscribe to Ayn Rand’s philosophy. (Let’s face it, I work in non-profit, and not just any non-profit but a non-profit focused on providing other people with the opportunity to serve. It is almost the antithesis of her philosophy in many ways…) But I find value in her philosophy. I find Howard Roark fascinating because I think in many ways I could never be him. I admire him and I loathe him (how cliché?) I want to be him and I want people like him to disappear from this earth because I cannot be him. But why not? Days like today, when I feel crushed by the fact that my efforts to change other people’s minds and convince them that what I think is important is important, have all been in vain…I wonder. I just wonder, “What do I really want to be doing with my life?”

An old friend asked me this question back in November, when I was thinking about giving thanks, appreciating life and family, friends and connections, and contemplating my past, my present, my future. We were in his new apartment, boxes strewn about the floor, dust on the doorstep and walls an almost glowing white in the soft bulb lighting. I was sitting on the wooden doorstep that led out to his balcony overlooking 8th Avenue in New York and he was standing in front of me in a ragged white t-shirt and athletic shorts.

“If you didn’t have to worry about making money, and you had no ambition, what would you do?”

It took me less than two seconds to look up at him from my seat on the doorstep and say, “I would write.”

Last night my roommate asked me the same question. We were sitting in our living room after a quick dinner, at opposite ends of our inherited wooden table, each of us with our feet up on the chairs on either side. A relaxed evening after yet another long and somewhat frustrating and discouraging day at work. She was talking about her reasons for pursuing nursing as a career.

“I don’t understand people who say you’ll get bored if you don’t have full-time work,” she began, “I would find so many things to do with my time. I would love it. I’d garden. No, I’d farm. I’d cook. I’d read. I’d go on long bike rides. I’d spend more time with my friends.”

And then the question, “What would you do if you didn’t have to work?”

And the answer, “I would write.”

I know my writing may not be that good, but that may also just be self-doubt.

But I began this post thinking the end would result in asking my volunteers for support: “Please VIA volunteers, tell me that what we are doing is not in vain! Please tell me that what we are doing is meaningful and important! Please tell me that I am not living for something that is outside of myself!”

And somehow I ended in the recognition, or maybe the re-recognition (a word?) that what I really should be spending my time on is something not at all dependent on others, but an expression of my own emotions and intellect portrayed as zeroes and ones in cyberspace and squiggles and lines on paper.

I have ridden a lot of public transportation in my life. Caltrain is one of the cleanest most efficient, most orderly public transportation systems I have seen in the United States. Trains run on schedule. There are always enough seats. You can take your bike on Caltrain and there is a designated car for bikes with orderly racks for bikers to line up according to where they are disembarking. You can drink on Caltrain.

But the best thing about Caltrain is the commuters.

Californians are friendly. I may express frustration at the superficiality of Californians, but I have to give them points for initial friendliness. This goes not only for native Californians but transplants as well. Every time I am on Caltrain someone is making a new friend. I wonder how many couples have met on the Caltrain. It seems that Caltrain should start a matchmaking service. But I digress…

I don’t ride the Caltrain very often but occasionally my work brings me to our closet of an office on Stanford’s campus and I find myself among the community of regular and irregular commuters. Today was just such an occasion: recruiting events at Stanford all day and a dinner date with an old friend from college put me on the Caltrain platform at Palo Alto at 9:01 pm, hoisting my bicycle over my shoulder and heaving myself into the bike car at the front of the train.

After strapping in my bicycle I moved to the last seat in the car and hunched myself down next to the window to stare out into the expansive California suburbia. Before I arrived the entertainment had already begun. Two seats away from me was a group of four Santa Clara University students, their eyelashes heavy with mascara and their cleavage spilling out of their skin-tight tank tops. The young women were rolling their eyes and mocking a group of teenage boys, no older than 15, sitting on the second tier of seats across from them. The hormones were apparently too much for these young gentlemen and they showed immense control in their ability to keep their pants on.

Across from the young women, out of sight of the taunting teenagers sat a middle-aged white woman with thick blue eye shadow and drooping leathery cheek skin giving unsolicited advice and commentary to the young women about when she was a young woman (born and raised in San Francisco). At Menlo Park a middle-aged black man with graying hair took the seat across from the middle-aged white woman and the fun really began. I don’t know how it came up, but somehow within the first 40 seconds of the conversation I heard the woman’s voice rise above the flirtatious taunting of the teenage boys with the claim, “George Bush is a disgrace to humanity. A disgrace. He disgusts me. He should be wiped clean away from this earth.”

The black man tried to lend a voice of reason to the woman’s vehement hatred, saying that the American people were in fact responsible for electing him, and we all had to take responsibility for the way our country has deteriorated over the past eight years, and let’s see what happens with this new president coming in who will listen to everyone. The debate continued and soon the young women from Santa Clara University joined the discussion with their nasal, breathy, valley-girl voices, ignoring for the time being the somewhat annoying but obviously flattering attentions of the 15 year old boys.

At Redwood City a middle-aged heavyset white man with gansta rap blasting from his headphones joined the party and sat one seat ahead, between me and the gaggle of giggling college students. I shrunk into my seat and stared out the window with a slight smile on my face at the fascinating and comical scene unfolding before my eyes and ears.

The middle-aged folks and the college-aged women continued speaking about politics, and race, and the state of humanity, with the black man making statements like:

“Obama, he’s different and we don’t know what will happen with his presidency, but you know what, he’s changing the game.”

And the middle-aged white woman: “Bush is a dictator.”

And one of the black man: “You know, we may be different colors on the outside, but we all bleed red. You know, in the end we’re all just human.”

And one of the young women: “Yeah, I mean, everyone in South Africa is white.”

And the middle-aged white woman: “I was born and raised in San Francisco. Born and bred.”

And another young woman: “We don’t want to just care about ourselves anymore.”

And the gangsta rap in the background and the train pulling to a stop at Hayward Park and the teenagers banging on the glass of the young women’s window and making obscene gestures as the scurried away to their mothers and the train moved out of the station and the black man asked:

“Where are you girls from?”

Southern California. Connecticut.

The young woman said, “You Californians don’t know what cold is!”

And the middle-aged woman: “But when you’re from California born and bred, you have to understand…”

Texas.

“What part of texas?”

And the middle-aged woman: “George Bush is from Texas. Did you ever meet George Bush? He should be wiped clean from the earth. If I met him I’d kill him myself. They only kill the good ones.”

San Antonio.

And the rap music paused for the middle-aged white man to lean forward around the seat in front of him and say “San Antonio? I have a good friend who just moved there. He wants me and my wife and our six-year old daughter to move there too. His daughter and my daughter are best friends.”

The talk shifted to people. California people, southern people, Texans, Northern California versus Southern, Portland, and the black man noted:

“This is Northern California right here. The commuters, we’re a little community right here,” and he chuckled and slapped his palm against his right knee.

And the middle-aged white woman: “I was born and raised in San Francisco. Lived here my whole life.”

The talk continued about San Antonio with the young women telling about the school system, the parks, it’s a great place to raise kids and people there are really friendly, just genuinely friendly. “Southern Hospitality,” they said. The middle-aged white man took mental notes and almost missed his stop with the thrilling dialogue.

“So what are you ladies going up to the city for?” A concert. Their friend is having a concert, and yes, they are skipping class tomorrow to attend, and can they catch a cab from the 22nd Street station, and the black man said: “I don’t know. You know, I never go to the 22nd Street station because of all those stairs. You ever climbed those stairs? No? Well, I have a bike and I just don’t like climbing all those stairs!” He chuckled and slapped his hand against his right knee.

The young women put their four airhead-brains together to think of how to get a cab at the 22nd Street station and were rescued by an unseen voice from the second tier, “The number for Yellow Cab is 333-3333.” And they asked the area code for San Francisco and the black man told them “415” so they called a taxi to pick them up at the 22nd Street station.

At Bayshore the black man prepared to leave and bid farewell to his newfound friends and they said they enjoyed speaking with him and smiled and parted ways. The next stop was 22nd Street and the middle-aged white woman noted, “I never get off at 22nd Street. Too dark. That neighborhood is dangerous. I would never get off there and I was born and raised in San Francisco.” The young students mentioned the taxi and that they felt confident they could make it with a group of four.

When we arrived at the station they said goodbye and it was me and the woman who was born and raised in San Francisco sitting catty-corner to each other alone in the bike car of the northbound 9:01 Caltrain to 4th and King. She smiled at me and I smiled back and I yawned and she yawned and we smiled again and then I turned away and looked out the window at the approaching lights of the final station, the last stop.

We pulled in at 9:56 PM and I hitched my bike up onto my shoulder one more time and carefully maneuvered myself down the metal stairs with controlled leg muscles and lowered the bike to the ground, wheeled it out to the sidewalk and pushed away from the curb to feel the cold San Francisco night rush into my nostrils and suck the tears out of my eyes blinding me for a moment in the relative blackness of the deserted street beyond the Caltrain Station.

Tonight I smiled and remembered fondly my fifth grade teacher Linda Churchill while I listened to the third verse of “Lift Every Voice and Sing,” spoken by Reverend Dr. Joseph Lowery on the occasion of America’s first ever black president being sworn into office.  I hummed along the tune while the reverend recited the familiar words that I was asked to memorize and perform as an eleven year old. Tonight I will go to sleep with these words ringing in my ears:

“Lift every voice and sing, till earth and heaven ring,
Ring with the harmonies of liberty;
Let our rejoicing rise, high as the listening skies,
Let it resound loud as the rolling sea.
Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us,
Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us;
Facing the rising sun of our new day begun,
Let us march on till victory is won.

Stony the road we trod, bitter the chastening rod,
Felt in the days when hope unborn had died;
Yet with a steady beat, have not our weary feet,
Come to the place for which our fathers sighed?
We have come over a way that with tears has been watered,
We have come, treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered;
Out from the gloomy past, till now we stand at last
Where the white gleam of our bright star is cast.

God of our weary years, God of our silent tears,
Thou who hast brought us thus far on the way;
Thou who hast by thy might, led us into the light,
Keep us forever in the path, we pray.
Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met thee.
Lest our hearts, drunk with the wine of the world, we forget thee.
Shadowed beneath thy hand, may we forever stand,
True to our God, true to our native land.

For the past week I have been distracted. On Thursday and Friday I attended the US-Vietnam Conference on Higher Education Partnerships in Vietnam. The conference, jointly sponsored by the US Embassy and the Vietnamese Ministry of Education and Training, was held at the five-star Sheraton Hotel in the heart of Saigon.  Over 400 representatives from universities, non-profits and businesses in the US, Vietnam, and other countries enjoyed two days of exchanging business cards, nibbling hors d’ouvres, and debating how to best fix the education system of Vietnam. I had the privilege of meeting the US Ambassador to Vietnam, the founder of a revolutionary private university set to launch next year, and the heads of several multi-million dollar corporations doing business in Vietnam.

While listening to the intricacies of Vietnamese monetary policy with respect to donations from foreign individuals and corporations, my eyes fell to the desk and instead of the half-scribbled-upon notepad in front of me I saw only the pale green tips of rice stalks glistening in the early morning sunlight. Beyond the field of spring rice plants a stretch of rounded mountains cast a dark shadow over the bustle of early morning activity in the one-road town.

Five days ago I spent the evening sitting in a folding chair on a dusty island in the middle of a small pond overlooking the main road in town. The full moon rose slowly over the mountains and lit the faces of my new friends smiling and teasing each other as we sipped warm coffee laden with sweetened condensed milk.
Five days ago I spent the day speaking with a woman who makes decorative coasters, bowls, and plates out of bamboo cut into thin strips and curled into tight coils before being sanded, stained, and dried in the sun. She smiled to reveal two missing teeth on the right side of her mouth as she told me about her family and how the two dollars per day she makes from the handicraft workshop gives her the extra money she needs to ensure that her children stay in school and her livestock are adequately cared for. On the way back to the project office I spoke with one of my new friends about his reasons for choosing to work for a small community development organization in the middle of nowhere, and his answer articulated the feeling I have not been able to shake from my mind and my soul.

Tonight I arrived in Bangkok: tired, hungry and overwhelmed by the immense disparity of what I have seen this week. As the cab sped down the superhighway between Bangkok’s International Airport and the city center, the image of pale green rice stalks etched in my brain bled into the dark shadows of forty-story buildings. I thought of the one-lane half-paved road from Lac Tanh town to Vietnam’s own “superhighway.”

Driving under an overpass I noticed a stand of ramshackle shanties with corrugated iron roofs and tarps for walls. An old man with no shoes limped along the side of the highway in the darkness. I turned my head 45 degrees and saw a skyscraper with rows of blue-tinted oval windows lining the highest stories and wondered briefly what Vietnam is doing to itself. Doi moi. The WTO. KFC. Saigon South.

For a brief moment I thought of my new friends at the handicraft factory and office in Lac Tanh town and wanted to flee back to the countryside with a warning of the impending difficulty that economic development will undoubtedly bring to the poorest regions of Vietnam. A moment later I had to laugh at myself for thinking that 1) I could actually shelter an entire community from the massive hands of globalization and 2) It was my place to do so.

What would my new friends in Lac Tanh think of these paved six-lane overpasses and semi-truck-sized billboard advertisements?

For a moment my mind flashed into the future and imagined that I was an old woman returning to Vietnam for a workshop, conference, or something of the like, my taxi speeding down a superhighway bound for Ho Chi Minh City. Newly built skyscrapers tower on the horizon and an old hunched-over woman with betel nut juice seeping from the corner of her mouth limps barefoot toward her corrugated-iron house under an overpass. The lights of the city cast a warm orange glow into the sky and mix with the vision of pale-green rice stalks still etched in my mind.