2013 Boston Marathon

Did you hear about the Boston Marathon this year? I am sure you have, it is plastered all over the news: 2 bombs went off at the finish around 4:09, killing at least 3 people and wounding many, many more. When I first read the news I sank. Really, honestly, I sank into myself with a feeling of confusion and mounting dread. It was painful to read. Over the past few years I have read a lot of disheartening news stories happening in the United States, and each of them were tragic in their own way, but none of them hit me with a wall of emotion like this one has.

First of all I would like to say that nothing is KNOWN about the bombs yet. Words such as terrorism are leaking out, which, what else could it be? But the word 'terrorism' in the United States is loaded with ethnic and religious assumptions which renders the word less than helpful in times like this. Already newspapers and websites are posting content that points to "a dark-skinned man with an accent," when the police have released nothing regarding who might have placed the bombs or why. I recommend to save your hate and save your judgement until more information is acquired. Actually, even then I recommend saving your hate and judgement, forever, and instead really just seeking understanding and healing. 

As a marathon runner, I am shocked at this. Marathons, to me, are the safest place on earth. Runners spend months training for a marathon. During that training period, unless they are a very elite athlete, they are mostly on their own. Running 30-40 km all alone requires some creativity and resilience. For me tactics have included mapping out routes where I was safe from dogs, from predatory men, from weather, from vehicles who don't respect my sport. It includes having to carry fuel and always knowing where the next stop for water might be. It is an exhaustive practice, not just because of the physical activity required, but because it is a somewhat dangerous sport that is embarked on alone. If you fall, from exhaustion or a tree root, chances are there will be no one around to help you up. If you get out too far and can't make the run home, you have to walk it. But then, after all of the training, there is race day and it is an amazing reward. On race day you are babied. You are taken complete care of. Regular food and water supply, wet sponges, a warm wrap and a massage waiting for you at the end. For once, in many many months, you can just run. And the finish line at the end of a marathon is not 42.2km away from the beginning. It is hundreds of kilometers. It is hundreds of hours, buckets of sweat, days of questioning yourself. To have the sacredness of that race, the safety and support of a marathon taken away at the finish of all places, is unbelievable to me. 

Running is such a peaceful sport, taken on alone it harms no one except yourself. Marathon running is more than that though. It is a monument to the success and endurance of humanity. I cannot imagine who or why anyone would even consider spoiling such a beautiful thing. 

I did not finish my last marathon. My training was poor, and I was sick for two weeks before the marathon. The plane ride to France was the final straw and I was coughing and unable to sleep for two days before the marathon. I made it on schedule to kilometer 30, but, being unable to speak French and let the race coordinators know that we had every intention of finishing around 540, we were scooped up in the trailing van. Not making it to the finish line is tragic, and I felt an immense sense of guilt. However, the experience of the race was still there, and still a positive one because of the way that others supported and cared for me on that race day, by playing music and offering food, and eventually a ride to the end. I felt like I wasn't alone in a solitary event. I cannot imagine that finish being taken away by anyone. It is such a shameful, terrible action. 

Debating Locks

Once upon a time I had dreadlocks. The story of my locks went something like this: On a motorcycle trip across the Western states I stopped in the middle of the rockies to see a lover. He happened to be shaving a mohawk into his girlfriend's son's head, and I had just had a disappointing experience based on traditional concepts of beauty at a photo shoot, so I asked him to do mine as well. I spent that summer with a mohawk that changed colors, but hovered between blue and pink most of the time. At the end of the summer I went to Burning Man and ended up bringing a new friend home with me. One night, in our basement apartment on haight street, I asked her to dread my hair. We bought a jar of bedhead wax (Which I STILL have quite a bit of), a metal comb, and a package of small rubber bands. She spent hours backcombing my hair into poofy pink dreads, and at the end I looked like a very disappointed side-show-bob. I then spent the next week freaking out about how hideous my dreads were, and applying wax liberally. Eventually the dreads started to calm down, and to even lock up a bit. I went surfing and snorkeling in the pacific ocean and the salt did wonders for the locks. Then, one day at summer camp my campers got bored and decided that they were going to decorate my hair. They put all sorts of ribbons and string in the dreads, lengthening them down my back. I absolutely loved the look that they created and I started regularly adding bits of different colored yarn to my hair:
For several years I kept the mohawk with dreads going. Sometimes I added yarn. Sometimes I dyed the dreads strange colors. It was quite easy and satisfying to bleach out a dread and add blue, or green, and for the first time in my life I felt like I had control over how my hair looked, and I thought that it looked rather good.

Regarding the question of spirituality and dreads or fashion and dreads I really could not have cared less. Of course dreads only became an option because of the community that I was part of. Within the burning man community dreads were not just an acceptable style, they were often times desirable. I was more or less oblivious though, and so my dreads were more for me than for anyone else. I was also minimally aware of the spirituality connected with dreadlocks:

Now, I was not a rasta, and I am not even sure what a rasta is. I did not smoke marijuana, and I did not feel like my dreadlocks somehow connected me to the earth in some powerful, mystical way. I also did not feel like "god," wanted me to wear dreadlocks, and I did not care about spiritual leaders wearing locks any more than I cared about the fashion of it.

Eventually I left the bay area, where shaved heads were somewhat sexy, and moved to Arizona where I lacked a roommate to help me shave, and I started applying for more grown up jobs. I started to grow out the hair beneath my dreads to have less of a drastic appearance. When I got my acceptance into peace corps it was stated, rather murkily, that I should attempt to have a more conservative style. Since the tattoos were not going anywhere I decided to compromise by combing out my remaining dreads. Five years later they had still not locked completely, and they combed out. Not easily, but I was able to save most of my hair and did not loose any length.

I loved my dreads, but I did not think that I would do them again. They are a lot of work, and a lot of commitment. However, recently the desire to dread up has been returning and I thought that I should at least look into it. Now the idea of natural dreading (or locks by neglect) is a lot more appealing to me than it was back then. When I first wanted dreadlocks it was an immediate decision and I wanted immediate gratification. After reading some material on the internet today ( http://www.naturaldreads.com/ ) I am much more drawn to the spiritual discipline required to grow natural dreads. I am figuring that with my history and the current length of my hair it will take over three years for me to achieve actual dreads. It is a huge commitment, but undertaking it as a spiritual path rather than just a fashion journey, makes that time commitment much more appealing.

Here are some of the ideas that I gleaned, and hope to consider with the growth of my new dreads:

1. Growing natural locks is a practice of non-violence. I know, it might sound ridiculous that we can even be violent to our hair, but I think it makes sense. I am very violent to myself in the name of beauty: I dye my hair, cut my hair, force my breasts into uncomfortable bras, wear jeans that are a tad too tight, wear high heels, pierce myself and tattoo myself. All of these are ways that I express my will or my desire and attempt to assert control. Some of these habits are violences that I am aware of, like the tats and piercing, and some of them are so culturally ingrained that I do not even recognize them as forms of violence (Bleaching hair). By allowing my hair to grow the way it wants to, at the pace it wants to, and not cutting it or combing it, I am practicing an extreme reminder to remain aware of these violences in the name of beauty. It reminds me to be kind to myself, and to others, and to put love into the world instead of adding to the heap of power struggle and violence. 
2. Growing locks is a practice in patience and commitment. I tend to get enthusiastic about an idea, and then to loose interest suddenly. This can most often be seen in my hair, because as soon as I get the itch for a change it is usually my cut or color that changes, and then eventually other areas of my life. Yes, I can suddenly back out of the dreads, and I am leaving that option open, but I know that once they get going it will take a long time to get back to that point, and so I feel like it will raise my awareness in the area of patience and commitment. 
3. I am looking for a new spirituality that is more connected to the earth, and to my body. Some form of shamanism. Because hair holds a person's history, including the ingestion of substances and being around toxins, I feel like dreads are a great reminder of that earthly connection, and a motivation to remain more pure. 

So... will I do it? Not sure still. But, in case I do, here is me on dreads #2, the nonviolent way, day 1: 

Romancing Venice

I went to Venice, once.

I am not really the type to read books that are tied to a time and place. The books that I read, and the stories that I write, could happen anywhere. They involve bodiless entities floating in an ether, spiraling inwards. They are books that discover the self, and ideals. They rarely muck themselves up with time and space. If setting is required it is generally a minor feature, gratuitous, less than a backdrop. However, I had a friend who read me a book in which one of the many story lines was set in Venice. The book was gorgeous. The author said so much by saying very little. She eluded. She drew on history and stereotypes. Her writing drew me into Napoleonic France, the Russian front, and ultimately a love story behind closed doors along the water-ways in Venice. The book, in case you have not already guessed it, was The Passion, which is not really about any of those moments or places at all, but it does an excellent job of drawing the stories out of these places, and putting a new glaze over them. It is just brilliant writing. It was so brilliant that among my "places I really need to go while in Europe" list, Venice was on the top, followed with Hemingway inspired Spain and a large empty space beneath. When I had the option of tacking Venice onto my marathon trip to Rome I did not hesitate. I went to Venice.

Venice was everything that I had hoped for, but then my hopes had not been concrete and were, therefore, easily met. My partner and I strolled lazily along the streets, letting monuments reach out to meet us, if they so wished. We were more concerned with relaxation and good food than site-seeing. Our ultimate experience in Venice was sitting by the water, eating bread and cheese from a deli and drinking tap-wine from an old water bottle. We repeated the situation several times, culminating in a final morning of sparkling wine and an old woman grumbling at us for plopping down in the middle of a set of steps rather than finding a proper piazza to infest. It was a glorious holiday, and as I look back I am still grateful that the city was able to live up to that bubble of romance that long days listening to my lover's voice drone out Winterson had created for me. I am grateful that although the city dipped into stereotypes I was able to ignore them and to bathe in that romance.

The romance and the stereotype of a place are two very different things. The romance of Venice involves the idea of love, adventure, risk and trust. It is courtship and sacrifice. It is dedication to your cultural past and current ideals. It is political engagement, slyness, and creativity. It is darkness, mystery, shadows and an ever changing world. In romance you meet a person on the streets and they show you a secret passage, inviting you into their existence. Or, in romance you don't meet anyone. You end up on a deserted dead-end path and wonder, briefly, where you go from there before caving to consult the map. At least that is my romance of Venice. My stereotype of Venice involves a typical stereotype of Italian males: arrogant, forward, constantly pressing for more, loud, and trustworthy only as long as you remain sober, with an added threat of pickpockets, irritation at foreigners, and touristic prices at every cafe in town.

I realize that neither my romance nor stereotype is founded in much. A book or two, a movie or series, and a few interactions is not really much to make a judgement on, which is why I am trying to refrain from judging and allow space for myself to be wrong. I want to be surprised, both in the thought that more than romance is possible and that stereotypes will not actually be met. At the same time I am curious as to where I constructed these two, slightly oppositional views, from the same material, and how I am able to keep them separate in my schema. What I have decided is that romance and stereotypes come from two different emotional places. Romance comes from hope and excitement. It comes from desire and is developed only through medium that allows a person a safe space to explore their desires and dreams, such as a one-way media experience including books and films. Stereotypes, on the other hand, come from a place of fear. They are formed through personal insecurities and awareness of weaknesses and are developed through bi-directional interactions that contain risk of threat or actual threat. So even though I have built my stereotypes and romance from one experience I am able to keep them separate because romance is everything that I deem good about a situation, and the stereotypes come from the threats and bad things. I am threatened by an aggressive male that might take advantage of me  physically or emotionally, and so he becomes a stereotype that I can protect myself against. However, I romance the same actions when portrayed by a male that might love and protect me, or offer safe, consensual adventures. That man becomes romanced.

An example: Night time on Saint Mark's Square. My friend and I arrived after nightfall, hoping to enjoy a bottle of wine and a snack. Two men approached us, trying to get our names and obviously trying to engage us for the evening in some form. According to my fearful, stereotypical telling of the story these were aggressive men and their intention was to either swindle us as tourists or to ply us with alcohol until we had sex with them, or something along those lines. According to my romantic telling this attention was very flattering and those men might have been the person that we were supposed to be with. My romantic telling saw much more, positive potentials from the same interaction. Romance allows you to take risks that stereotypes warn against. However, that night the stereotypical viewpoint was much stronger and we evaded the boys to continue on our own. My question then is WHY? What makes the stereotype triumph over romance?

Perhaps it is a cultural thing, or a sexist thing. Women live in constant fear. It isn't a gripping fear, or a disabling fear. Maybe to call it fear is wrong. Women live in an awareness. Women live in a land of possibility. Women have to be more aware of possibilities than men do, which makes us constantly evaluate situations, often basing our judgements and risks on our experience of romance or stereotypes. The higher the perceived risk in a situation, the more likely a woman defaults to he stereotypical view. If a situation is low-risk by being in an environment that she knows or with people that were introduced through someone that she trusts, then the woman is much more likely to default to her romantic view. This leads to women  romanticising assholes just because a good friend introduced them to us, or we met them at a burner event, and stereotyping potentially nice guys as creepers because they didn't have the right introduction.

I am not sure where I am going with these thoughts. I have only been to Venice once, after all. It isn't much to base anything on.

Of Dogs and Men

By the time that I had reached the park I wanted to relax and exhale. The streets in my neighborhood were busy, and the sidewalks narrow (as always). Women refused to give even an inch to the foreign girl running headlong towards them and I was forced off the curb, into traffic, and occasionally had to slow to a walk. It was not a glorious first kilometer and I longed for the soft mud of the wooded path, the silence of the park hidden only a few meters from the busy street, and the sound of my breath, feet, and mp3 player. Instead, as I rounded the corner and mounted the steps I was greeted by an unfamiliar small yapping, and a set of fierce, bared teeth.
It took me a moment to realize what was happening. I had stumbled upon a dog protecting her two very new, adorable puppies. I slowed to a walk and backed away from the dog, deeper into the park. A few meters up the hill I saw another dog, not growling at me but very aware of the situation. I sighed and resigned myself to a steady, slow walk until I hit the main park path, well out of the dogs' territory. I was sad and frustrated to have lost my anticipated release, but it was an understandable situation that in some way made me happy. Although it conflicted with my personal desires it showed enough of love and protection, not to mention the cuteness of the puppies, to ease the edge off of my disappointment.
I got away from the dogs and began the ascent to the central loop of the park. The central loop of the park is only 1km long, but my run was only supposed to be 10km. I spent the uphill section debating whether the dogs would be gone or if I should alter my route home to take the main road instead of the park, and it passed quickly enough. I had slipped my earbuds into my ears once again and was preparing for a quick but hard workout when I noticed a man running behind me. How I noticed him I am not sure. Sometimes you can just sense a presence around you. Sometimes that sensation is a good one, and others, like that day, they make your skin crawl.
The man had jeans and a leather jacket on. It was obvious that he wasn't out for a run. But he was jogging along behind me, increasing his pace until he was beside me. He started talking to me in Turkish. I told him that I do not understand Turkish. He continued with the most basic phrases- You do sports. Friend. Now, perhaps I would have found this conversation appropriate if he was dressed in jogging gear. Maybe he wanted a running partner. But it was quite obvious that he was headed for the metro and the only reason that he was running was to talk to me. I told him that someone was married (my Turkish had left my mind and I could not think of how to claim that I was married.) and tried to show him my ring, which I had unfortunately left of the bedside table the night before. He continued to run beside me, insisting that we should be friends. I shrugged and put my earbud back in, signaling that the conversation was over. He thought otherwise, reached around my head to my far ear and took the bud out, touching my cheek and shoulder and trying to pull me towards him when he returned his hand to neutral territory. He then looked at me with those big brown eyes- full of sex and playfulness- and made a clear motion of "me, you, kiss." I very firmly said no, and increased my pace, beyond what I could hold for very long. Thankfully I was to the metro turn and he was left behind at the bottom of a steep hill.
I did two laps of the central loop, trying to figure out what about the interaction bothered me so. I could tell that I was bothered because my chest was welling and I was short of breath, and I really didn't want to run anymore. My first reaction when I saw the man was fear, and that bothered me. For the most part in Istanbul I feel safe, and I like to think that I am safe, and yet my first reaction was fear. I found a certain unfairness in that reaction and I am not sure if the unfairness is to me as a woman, that I have to constantly consider my safety, or to Turkish men (or men in general) that I assume the worst from them. After the initial fear, but while I was still pumping with adrenaline my thoughts turned more logical. I thought of escape routes and whether I could outrun him, or overpower him, and whether anyone would hear and/or come if I screamed. All of these thoughts were before he even talked to me, and again, they are unfair both to me and to men. Once he began talking to me my thoughts changed. For a moment I was hopeful. I love interactions. I love friendships. Also, I felt the need to be friendly and encouraging of his interest in me. After all, it can be hard to approach someone that you don't know. But there was something in his speech and in his eyes that quickly ruined that interest and I started to become fearful again. Then he touched me- reached into my space without permission with what might have been a very innocent motion, and that fear became anger. I became rude and left.
I left the situation but the situation wouldn't leave me. It stuck in me. With each loop I continued to assess exit routes and the danger of running in the park. Was it worth the risk to be off the main road and away from cars? Was there really any risk? Usually there were construction workers in the park. Surely their presence assured my safety, or did it make things worse? In the end I cut my run short and decided that it was a form of social gaslighting. We talk about gaslighting as a current act imposed from one individual onto another, which it can be, but we rarely look at gaslighting as a social phenomenon. As a woman I am completely set up for gaslighting. I am constantly told that women over-react to simple things, dramatize events, and make things about themselves. If I had pushed the guy away surely the response would have been that physical force was not necessary as his action was obviously harmless. Even my rude response of, "No," was unmerrited as I couldn't really understand what he was saying and maybe he did just want to be friends. However, if I had done nothing and let things progress then it would be my fault if anything happened as I had obviously encouraged the interaction in a secluded place.
Running home I decided to change my route in order to avoid the stray dogs. I cut my run short by 5km and decided that enough was enough for one day. On the way home I debated whether or not I would write about it. It seems kind of pompous to write about it at all; to assume that the guy was even interested in my sex seems very egotistical. Yet somehow to keep silent and not write about it seems worse, because there is obviously an issue if a woman who is as strong, confident, and optimistic as I tend to be, can be frightened and put so off her balance by such a simple encounter in a park. I ran by the entrance of the park and the puppies were no longer there. I was disappointed, partly because the puppies had been cute and I wanted to see them up close again, but partly because the dogs were a violence that made sense to me. Everything was clear and strait forward in those flashing teeth, and I needed something simple that I could understand to settle my nerves. I decided that it is indeed a sad world when a woman would rather face a pack of stray dogs than a single man.

A Tale of Two Worlds

Today I went to the American embassy in Sofia to get my paperwork processed in order to be legally able to marry in Bulgaria. When we drove up across the building and I saw the state seal, and the American flag flying, I got strangely excited. Peace Corps has been invited to several embassy events, but me trailing the usual antisocial baggage that I do, I did not attend. I did not expect to get such a little thrill from seeing the carefully enclosed ground that is, for all intents and purposes, an extension of my "homeland." It rippled through me, strait down to my belly. We parked, walked along the icy street and arrived at the door only 2 minutes late. I was antsy. My strong need to be on time, which kicks in when I am 1) doing official, legal, state business or 2) hanging out with Americans, kicked into overdrive as I was about to do official business among Americans. But, by the time we checked in, and had to wait for another five minutes outside of the security room, I had settled.
We went in. We were asked to remove our jackets and all things metal, and to leave any electronics at the front desk. After passing through a metal detector we were ushered by a security guard towards the citizen services building. At the front desk we were again asked our names and looked up on the computer. We were then sent to the cashier to pay the fee. I think I got some sort of discount for being in Peace Corps because the marriage form was supposed to be 75 dollars. I was going to pay in lev until I saw the exchange rate and the kind gentleman helping us suggested that we pay with an American credit card, which I had luckily brought with me. We then went to another desk where a man appeared to know what we needed and who we were and was very helpful answering questions about emigration and marriage. There was another five minutes of waiting while he prepared our document and then I met with a very nice, enthusiastic vice-consular to sign my document and get it stamped. In less than an hour I was back at the front desk, picking up my electronics and smiling from all of the warm congratulations.
After the American embassy we had to stop by the Bulgarian ministry of the exterior to get the document legalized for Bulgaria. Now, I realize that I should not compare the two, and that offices within the United States are not as nearly warm and efficient as what I experienced here. However, the difference between the two places was just too hilarious to not mention. We arrived at the ministry and we were greeted by a guard outside. When we explained what we were there for he began to explain our options for collection of our documents and told us that we would have to go to a post office to pay for the service and then return. However, he noticed a group of older women inside and instead ushered us inside. There he asked if any of the women (who I assume must have been notaries) had extra stamps that they could sell us. One did, and so we bought 20 lev worth of stamps to attach to our documents. We filled out a form and took it to the cashier but were told we would need more stamps to do a rush service on our document. We returned to the older women who provided us with more stamps and showed us how to properly attach them, and then looked over our forms to make sure we had checked the correct boxes. We then gave the form back, were given a receipt and told to return tomorrow.
Both places were exceptionally warm today. I think that doing paperwork for marriage is somehow more heartwarming than any other type of paperwork. However, the warmth at the two different places was somehow very different, and it is hard for me to touch why. It was something to do with formality but not necessarily about professionalism. Perhaps it was something to do with the modernism found in the American embassy contrasted with paying through stamps at the Bulgarian ministry.
Well, two countries down and now only one more country to get our status as legally married recognizable. Life is interesting these days.