Karima Vargas Bushnell's Blog, page 2

Ginger Wakes Up 3

THREE!

Photo Credit: Karima Vargas Bushnell

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May December Cat Marriage

Bob was old and gracious, Miss Tinypants, young and excitable. She followed him around till he gave in. She’d sit on his back in this very chair, and they shared up to 19 hours a day cuddled in blissful sleep. She mourned him for a year.

Photo Credit: Karima Vargas Bushnell

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Addendum to The Lumpkin Diaries: Part One

8/18/14  I’m a partially outdoor cat now and must get my sleep.

– F. Lumpkin
(Evidently the indoor only policy had wavered somewhat at this time.)

The post Addendum to The Lumpkin Diaries: Part One appeared first on The Life and Times of Halycon Sage.

So Glad “Black” is Back!

This is written from Minneapolis, city of George Floyd’s murder, where I live. It’s the site of a shameful, inexcusable crime by men who were sworn to protect, and it wasn’t our first unjustified police killing of a Black person by any means. But it’s also a birthplace of hope, amid all the suffering and uproar, because from here an uncompromising new justice movement has begun and continues to reach around the world. And while the news that Black people are regularly murdered by police was no surprise to most within that demographic, it has finally dawned on a whole bunch of White people who were either completely oblivious or just didn’t consider racist police murders a featured item on the current menu of disasters.

I’m a words buff, and since the killing, I’ve seen a pleasing change in the American lexicon. Have you noticed that “Black” is back? With the capital letter? I’ve been stubbornly using this for decades, though rarely seeing anyone else use it, at least in mainstream media. If you’re old enough, you may have watched the polite and standard U.S. word for descendants of Africans change from “negro” (at a time when “black” was considered insulting) to “colored” to “Black” to “Afro-American” to “African American” to “black” without the cap, and sometimes to “people of color,” while “colored people” remained offensive. (I kind of liked “Afro-American” but some folks decided it “sounded like a hairdo,” so out it went.) 

As a 60s/70’s person, I associate capital-B-Black with the Black Pride movement, the sweet-sounding slogan, “Black is Beautiful,” and the James Brown song “Say It Loud, I’m Black and I’m Proud”. (“We’d rather die on our feet than keep livin’ on our knees.”) It also evokes, for me, heroes from W.E.B. DuBois to Marcus Garvey to Malcolm X (El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz), a whole slew of writers, and some great movies that came later but had a similar spirit, including three master works of history, sociology, and the human heart: John Singleton’s thoughtful Higher Learning and Boyz n’ the Hood and Spike Lee’s towering epic Do the Right Thing. (To this I must add three more which make serious points mainly with humor: Brother from Another Planet, BlacKkKlansman, and Get Out.)

My only problem with capital-B-Black is that, as a fussy amateur grammarian, I have to resolve the equivalence issue: If I’m gonna write “Black,” I should right “White,” at least if they occur in the same paragraph. But for the rest of this discussion, I won’t. Looking at the nightmarish things Black people have suffered, from the constant drip of micro-aggressions and insults to across-the-board denial of opportunity, from the school-to-prison pipeline and the historical and ongoing theft of their labor to false imprisonment, murder, and torture, I think Black people should get the effing capital letter and white people can just do without it. (One of the saddest things I ever read was a scene from a James Baldwin book — The Fire Next Time? — or possibly Langston Hughes or Richard Wright, where a white man smashes a Black teen’s new bicycle with the comment, “Aint no n-word gonna have a bike that’s better’n mine!” The continuing random attacks, as well as the systemic abuse, are cruel, wasteful, heartbreaking, and just abysmally stupid.)

It’s astounding that Black individuals and cultures in the U.S have survived at all, let alone frequently thrived and triumphed, in the face of the pervasive gaslighting. Because the constant message for centuries has been, “You are suffering and dying because you are unworthy, not because my knee is on your neck.” And this is a lie, like beating someone till they bleed, kicking them into a muddy gutter, and then despising them for being dirty. The situation can be summed up in three phrases, now familiar to many around the world. “Eight minutes and forty-six seconds,” the time Mr. Floyd was held down. His last words, “I can’t breathe,” which eerily echoed the dying words of police victim Eric Garner. And Rev. Al Sharpton’s repeated variations on,”Get your knee of our necks.” At this moment, these things are still happening, the suffering continues. But will this be the beginning of a fundamental change? Are we finally waking up?

 

 

 

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I’m So Glad “Black” is Back!

This is written from Minneapolis, city of George Floyd’s murder, where I live. It’s the site of a shameful, inexcusable crime by those who were sworn to protect, and it wasn’t the first unjustified police killing of a Black person here by any means. But it’s also a birthplace of hope, amid all the suffering and uproar, from which an uncompromising new justice movement continues to reach around the world. And while the fact that Black people, most often men, were regularly murdered by police was not news to a lot of people (mostly Black), it seems to have finally penetrated the consciousness of a whole bunch of others (mostly White), who were either entirely unaware or at least didn’t give it a high priority among the cornucopia of miseries and disasters we hear about every day.

I’m a words buff, and since the murder, I’ve noticed a pleasing change in the American lexicon. Have you noticed that “Black” is back? With the capital letter? I’ve been stubbornly using this for decades, though rarely seeing anyone else use it, at least in mainstream media. If you’re old enough, you’ve seen the polite or standard U.S. word for people of African descent change from “negro” (at a time when “black” was considered insulting) to “colored” to “Black” to “Afro-American” to “African American” to “black” without the cap, and sometimes to “people of color,” while “colored people” was still deemed offensive. (I kind of liked “Afro-American” but some people decided it “sounded like a hairdo,” so out it went.)  As a 60s/70’s person, I associate capital-B-Black with the Black Pride movement and the James Brown song “Say It Loud, I’m Black and I’m Proud”. (“We’d rather die on our feet than keep livin’ on our knees.”) It also evokes, for me, heroes from W.E.B. DuBois to Marcus Garvey to Malcolm X (El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz), a slew of writers, and great movies that came later but had a similar spirit, including three master works of history, sociology, and the human heart: John Singleton’s thoughtful Higher Learning and Boyz n’ the Hood and Spike Lee’s towering epic Do the Right Thing*.

The only problem I have around capital-B-Black is that, as a fussy amateur grammarian, I have to resolve the equivalence issue: If I’m gonna write “Black,” I should right “White,” at least if they occur in the same paragraph. But for right now, I won’t. Looking at the nightmarish things Black people have been through from micro-aggressions and insults to across-the-board denial of opportunity and theft of their labor to false imprisonment, murder, and torture, I think Black people should get the effing capital letter and white people can just do without it.**

Full disclosure: I’m not Black. I look white and have fully benefited from white privilege. But sometimes who we are doesn’t quite fit with how we look, and I’ve learned from the awesome Black people I’ve known over the years. In the 70s my partner was Black and a bunch of our friends and family were too. In the 90s, a five-year-old named Steven offered to be my “African ancestor” since I was sad that I didn’t have any, and I took him up on it. (He also taught me to catch a baseball at short range, and I’d waited 40 years for that little piece of knowledge to come my way.) And back in the day, before I lost my enculturation, at least three Black people told me that I too was Black, including the fellow court reporter who surprised a small room full of people by announcing, “It’s okay, she’s one of us!” and a woman friend who stopped suddenly in the middle of a rant on the evils of white people to tell me, “I’m sorry, I forgot you was white.” There was also a man whose exact words I can’t remember, but to whom I replied joking-for-serious, “You guys should get together and issue passports so people would know we (who had passed the unwritten tests) were okay.” He said, with some emphasis, “Who’d want one?” and I replied, “I would!”  Genetically, I have 1% Southern Bantu ethnicity, and while this and a dime will not get me a cup of coffee, it makes me happy. 

May the change come! May the change come soon! Too many have suffered and continue to suffer. It has taken too long.

_____________

*Of course this leaves out many wonderful movies of which I must include three more personal favorites: Brother from Another Planet, BlacKkKlansman, and Get Out. (I will not mention Pootie Tang, I will not mention Pootie Tang . . .) 

**One of the saddest things I ever read was a scene from a James Baldwin book (The Fire Next Time?) or possibly Langston Hughes, where a white man smashes a Black teenager’s new bicycle with the comment, “Aint no n-word gonna have a bike that’s better’n mine!” It’s all just so cruel and heartbreaking and abysmally stupid.

 

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Let’s Talk Ertugrul (Season One Only)

Greetings, bays and hatuns! Recently I’ve been fighting off the desire to post a giant, colored block on Facebook saying, “My Turgut! My Turgut!” just to see who else is watching. FYI, this character’s name is pronounced, “TOUR-gute,” and you roll your R a little to get the right sound.

Dirilis Ertugrul — Resurrection Ertugrul in English, and pronounced AIR-too-rule — is a Turkish drama of high heroism about the man who, after many travails, became father of the founder of the Ottoman Empire. Not much is known about him, but the show is historical as far as possible, and some of the most endearing characters have towns or mosques in Anatolia named for them. There are hundreds of episodes, and apparently most of Pakistan is watching as well as quite a few Americans and others around the world. It’s banned in Egypt and Saudi Arabia. 

Even avoiding spoilers, which I will, there are several layers to unpack. Perhaps most obviously, there’s a lot of sword fighting and killing, but it’s okay because getting killed doesn’t hurt. You only grunt and fall down, or maybe give an unconvincing yell that might as well be “Ouch!” I sounded way worse than these people when I shut my finger in a window. We’re also sometimes treated to a CG mist of flying blood that wouldn’t fool a baby. This is like Valhalla, where the warriors fight by day and feast by night and it’s all in fun. Resurrection: Ertugrul has a Perils of Pauline quality. Metaphorically speaking, the heroine is always tied to the railroad tracks. There’s a cliff-hanger in every episode, and my co-watcher and I have taken to periodically giving forth a mocking unison cry of, “Oh, no!“

Another early impression that is deepened by repetition: Ertugrul drenches our senses in beauty. The music is magnificently evocative, its various themes signaling particular situations. There’s the adrenaline surge of the opening credits and the sweet romantic motif of the gazelle-eyed one, but we also come to recognize the Galloping off to Adventure, the Yikes We’re in Trouble Now, and many other motifs that follow particular characters or announce that a certain villain is up to something. The visuals are equally stunning, filled from the first moments with intricately decorated clothing, armor and artifacts, tribal tents, forests and fields, and possibly some of the most beautiful men, women, and horses ever seen on film. (I have an enormous horse-crush on Ertugrul’s horse, Aktolgali.)

The characters are  psychologically realistic, saturated with culture, yet with distinct, vibrant personalities. Watching their reactions, we discover more and more of their inner workings, just as we do with real people. These are complex women, men, and children whom we come to know, love, despise, or worry about. The actors have some of the most mobile and subtly expressive faces I’ve ever seen, so that whole mini-scenes play out in silence as we watch them. The plotting is complex and the Turkish dialogue is well written and delivered. The subtitles are easily understandable but endearingly odd, with occasional hilarious mistakes of the whizzing breeb variety*. Bamsi, Dogan and Turgut; Selcan, Hayme and Halime; the inimitable Wild Demir and so many more — I cannot do you justice in this short piece.  Seeing those we’ve come to call “the boys” come galloping towards us always lifts my heart.

The hero Ertugrul is not much like the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him), except in his faithfulness, his honor and courage, his utter lack of self-seeking, and his gentleness towards women, which was probably not common in either society. (Well, maybe they’re more alike than I had thought.) What I was going to say is that the love between him and his Alps feels very like that between the Prophet and his companions. Something about this tribal community evokes early Islam for me with its loves and loyalties, plots and betrayals, personality clashes, heroism and sacrifice by both men and women. Ertugrul’s Alps — Turgut, Dogan, the subtly hilarious Bamsi and a few others — remind me of the Prophet’s companions in their relationship to him. (Apparently Bamsi was quite a funny man in real life as well.) 

If you’ve seen how U.S. movies and TV portrayed Native Americans in the 50s and 60s and also Muslims post 9/11, you’ll understand why any Alp can dispatch eight or ten crusaders without breaking a sweat. The enemy are either silly and inept or cacklingly evil. The one or two good ones are really on our side — the side of the ‘good guys’ – and will eventually convert and/or be killed. (The non-speaking Mongol roles in Season Two are even more ridiculous, but I won’t get into that now.) My other complaint is the portrayal of Ibn al-Arabi, the towering Sufi mystic and equal of Mevlana Jalaluddin Rumi, who is so much better known in the west. It’s not the actor’s fault. He apparently does his best, but he can’t fight the lines: Ibn al-Arabi’s unparalleled grasp of metaphysics and the subtle levels and inter-relations within the Divine Schematic are mostly replaced by jingoistic exhortations and encouraging platitudes. The idiosyncratic hermit is much nearer the mark.

This show can get to you. A few weeks ago I was in the kitchen googling “Ertugrul Tours” while my husband was in the living room ordering a Beginning Turkish course. (I’ve been to Turkey and hope to go back some day.) Like all great epics of heroes and villains, Dirillis Ertugrul is all in fun unless it isn’t. The Turkish patriotism of the Kayi Tribe, with their beautiful sky-blue flag, is as inspiring and as flawed and potentially dangerous as any other patriotism. May we, the entranced and admiring viewers, absorb the courage and inspiration of this epic and enjoy the plain old fun, but may we also work across countries and cultures in the causes of justice, understanding, and peace. 

 

 

*This phrase comes from a subtitled marshal arts movie’s description of the idyllic valley where dedicated students live and train with their holy master.  The “whizzing breeb” apparently refers to a fresh and stimulating breeze. Ertugrul’s Season Two exceeds Season One in funny subtitles; among other enjoyments for the English-speaking audience, the 13th Century heroes can be seen referring to their enemies as “asshats” and “muppets”.

NOTE: I added “Season One Only” to the title because I have issues with Season Two. Not the beginning, which is so weird you think a new, silly director has been subbed in — it gets better around Episode 12 — or the fact that the horrible, disgusting new villain is hella-handsome, or even, under protest, that the violence is more upsetting and realistic.  But I really object to the misuse of Islam, which teaches that religious diversity is part of the Divine Plan, and that if you must compete with others, you should try to outdo them in acts of goodness. Qur. 5:48 “To each among you have We prescribed a law and an open way. If Allah had so willed, He would have made you [humanity] a single people, but (His plan is) to test you in what He hath given you: so strive as in a race in all virtues. The goal of you all is to Allah. it is He that will show you the truth of the matters in which ye dispute.”

 

 

 

 

The post Let’s Talk Ertugrul (Season One Only) appeared first on The Life and Times of Halycon Sage.

Let’s Talk Ertugrul

Greetings, bays and hatuns! Recently I’ve been fighting off the desire to post a giant, colored block on Facebook saying, “My Turgut! My Turgut!” just to see who else is watching. FYI, this character’s name is pronounced, “TOUR-gute,” and you roll your R a little to get the right sound.

Dirilis Ertugrul — Resurrection Ertugrul in English, and pronounced AIR-too-rule — is a Turkish drama of high heroism about the man who, after many travails, became father of the founder of the Ottoman Empire. Not much is known about him, but the show is historical as far as possible, and some of the most endearing characters have towns or mosques in Anatolia named for them. There are hundreds of episodes, and apparently most of Pakistan is watching as well as quite a few Americans and others around the world. It’s banned in Egypt and Saudi Arabia. 

Even avoiding spoilers, which I will, there are several layers to unpack. Perhaps most obviously, there’s a lot of sword fighting and killing, but it’s okay because getting killed doesn’t hurt. You only grunt and fall down, or maybe give an unconvincing yell that might as well be “Ouch!” I sounded way worse than these people when I shut my finger in a window. We’re also sometimes treated to a CG mist of flying blood that wouldn’t fool a baby. This is like Valhalla, where the warriors fight by day and feast by night and it’s all in fun. Resurrection: Ertugrul has a Perils of Pauline quality. Metaphorically speaking, the heroine is always tied to the railroad tracks. There’s a cliff-hanger in every episode, and my co-watcher and I have taken to periodically giving forth a mocking unison cry of, “Oh, no!“

Another early impression that is deepened by repetition: Ertugrul drenches our senses in beauty. The music is magnificently evocative, its various themes signaling particular situations. There’s the adrenaline surge of the opening credits and the sweet romantic motif of the gazelle-eyed one, but we also come to recognize the Galloping off to Adventure, the Yikes We’re in Trouble Now, and many other motifs that follow particular characters or announce that a certain villain is up to something. The visuals are equally stunning, filled from the first moments with intricately decorated clothing, armor and artifacts, tribal tents, forests and fields, and possibly some of the most beautiful men, women, and horses ever seen on film. (I have an enormous horse-crush on Ertugrul’s horse, Aktolgali.)

The characters are  psychologically realistic, saturated with culture, yet with distinct, vibrant personalities. Watching their reactions, we discover more and more of their inner workings, just as we do with real people. These are complex women, men, and children whom we come to know, love, despise, or worry about. The actors have some of the most mobile and subtly expressive faces I’ve ever seen, so that whole mini-scenes play out in silence as we watch them. The plotting is complex and the Turkish dialogue is well written and delivered. The subtitles are easily understandable but endearingly odd, with occasional hilarious mistakes of the whizzing breeb variety*. Bamsi, Dogan and Turgut; Selcan, Hayme and Halime; the inimitable Wild Demir and so many more — I cannot do you justice in this short piece.  Seeing those we’ve come to call “the boys” come galloping towards us always lifts my heart.

The hero Ertugrul is not much like the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him), except in his faithfulness, his honor and courage, his utter lack of self-seeking, and his gentleness towards women, which was probably not common in either society. (Well, maybe they’re more alike than I had thought.) What I was going to say is that the love between him and his Alps feels very like that between the Prophet and his companions. Something about this tribal community evokes early Islam for me with its loves and loyalties, plots and betrayals, personality clashes, heroism and sacrifice by both men and women. Ertugrul’s Alps — Turgut, Dogan, the subtly hilarious Bamsi and a few others — remind me of the Prophet’s companions in their relationship to him. (Apparently Bamsi was quite a funny man in real life as well.) 

If you’ve seen how U.S. movies and TV portrayed Native Americans in the 50s and 60s and also Muslims post 9/11, you’ll understand why any Alp can dispatch eight or ten crusaders without breaking a sweat. The enemy are either silly and inept or cacklingly evil. The one or two good ones are really on our side — the side of the ‘good guys’ – and will eventually convert and/or be killed. (The non-speaking Mongol roles in Season Two are even more ridiculous, but I won’t get into that now.) My other complaint is the portrayal of Ibn al-Arabi, the towering Sufi mystic and equal of Mevlana Jalaluddin Rumi, who is so much better known in the west. It’s not the actor’s fault. He apparently does his best, but he can’t fight the lines: Ibn al-Arabi’s unparalleled grasp of metaphysics and the subtle levels and inter-relations within the Divine Schematic are mostly replaced by jingoistic exhortations and encouraging platitudes. The idiosyncratic hermit is much nearer the mark.

This show can get to you. A few weeks ago I was in the kitchen googling “Ertugrul Tours” while my husband was in the living room ordering a Beginning Turkish course. (I’ve been to Turkey and hope to go back some day.) Like all great epics of heroes and villains, Dirillis Ertugrul is all in fun unless it isn’t. The Turkish patriotism of the Kayi Tribe, with their beautiful sky-blue flag, is as inspiring and as flawed and potentially dangerous as any other patriotism. May we, the entranced and admiring viewers, absorb the courage and inspiration of this epic and enjoy the plain old fun, but may we also work across countries and cultures in the causes of justice, understanding, and peace. 

 

 

*This phrase comes from a subtitled marshal arts movie’s description of the idyllic valley where dedicated students live and train with their holy master.  The “whizzing breeb” apparently refers to a fresh and stimulating breeze. Ertugrul’s Season Two exceeds Season One in funny subtitles; among other enjoyments for the English-speaking audience, the 13th Century heroes can be seen referring to their enemies as “asshats” and “muppets”.

 

 

 

 

 

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Data Dump: The Sociology of Talking about Yourself

Image by splongo from PixabayOkay, I don’t much like sharing personal things, but sometimes you must in order to make a point. So, when I was married to my second husband . . . oh, dear, I must digress again with a hot tip for you: If you’re an Aquarius / Aries / Libra sort of person, DO NOT marry a triple Virgo! (And for the triple Virgo, the same in reverse.) Just don’t!

Anyway, he once looked at me and said, “Whenever anybody says anything, you think you have to say what you think about it.” My response was, “Well, isn’t that what conversation is?” Staggering mutual incomprehension. I was around 20 at the time and had never lived in a culture where saying what you thought or felt was conversational bad manners. Though I had read religious writer and novelist C.S. Lewis’ address — an addendum to The Screwtape Letters, which is advice from a senior to a junior demon on How to Tempt Your Human — on the subject of Being Like Folks, which morphed into Being Like Stalks, the demonic object of which was to get all the tall stalks, the creative and vibrant people, to cut themselves off at the neck so they could be “normal”. (Note: This is not a defense of the kind of person who always tells you about themself but shows no interest in you. The spotlight should alternate!)

In many cultures — now, I’m going to generalize, so don’t anybody get your panty hose in a wad over this — it is considered embarrassing and graceless to draw attention to yourself. Speaking broadly, Japanese, Native American, and White Midwestern cultures fall into this group, while Italian, Jewish, and African American cultures value emotion, assertiveness, and display, even pyrotechnic fireworks of spontaneous self-expression.* When we had this exchange, I hadn’t yet lived in the Midwest, though I suspect my ex’s mother was from there.

I had been raised very differently. I was my mother’s science project, and when she said anything worth discussing, she looked me in the eye, asked, “What do you think?” and I was supposed to come up with a thoughtful, articulate response. These conversations were enjoyable plunges into the intricacies of psychological, philosophical, personal, or social phenomena. Mom was a thoughtful person and did not talk trivia. I was also raised in a time and place — or maybe it was just the teachers I had — where little girls who peeped inaudibly in the classroom were told to “Speak up!” Assertiveness was valued.

The jolly old Intercultural Relations field has a lot to say about this, and about how people misperceive each other. Expressive-culture people view their opposites as bored or boring, dull, colorless people with nothing to say, or alternatively, people who would rather be somewhere else and can’t even be bothered to pretend.  Needless to say, their cultural opposites see them as shallow, childish, self-indulgent, bragging fools. Unless this is dealt with, not much good can come of attempts at conversation. (When I was in that field, I developed a nice group participation exercise which addresses this.)

I have a version of this reality clash with my husband of 37 years, though we’ve finally learned to see the point in how the other person operates. He calls my uploading all the stuff I’m doing and thinking about into his brain “The Data Dump.” And yeah, it does go too far sometimes. After all, he has his own thoughts and plans in there and we have to leave some room for them as well, don’t we?

But he has also told me, “When have what you call a deep conversation with somebody, you say what you like and then they say what they like and you just go back and forth.” And I say (deja vu!), “Well, isn’t that what conversation is?” The part he doesn’t understand, because the conversation would normally bore him and he would walk away, is that we are merely building the stage, establishing our areas of overlapping interest so the real conversation can begin. Once that arena is dug out and paved and landscaped, sometimes a friend and I can go very, very deep. It doesn’t happen all that often, but I always live in hope.

Over and out.

 

*There are many exceptions to these sometimes-useful generalizations which may be based on personality, situation, subgroup membership (e.g., region, neighborhood, profession, status level), acculturation, code-switching or other stuff.

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Politics, Religion, and . . . Football? One day at the bank

First of all, you might not get this unless you remember a type of exchange that may be passing into history. There used to be places — stores, whatever, — where workers and customers actually conversed, and these conversations sometimes developed into mini-friendships. These connections did not translate outside the workspace, unless you happened to run into each other out of context, but for what they were, they were real. Not a phony-smile, “May I help you?” where you can feel the person would just as soon you were dead. Not a cold, mechanical, “Thank you for shopping (wherever)” or “Have a nice day,” repeated robot-like by some poor sap who can be fired if they don’t say it. These were real conversations between human beings, and I miss them, as does imaginary author Halycon Sage, who talked about this in our first book. (A shoutout to my nearby post office  — it’s still that kind of place!)

So, the setting: my bank. It’s a branch of a big, evil company, but this little branch is so sweet, everyone is so nice, and I’ve been going there since 1980, soon after I moved here. Sporadic but real friendships have emerged between me and people of many cultures and countries as I talked and joked with them and they seemed to like it, talking and joking right back. The conversations could get quite involved and even personal at times, especially when there was no line of waiting customers. Over the years I’ve found employees at this bank to be interesting, quirky people, willing to discuss many subjects. Even with the more ordinary folks, our brief exchanges about weather and wishes for the other’s day have a friendly quality. Sometimes some bit of business requires sitting down in one of the little, open offices in the back, and there conversations can bloom unhindered. This doesn’t happen every time, of course, either in the line or in the offices, but it’s frequent enough that I always look forward to going in.

Before reading further — this is going to matter later on — you have to know that I’ve never been a sports fan, with one exception. When I was a Letters to the Editor moderator for the London Times Online, back when companies were just beginning to realize they needed webpages and the process was outsourced, a beloved player for the Arsenal football team* sustained an injury due to unfair, dastardly behavior from the opposing team. I don’t remember the details now or even the poor guy’s name, but he was a classic wounded hero and it was pretty much agreed that all the fault lay on the other side. My sympathy and interest were instantly engaged, and I became an Arsenal fan. And a pretty silly one: this is embarrassing to admit, but I once referred to myself as a “Gooner,” and was kindly informed by a more savvy friend that this was an insulting name used by opponents and the team and fans were actually called “Gunners,” as were the players. (OMG, just googled it to make sure it really was used for fans, and I find fans proudly calling themselves, “Gooners”! What is the world coming too?)

So, one day some years ago at the bank, I found myself sitting across from a friendly man, younger than me and handsome in a well-fed kind of way. I liked his bright smile and open manner and glanced at his name tag. Ah, a fellow Muslim, Hassan or Ahmed or somebody. So I salaamed him — shorthand for the fact that I said, “As salaam aleykum,” meaning peace be upon you — and he salaamed me back, saying “Wa aleykum as-salaam, which means, “And upon you be peace.” We then established that he thought Sufis, Muslim mystics who sing and sort-of-dance, were okay, which is by no means a universal opinion.

And just let me digress for a minute and get this off my chest while I think of it: I once used the phrase “salaaming somebody” on a radio call-in show whose host shall here be nameless, and when questioned about the phrase, the female Muslim guest said huffily, “We don’t use it.”  There’s a whole big tradition in Islam that Muslims aren’t supposed to say someone else who claims to be a Muslim isn’t. This is known as “calling kaffir” and it’s a huge deal, but she had effectively done that to me. And some Muslims besides me do use it, even born ones, not converts. But I never got a chance to respond. So, I’m responding here: Sucks boo to you, lady! (This English expression appears in old kids’ books, so is probably not rude, and it expresses exactly how I feel.**) Wow, that was a long digression! With a literary footnote, even. But since this is National Digression Day, I guess I have a right.

Back to the bank. Having successfully established that we were co-religionists, which is not obvious unless I say something, because I don’t wear hijab out in the world, we began a friendly chat. Where were we from? Me: Reno, Nevada. Him: Egypt — Alexandria, I think. We exchanged a few sentences about the wonders and history of Alexandria, Askandaria in Arabic. Then I ventured into politics, an oppressive mess at the time, though not as bad as the current horror show, and again we were in agreement. This was really getting to be fun.

Then I said, “Oh, do you like football? Real football, I mean, not American.” His eyes sparkled, as I’m sure did mine. “Oh, yes!” “What’s your team?” I asked, and added, “I’m a Gunner.”

His face froze. it assumed a solemn, almost stone-like expression, and my stomach dropped. I remembered that some people around the world take football very seriously. There were riots and things. Oh, man, I always go too far! I thought. I always say too much and mess things up. I’m such an idiot! We had sailed easily through the supposed minefields of religion and politics, and now the little friendship (ha ha, friend ship) was going to crash and sink on the rocks of fricking football, something I didn’t actually care about that much.

He looked me in the eye and said slowly, with the solemnity of a man making his wedding vows or swearing before witnesses to defend his country, “I am Arsenal till death.”

So, there you go.

 

 

*You know, “footie,” what most of the world calls “football” and we call soccer, not the American stuff which I believe they call “gridiron,” for some reason.

*It’s also used, in Sarah Caudwell’s hilarious comedic legal mysteries, by Cantrip of the witch-black eyes, dashing member of a London law firm who is pitied by his colleagues for being uneducated — because he went to Cambridge instead of Oxford, poor dear.

The post Politics, Religion, and . . . Football? One day at the bank appeared first on The Life and Times of Halycon Sage.

Let’s Talk Ertugrul

Greetings, Beys and Hatuns! Recently I’ve been fighting off the desire to post a giant, colored block on Facebook saying, “My Turgut! My Turgut!” just to see who else is watching. FYI, this character’s name is pronounced, “TOUR-gute,” and you roll your R a little to get the right sound.

Dirilis: Ertugrul — Resurrection: Ertugrul in English, pronounced AIR-too-rule and currently on Netflix — is a Turkish drama of high heroism about the man who, after many travails, became father of the founder of the Ottoman Empire. Not much is known about him, but the show is historical as far as possible, and some of the most endearing characters have towns or mosques in Anatolia named for them. There are hundreds of episodes, and apparently most of Pakistan has watched, as well as quite a few Americans and others around the world. It’s banned in Egypt and Saudi Arabia. 

Even avoiding spoilers, which I will, there are several layers to unpack. Perhaps most obviously, there’s a lot of sword fighting and killing, but it’s okay because getting killed doesn’t hurt. You only grunt and fall down, or maybe give an unconvincing yell that might as well be “Ouch!” I sounded way worse than these people when I shut my finger in a window. We’re also sometimes treated to a CG mist of flying blood that wouldn’t fool a baby. This is like Valhalla, where the warriors fight by day and feast by night and it’s all in fun. Resurrection: Ertugrul has a Perils of Pauline quality. Metaphorically speaking, the heroine is always tied to the railroad tracks. There’s a cliff-hanger in every episode, and my co-watcher and I have taken to periodically giving forth a mocking unison cry of, “Oh, no!“

Another early impression that is deepened by repetition: Ertugrul drenches our senses in beauty. The music is magnificently evocative, its various themes signaling particular situations. There’s the adrenaline surge of the opening credits and the sweet romantic motif of The Gazelle-Eyed One, but we also come to recognize the Galloping off to Adventure, the Yikes We’re in Trouble Now, and many other motifs that follow particular characters or announce that a certain villain is up to something. The visuals are equally stunning, filled from the first moments with intricately decorated clothing, armor and artifacts, tribal tents, forests and fields, and possibly some of the most beautiful men, women, and horses ever seen on film. (I have an enormous horse-crush on Ertugrul’s horse, Aktolgali.)

The characters are  psychologically realistic, saturated with culture, yet with distinct, vibrant personalities. Watching their reactions, we discover more and more of their inner workings, just as we do with real people. These are complex women, men, and children whom we come to know, love, despise, or worry about. The actors have some of the most mobile and subtly expressive faces I’ve ever seen, so that whole mini-scenes play out in silence as we watch them. The plotting is complex and the Turkish dialogue is well written and delivered. The subtitles are easily understandable but endearingly odd, with occasional hilarious mistakes of the whizzing breeb variety*. Bamsi, Dogan and Turgut; Selcan, Hayme and Halime; the inimitable Wild Demir and so many more — I cannot do you justice in this short piece.  Seeing those we’ve come to call “the boys” come galloping towards us always lifts my heart.

The hero Ertugrul is not much like the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him), except in his faithfulness, his honor and courage, his utter lack of self-seeking, and his gentleness towards women, which was probably not common in either society. Well, maybe they’re more alike than I had thought. What I was going to say is that the love between him and his Alps (literally “heroes”) feels very like that between the Prophet and his companions. Something about this tribal community evokes early Islam for me with its loves and loyalties, plots and betrayals, personality clashes, and noble sacrifices by both men and women. Ertugrul’s Alps — Turgut, Dogan, the subtly hilarious Bamsi and a few others — remind me of the Prophet’s companions in their relationship to him. (And apparently Bamsi was quite a funny man in real life as well.) 

If you’ve seen how U.S. movies and TV portrayed Native Americans in the 50s and 60s and also Muslims post 9/11, you’ll understand why any Alp can dispatch eight or ten crusaders without breaking a sweat. The enemy are either silly and inept or cacklingly evil. The one or two good ones are really on our side — the side of the ‘good guys’ – and will eventually convert and/or be killed. (The non-speaking Mongol roles in Season Two are even more ridiculous, but I won’t get into that now.) My other complaint is the portrayal of Ibn al-Arabi, a towering Sufi mystic who was the equal of Mevlana Jalaluddin Rumi, but is much less known in the west. The problems are not the actor’s fault. He apparently does his best, but he can’t fight the lines. Ibn al-Arabi’s unparalleled grasp of metaphysics and the subtle levels and inter-relations within the Divine Schematic are mostly replaced by jingoistic exhortations and encouraging platitudes. The idiosyncratic hermit is a much better example of a true mystic.

This show can get to you. A few weeks ago I was in the kitchen googling “Ertugrul Tours” while my husband was in the living room ordering a Beginning Turkish course. (I’ve been to Turkey and hope to go back some day.) Like all great epics of heroes and villains, Dirillis: Ertugrul is all in fun unless it isn’t. The Turkish patriotism of the Kayi Tribe, with their beautiful sky-blue flag, is as inspiring and as flawed and potentially dangerous as any other patriotism. May we, the entranced and admiring viewers, absorb the courage and inspiration of this epic and enjoy the plain old fun, but may we also work across countries and cultures in the causes of justice, understanding, and peace. 

 

 

*This phrase comes from a subtitled martial arts movie’s description of the idyllic valley where dedicated students live and train with their holy master.  The “whizzing breeb” apparently refers to a fresh and stimulating breeze. Ertugrul’s Season Two exceeds Season One in funny subtitles; among other enjoyments for the English-speaking audience, the 13th Century heroes can be seen referring to their enemies as “asshats” and “muppets”.

NOTE: Season One is lovely, but I have a problem with Season Two which grows stronger at the start of Season Three. It’s not the beginning, which is so weird you think a new, silly director has been subbed in, but this gets better around Episode 12. It’s not that the disgusting new villain is hella-handsome, or even that the violence is slightly more realistic.  But I must protest the misuse of Islam: Killing enemies for fun, or because they belong to a different religion, is emphatically unIslamic. (Though the Alps shown speaking this way are talking about enemy fighters, not women, children, old people or noncombatants. The thought of harming such people horrifies them.) Qur. 5:48 states, “To each among you have We prescribed a law and an open way. If Allah had so willed, He would have made you [humanity] a single people, but (His plan is) to test you in what He has given you: so strive as in a race in all virtues. The goal of you all is to Allah. it is He that will show you the truth of the matters in which you dispute.”  Thus religious diversity is part of the Divine Plan and those who wish to compete with others should try to outdo them in acts of goodness.  

 

 

 

 

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