brilliance

Learned something new today:

The same man, Michael Frayn, wrote "Noises Off" and "Copenhagen." Huh.

http://www.newyorker.com/culture/culture-desk/the-sublime-chaos-of-noises-off?mbid=social_twitter

me. circa 1997 or 8.

did photoshop exist? the selfie did not.

think like a little girl

http://www.firstforwomen.com/posts/little-girl-takes-brilliant-shortcut-to-complete-punishment-assignment-teaches-us-all-a-lesson-88085

Gender Tales: Pink Tax in Budapest

Hold on, I will get to the Pink Tax.

When my daughter started first grade in Budapest in 2014 there was a steep learning curve for both of us.  My expectations about the first-day experience were not met and I was I was deeply shocked by what I considered to be profoundly misguided traditions inconsiderate of children's needs when entering the care of a new school and a new teacher.

Over time I developed a love-hate relationship with the system. No school is perfect. But those striving toward perfection earn my respect. I worry about a system that doesn't seem self-aware, self-critical, or open to the changing needs of its population. However, it should be noted there is a growing teacher rebellion against the nationwide reforms imposed three years ago. The movement is worth your attention and support. Teachers are revolting and parents are revolting by turning away from the public system to open independent new schools.

Back to my local school and my kids. I think it is fair to say that a public school is a perfect microcosm of its culture. (And this will lead me to the Pink Tax, pinkie-swear.)

My current analysis of Hungary is that at the center of its cultural identity is this word:  Tradition. My theory about America is that its central word is:  Independence. These words function in ways that are fascinating to explore and tease out from the news and the arts. These identity tags function.

At the center of the Hungarian school is the notion of tradition with a capital T.

One example of this is the required sports class and its requisite uniform. I was instructed at the parent's meeting to purchase for my daughter a "torna ruha," white socks, and gym shoes with white soles. I get the gym shoes requirement, as it keeps the floors clean.

My first task was to understand "torna ruha." It translates to "gym clothes." However, in the Hungarian tradition (Tradition), this means the girls wear a leotard and the boys wear gym shorts and a white t-shirt. In a classroom of thirty kids they all strip down to their Star Wars skivvies and put on the gym uniform. Right away this signals the gym class is not a play class but a workout. Physical fitness is another lesson, as rigorous as math or reading. I have theories about this too. Seriously, how effective can that be? I know my husband learned to skip gym classes as soon as possible when growing up in a Hungarian school system. But let me stay focussed on the Pink Tax. We are getting there.

After much discussion about the gender imbalance related to requiring girls to wear body-revealing leotards while boys wear comfortable sports clothes, I dutifully went to the sports store. I had resigned to buy my daughter the leotard as well as the shorts and t-shirt. I would pack both and let her decide what worked best for her.

I found the display for the gym clothes. And there it was: The Pink Tax. The leotard cost 2,999 forint (about 10 dollars), which is not cheap. The shorts and the t-shirt combined cost 2,789.  A lesson in the marketplace before the first day of school: It is expensive to be a girl and have the "right" outfit! Granted, the price was only slightly more for the girl outfit. But there it is. Not only does the Tradition expect her to wear a body-revealing costume, it expects her to pay more for it (for less material).

It still makes my blood boil, roiling with pink bubbles of indignation.

#worldwidepinktax
#ugh
#gendertales
#budapest


FYI: More on the pink tax:  http://time.com/4159973/women-pay-more-everything/

this is marriage

best wedding ritual ever

#holyshit

#HAKAatweddingreception

‪#‎ProudPolynesians‬

Thunderstruck

or, my high school homecoming theme song circa 1990-ishsomthing. only cooler.

although the hundreds of foil-covered lightening bolts we made by hand and hung from the lunchroom ceiling were very atmospheric. and the bold choice of an AC/DC song instead of say, Extreme's "More than Words," was absolutely cool. this video, however, still cooler.

portraiture: 40

Dear Girls

This piece was created for a talent competition for high schools in Reykjavík, Iceland.




This piece was created for a talent competition for high schools in North Carolina, America.

Janet's Stovetop Mac and Cheese

INGREDIENTS

· 3 tablespoons butter

· 3 tablespoons all-purpose flour

· 1 teaspoon salt (more to taste) and pepper (to taste)

· 4 cups milk

· 2 pinches nutmeg or cinnamon

· 1 bay leaf

· 3/4 pound small shell pasta or elbow macaroni

· 3 - 4 cups coarsely grated sharp yellow cheddar


DIRECTIONS

1. In a medium saucepan, melt butter over medium. Add flour and cook, stirring frequently, until mixture is pale golden, about 3 minutes.

2. Whisking constantly, pour in 2 cups milk; add 2 more cups milk and whisk until smooth. Add salt, nutmeg, and bay leaf. Cook mixture, stirring constantly until just boiling, 6 to 7 minutes. Reduce heat to low. Simmer gently, stirring occasionally, until sauce thickens, about 10 minutes. Set to lowest heat. Stir in cheese.

3. Meanwhile, in a large pot of boiling salted water, cook pasta until not quite al dente; drain thoroughly and return to pot. Reserve a cup of hot water to thin sauce as needed.

4. Remove sauce from heat and pour over pasta and stir to coat. Add hot pasta water as needed to reach the consistency you prefer. Cover pot and let set for a few minutes so the pasta can absorb the sauce and finish cooking (on low heat if needed). Add more salt and pepper to taste.

always served with peas in my house. also salmon, usually.
and sliced tomatoes, salted.
I have been known to use my immersion blender to remove lumps from my cheese sauce, occasionally. 

F.art

as seen in a Bartok Bela utca gallery window:

#Budapest

The Story of My Teeth

The Story of My Teeth by Valeria Luiselli

Translated by Christina MacSweeney

Coffee House Press, 2015

"I read a story in the newspaper about a certain local writer who had had all his teeth replaced. This writer, apparently, was able to afford the new dentures and the expensive operation because he'd written a novel. A novel! I saw my future, crystal clear. If that writer had had his teeth fixed with a book, I could do it too. Or, even better, I could get someone to write one for me." p. 18

"The teeth are the true windows to the soul; they are the tabula rasa on which all our vices are inscribed." p. 50

"I am Gustavo Sanchez Sanchez, I said. I am the peerless Highway. And I am my teeth. They may seem to you to be yellowed and a little worse for wear, but I can assure you: these teeth once belonged to none other than Marilyn Monroe, and she needs no introduction. If you want them, you will have to take me along too." p. 62

     Ah! I see that you're going to be a good writer too.
     Why do you say that?
     Because when you smile, you don't show your teeth. Real writers never show their teeth. Charlatans, in contrast, flash that sinister crescent when they smile. Check it out. Find photos of all the writers you respect, and you'll see that their teeth remain a permanently occult mystery. I believe the only exception is the Argentinian Jorge Francisco Isidoro Luis.
     Borges?
     The selfsame. Blind and Argentinian. But he doesn't count because he was blind, so he probably couldn't picture himself smiling--at least, not with the smile he had when he was blind, if you know what I mean." p.111

September 11, 2015 New York Times Sunday Book Review:

 http://www.nytimes.com/2015/09/13/books/review/the-story-of-my-teeth-by-valeria-luiselli.html?_r=0

Mary Oliver "Not Anyone Who Says"

NOT ANYONE WHO SAYS

Not anyone who says, “I’m going to be
  careful and smart in matters of love,”
who says, “I’m going to choose slowly,”
but only those lovers who didn’t choose at all
but were, as it were, chosen
by something invisible and powerful and uncontrollable
and beautiful and possibly even
unsuitable —
only those know what I’m talking about
in this talking about love.

Source: 
https://www.brainpickings.org/2015/10/20/mary-oliver-felicity-love/

Budapest Games

Berlin: 1936
Roma families are taken from their beds and detained in a camp outside of the city where visitors to the 1936 Berlin Olympics will never see them. Later they would be taken to death camps. Hitler had ordered Berlin transformed and perfected for the world to see his ideas made real on its streets. Anti-Semitic signs were removed (stored, and then replaced after the games). The Der Stürmer, a newspaper whose slogan was “The Jews Are Our Misfortune” was removed from newsstands.

Budapest: July, 2015
Budapest and the Hungarian Olympic Committee officially announce their intention to bid for the 2024 Olympic Summer Games.

Budapest: Nov. 7th, 2015
Excerpt from Viktor Orban’s Speech to his Diplomats: Hungary’s historical given is that we live together with a few hundred thousands Roma. This was decided by someone, somewhere. This is what we inherited. This is our situation, this is our predetermined condition…. We are the ones who have to live with this, but we don’t demand from anyone, especially not in the direction of the west, that they should live together with a large Roma minority.

Sources:

Description of Berlin: adapted from The Boys in the Boat by Daniel James Brown
Orban’s speech: English translation taken from the HungarianSpectrum, a blog written by Eva S. Balogh

Comic Relief: We Are Sinking

This remains one of my all-time favorite laughs:

What This Hutchinson Woman and Her Family Learned from the Syrian Migrants in Budapest

My essay as it appeared in the Hutchinson News:

http://www.hutchnews.com/news/what-this-hutchinson-women-and-her-family-learned-from-the/article_aa32ef44-feb6-5449-a6d9-9d0d1e936bd0.html

School started Sept. 1 in Budapest, but one of the most important lessons my kids will learn this year happened the night before.

My husband and I took my kids, ages 6 and 7, two metro stops down to see the migrants gathered at the Keleti Train Station. We had passed out oranges to the Syrians we found gathered there a few weeks ago as we boarded our train to visit Transylvania. We returned to the station this past Monday afternoon empty-handed to spend time walking among them.

The reality is that I am a migrant, too. I am an American living in Hungary. While I am here by choice and reside legally, the people we saw are trapped. They are not welcome here.

I didn't worry about taking the kids to see the squalid conditions at the majestic 19th-century station, nor did I wonder about our safety in a frantic crowd of refugees traveling with only what they carry and desperate to find a safe haven in Europe. When we passed through a few weeks prior, the refugees were a peaceful crowd. It was a sad campground set up in the modern corridor of the newly renovated metro station hallways.

That night, a few trains were allowed to leave for Germany, but shortly the entire station would be closed to all migrants and international train service suspended as Hungary struggled to create a safe environment for all passengers. Days later, they would start their march on foot toward Austria and Germany before Hungary shut down its border, forcing people to find another route to escape the violence of their homeland.

We were in a hurry then as we had flown in from the States the day before and wanted to make the overnight train to visit Grandma in Transylvania. I bought two shopping bags of oranges along with our snacks for the train, and we left in time to drop the oranges at the migration aid station.

Jet-lagged and cranky, we lugged our bags through the metro and toward Keleti station. When we arrived, however, we didn’t see the volunteers, who would soon be fully organized. Instead, I simply handed an orange to a family with small children. They smiled. I smiled. My kids, who had been reluctant about the idea, saw the exchange and reached for their own oranges to share.

It was my husband’s idea to leave the security of our neighborhood and return to the station the night before school started. It seemed impossible to go about my calm, ordered, privileged routine while hearing the stories of their suffering at the station.

My kids didn’t have much to say while we walked through the crowds, stepping over discarded blankets and filthy toys. Weaving a path around piles of belongings, we made our way to the central crowd. Volunteers passed out food. Another group had brought blankets and art supplies and sat, their laps filled with warm, eager little people happy to play and color even though they didn’t share a common language. A musician had set up and soon a crowd gathered to sing and move their bodies in the release of dance.

This is what I wanted my children to see: the refugee family, clutching only what they can carry, in a foreign land. This is deep down courage. This is what it means to be human. And our response to their plight defines us.

Later, we explained to the kids that these people were trapped at the station because the trains were not running to Germany. We said they had left their homes and all their belongings behind because of war and poverty. They wanted to find a safe home and a chance at a better life.

We were in awe of these people who had risked their lives to escape war. Their futures were uncertain and would be decided on the whim of which train might leave or which rumor they take as truth guiding them along their route.

The next day, my 6-year-old son, entering the first grade, came home from Keleti station and began work with some paper, scissors, tape and colored pencils. I was impressed with what he did. He had drawn a train, cut it out and taped it together using six sheets of paper. It was a long, beautiful train.

He told me he thought we should take it down to Keleti and give it to the kids there. He wanted to give them what they deserve, a chance to grow up in a safe place.



--Janet Kelley grew up in Hutchinson and lives with her family during the school year in Budapest, Hungary. She is a 1993 graduate of Trinity High School. Follow her on Twitter @hutchkelley5

#Hungary #Refugees #Keleti

Orban: Defender of Christian Europe?

Orban clearly states that he is defending Christian Europe from a Muslim invasion.  I began to wonder if their is a warrant for self-defense in the Christian tradition.  I found the following argument (verbatim):

By the time Jesus came to earth, the leaders of the most religious group on earth, those who had been "Chosen" by God to exhibit the character of God and to preach the Good News of God to all of the surrounding nations of unbelievers, had so perverted and distorted the Word of God they had been given, turning it away from a focus on God to a focus on themselves as "Special" above all men, that it was necessary for God to come to earth in the form of man, Jesus, to reveal the exact and complete character of God, to show that God was vastly different from what men believed about Him.

But even the religious leaders were in such darkness, they did not recognize Jesus as God. They were looking for the Messiah to come in the image of "man," THEIR image of "man" - an earthly king who would destroy their earthly enemies, the Romans, and set up the Jews as the rulers over all other nations, an earthly kingdom, ruled by force by a "Messiah" who believed in destroying His enemies.

When Jesus refused to do this, when Jesus refused to destroy Israel's enemies, when Jesus refused to exhibit the emotions of vengeance as humanity does, the Jews refused to accept Jesus as their Messiah. They worshiped a "killer God," a God who destroys His enemies. Therefore, they would not believe that Jesus was the Messiah because He wouldn't kill!

In fact, their hearts were so severely darkened, because they worshiped a God who, they believed, kills His enemies, that they also felt justified in killing those THEY decided were God's enemies. By worshiping a "killer" God, they became like the one they beheld, they became like the one they worshiped. Therefore, in their obsession against One who claimed to be God but refused to kill, they murdered Jesus - they murdered God!

The above text is taken from the following article:  "Is Self-Defense a Right and a Duty? Does God Approve of Christians Protecting Themselves 

and Their Families with Weapons?" By Lorraine Day, M.D.

And this is what I read between the lines:

By the time Orban came to power, the leaders of the most religious group on earth, the Hungarians of Europe, who had been chosen by God to exhibit the character of God and to preach the Good News, had so perverted and distorted the Word of God, turning it away from a focus on God to a focus on themselves as special above all men, that it was necessary for God to come to earth in the form of the refugee, to reveal the exact and complete character of God, to show that God was vastly different from what men believed about God.

But even the religious leaders were in such darkness that they did not recognize the refugees as God. They were looking to their Messiah, Orban, an earthly king who would destroy their earthly enemies, all non-Hungarians, and set up the Hungarians as sovereign unto their own earthly kingdom, ruled by Orban who believed in destroying his enemies.

When the refugees refused to behave and to listen to Orban, when they exhibited their humility and suffering and asked for nothing but to pass through his land, Orban refused them. Instead he cultivated worship of a killer God, a God who destroys his enemies. Therefore, the Hungarians could not believe that the refugees were God at their borders.

In fact, their hearts were so severely darkened, because they worshipped Orban, their great defender, who himself uses force against his enemies, that they too felt justified in maligning, insulting, and imprisoning Orban’s enemies. By voting for a killer, tough-guy Orban, they became like the one they worshipped. Therefore, in their obsession with the refugees who claimed to be God but refused to use violence and only showed a deeper threat to Orban—raw human vulnerability—they murdered the refugees.

A Lesson in Courage at Keleti Station, Budapest

School starts in Budapest on September 1st. One of the most important lessons my kids will learn this year, however, happened the night before. My husband and I took my kids, ages 6 and 7, two metro stops down to see the refugees gathered at the Keleti Train Station. A few weeks ago we had given oranges to the Syrians we found gathered there as we boarded our train to visit Transylvania. We returned to the station this past Monday afternoon empty-handed. We had come to see with our own eyes and simply spend time walking among the refugees.

Did I second-guess our decision to take the kids to see the squalid conditions at the majestic 19th century station? Did I wonder about our safety in a frantic crowd of refugees traveling with only what they carry and desperate to find a safe haven in Europe? Frankly, no. When we passed through a few weeks prior, the refugees were a peaceful crowd. It was a sad campground set up in the modern corridor of the newly renovated metro station hallways.

We were in a hurry then as we had flown in from the States the day before and wanted to make the overnight train to visit grandma in Transylvania. I bought two shopping bags of oranges along with our snacks for the train and insisted we leave in time to drop the oranges at the Migration Aid station. Jet-lagged and cranky we lugged our bags through the metro and toward Keleti station. When we arrived, however, we didn’t see the volunteers (now they are fully organized) and instead I simply handed an orange to a family with small children. They smiled. I smiled. My kids, who had been reluctant about the idea, saw the exchange and reached for their own oranges to share.

It was my husband’s idea to leave the sanctuary of our neighborhood and return to the station the night before school started. I was more concerned with dinner time and a peaceful evening. Yet I agreed to go along. It seemed impossible to go about my calm, ordered, privileged routine while hearing the stories of their suffering at the station.

My kids didn’t have much to say while we walked through the crowds, stepping over discarded blankets and filthy toys. Weaving a path around piles of belongings, we made our way to the central crowd. Volunteers passed out food. Another group had brought blankets and art supplies and sat, their laps filled with warm, eager little people happy to play and color even though they didn’t share a common language. A musician had set up and soon a crowd gathered to sing, dance, and move their bodies in the release of dance.

We explained to the kids that these people were trapped at the station because the trains were not running to Germany. We said that they had left their homes and all their belongings behind because of war and poverty. They wanted to find a safe home and a chance at a better life. We didn’t say all of this at the station, however. This explanation had come out in pieces over the weeks as the refugee crisis grew. At the station we were mostly observant. It was a kind of reverence. We were in awe of these people who had risked their lives to escape war. Their futures were uncertain, and would be decided on the whim of which train might leave or which rumor they take as truth guiding them along their route.

These people, no matter your opinion about the correct political response to this worldwide migration event, define courage. This is what I wanted my children to see. Courage is not the larger-than-life, testosterone-charged American football hero. This is courage: the refugee family, clutching only what they can carry, in a foreign land. Courage is their powerful vulnerability, and their irresistible urge to seek a better life. This is deep down courage. This is what it means to be human. And our response to their plight also defines us.

I have no idea what my children understood or felt as they walked among the refugees. Some of our deepest emotions are ineffable. But when we returned from the Keleti station, my six-year-old son, entering the first grade the next day, set about constructing a project with paper, scissors, tape, and colored pencils. When he showed me the result, I was impressed. He had drawn, cut out, and taped together six sheets of paper to make a train. It was a long, beautiful train. He told me that he thought we should take it down to Keleti and give it to the kids there. He wanted to give the kids a train. Something deep down in him recognized the courage and dignity of those bedraggled kids. He wanted to give them what they deserve, a chance to grow up in a safe place.

In the following days, my son often suggested that we give some money or oranges to the destitute we see on the streets. Living in a modern urban city means my kids see the majestic beauty of Budapest's architecture and it's carefully cultivate parks as well as homeless people everyday. They recognize the local drunk who weaves down the sidewalk, wet with piss and talking rapidly to the sky.  We do often, but not always, give our spare change to those who ask. I have stopped and helped those in need of medical care. But I am left to wallow in the murky moral waters of modern urban life. We witnessed the courage and dignity of the refugees at Keleti station. How should I respond daily to the local people in need? And how do I explain to my kids the difference between the refugees and the destitute we see everyday? Is there a difference?

Back to School Lessons at Keleti Station, Budapest

School starts in Budapest on September 1st. One of the most important lessons my kids will learn this year, however, happened the night before. My husband and I took my kids, ages 6 and 7, two metro stops down to see the refugees gathered at the Keleti Train Station. A few weeks ago we had given oranges to the Syrians we found gathered there before we boarded our train to visit Transylvania. We returned to the station this past Monday afternoon empty-handed. We had come to see with our own eyes and simply spend time walking among them.

The reality is that I am a migrant too. I am an American living in Hungary. While I am here by choice and reside legally, the people we saw were trapped. They are not welcome here. That night a few trains were allowed to leave for Germany, but shortly the entire station would be closed to all migrants and international train service suspended as Hungary struggled to create a safe environment for all passengers. Days later they would start their march on foot toward Austria.

My kids didn’t have much to say while we were at the station. In the past weeks, however, we have often remembered the only family we know who had to flee empty-handed from war, but we don’t know their names either. It is the fictional family in Uri Shulevitz’s picture book “How I learned Geography,” published in 2008. I remind them that kids at the station are just like that little boy who had no toys and no food.

In Shulevitz’s tale, based on his own experience, the father spends their last coins not on bread, but on a map. The boy was furious and hungry. The next day the father hangs the colorful map, which covers a wall, and the boy learns to forget his hunger and travel freely to faraway safe lands as he stares at the map. The story ends when the boy forgives his father because he understands that it was right to choose the power of imagination over a few morsels of bread. If he had bought the bread, they would still be hungry. But now they had hope, on which they could survive.

The worst thing about the current situation in Hungary is that the government has no message of hope for the children at the station. They have not even offered bread.

The good news is that Hungarians have found the courage to respond to the refugees in an impressive act of volunteerism. Migration Aid asked for people to temporarily stop bringing donations because they ran out of storage room and capacity to organize and distribute the goods.

Was it gross of us to go to the station with our children merely to see? Was I conflicted as I reached to fix my lipstick in the metro before we arrived? Did I feel a strong sense of privilege as I left the station and took the metro home to my apartment facing a park? Yes. The only thing more uncomfortable would have been to go to school the next day, the kids gorgeous in their first-day clothes and new backpacks, having ignored the kids at the station.

My six-year-old son, entering the first grade the next day, came home from Keleti station and set about constructing a project with paper, scissors, tape, and colored pencils. When he showed me the result, I was impressed. It was a train he had drawn, cut out, and taped together using six sheets of paper. It was a long, beautiful train. He told me that he thought we should take it down to Keleti and give it to the kids there.