Grinch?

I’ve always been more in touch with my emotions than most. I’m the girl who cries in movies like Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls, sputtering helplessly about the poor little raccoon stuck on the log. I’ve never been ashamed of the fact that I cry more than most, and in fact have always believed it to be healthy to spill out emotions rather than keep them frustratingly un-spilled.
With the obvious exception of animals in plight, the only thing that makes me cry is people. I cry if people I love are upset, or in trouble, and I even cry if people I don’t even know are in horrendous situations. Therefore, when I heard that the week would be spent learning about German history, immigration, and the victims of the Nazi regime, I was prepared for the Sally Sputters. But when I arrived at the Topogrophie des Terrors, something strange happened: I felt absolutely nothing.
I stared at the images of soldiers, the images of books burning, and the heart-wrenching images of Kristallnacht, and thought about nothing but Christmas songs and what I was going to eat for dinner that night. I was so disgusted with myself that I started to seek out images that I knew should disturb me. In the middle of the timeline, there was a blown up image of Jews about to be hanged. I walked over to it, preferring masochism to blissful stoic ignorance. Specifically, I wanted to see the faces of the people about to be hanged. I hoped that by looking at their expressions, I would somehow understand how it feels to understand death. With my nose almost touching the fabric, I peered into the eyes of the victims. None of them looked sad. Perhaps, I thought, they were already dead. Perhaps they no longer had enough energy to care about living, to care about caring.
But observing their faces didn’t even make me cry. I scrutinized their expressions like a curious scientist rather than the weepy artist that I usually am. I thought about my upbringing: perhaps I’ve been jaded about WWII, having learned about it more than most children. Still, it continued to frustrate me that I couldn’t get upset about one of the most horrible travesties in history. Then I thought: is wanting to get upset over something like this just selfish? Do I want to be upset about this just so I don’t feel like a bad person, not because I actually feel sympathy? I decided then to abandon my quest for a heart-wrenching picture, only to stumble upon something that spoke to me.
On my mother’s car, there’s an upside-down rainbow triangle—a symbol of what makes her unique in the world. Today, the upside-down triangle is the symbol of homosexuality. I was interested to see that gays under the Nazi regime were forced to wear a pink upside-down triangle. I wondered: is this where the symbol stems from today? Is the symbol of homosexuality just sort of a “Fuck you, we’re proud!” to the Nazis? And then, as I continued to ponder, I realized that nothing else had spoken to me because I couldn’t relate the tragedy to anything that I’ve directly experienced in my life. Gay culture I’m familiar with, so it made sense that the one thing I would be interested in was homosexual Nazi-culture.
Then, as the days progressed and we began to learn more and more about the lives of the minorities under the Nazis, I became more and more immersed in my sadness. Certainly the culmination of this progressing sympathy was the visit to Sachsenhausen. The tour itself wasn’t tear jerking at first—I’ve always been morbidly fascinated by stories about concentration camps, and have visited several. Therefore, nothing our guide said surprised me at first. Again scientist-like in my observations, I listened to as many victims’ stories as I could, but even then I couldn’t connect with their plights. They still seemed so fictional. Watching someone tell a story on a television screen is hardly witnessing his life. And as a generation we’ve been so exposed to television as fictional entertainment that it’s often difficult to feel like anything we’re told is real. So, I listened to the stories, read the articles, learned as much as I possibly could and later reiterated the stories to my loved ones, fascinated by the how cruel people could be.
Later, when Adam took us down into Station Z, I had what I considered to be my first real contact with labor camp victims. Now, I have a problem with blood in general. I can’t look at my blood when it’s being drawn, I get woozy when I cut myself, and I can’t stand to see others bleeding. To see bloodstains of innocent victims was probably one of the most memorable images of my life so far. Finally, what I had been searching for: something tangible, something non-fiction, something incredibly jarring. I let myself stare at the stain, and was careful to not exaggerate my own feelings. I knew that the stain should upset me, but I didn’t let that thought make me upset. I wanted to feel my body reacting to this image. I just, looked at it. I felt like I wanted to vomit, and I felt like I wanted to cry. So I left.
I left. I felt sick when Adam gave us that appreciation speech at the end of the tour, talking about what wonderful people we are to come to a labor camp in our free time, and how the experience will surely live on with us. We won’t forget it, he says. But I think that I will. I think that as a defense mechanism, I’ll simply not think about it at all. And that made me feel about three inches tall. Stop it, I thought, when he kept thanking us, I don’t deserve to be thanked. The rest of the day, it felt insulting to smile. My lips didn’t really know what to do, and sort of hung there loosely on my face, painted into a lazy half crescent of forced detachment. I guess I’ll only know in time whether or not I’ll forget the experience, or choose to do so, whether consciously or unconsciously.

Ooo, Shiny! [Assignment 1]

Sometimes I get genuinely angry that my life isn’t truly remarkable. Don’t misunderstand—I am in no way saying that I’m unfortunate, or that my life so far hasn’t been an incredible adventure. No, I get upset that I don’t have superpowers, or that magic isn’t real, or that I’ll never be able to time travel. So when I get a little hint of the fantastic in a world that sometimes seems so Vanilla and Sham Wow, I reel with excitement.
In Berlin, I found this happiness in a disco ball at my first German poetry slam. Little did I know that as I walked into the room and was immediately freckled in light, my vision of the disco ball winking at the crowd was the most poetic thing I would experience that night.
I didn’t expect much from German Slam Poetry. I’ve always found Slam Poetry to be rather pretentious, and too depressing for my taste. I was more interested in the sort of people that attended these events in Germany. I wondered: would they also wear plaid and glasses sans glass? Would they also smell like incense and wear their shoes down to the nub? I also wondered about the audience dynamic. At the poetry slams I attended in Seattle, the crowd often made rather unique chants like “YES.” or “WHAT!” that always made me chuckle. But what I discovered was that German crowds, in addition to preferring cheerful, angst-less poetry, remained mostly silent en masse. Occasionally, they’d laugh at a performer’s witty story, but there were no cries of “TELL ‘EM GIRL” or “YOU KNOW,” which I had become so fond of back home. Additionally, I call it “poetry,” but what the performers were reading was far from verse. It seems that we attended some sort of amusing short story-reading gathering.
It was nice to practice my German and sort through the thicket of fast spoken word to pick out the humor that the performers tried so desperately to convey. Naturally, I picked up less than I expected, half because they were talking so quickly and half because I sure did fall asleep in my chair, and by chair I mean couch that we stole from the lobby. Fortunately I didn’t sleep too much because between performances a blinding and obnoxious light shone out on to the audience, and by audience, I mean just me and four or so people who surrounded me. So, every once in a while I was awoken by tiny beads of sweat dripping down my neck and a slight light-induced migraine. And so my first group experience in Berlin culminated in dizziness, curiosity about German youth culture, and a slight neck cramp from having rested my head on my shoulder for forty minutes. Still, I can’t justify ever complaining about anything in Berlin—I’m so fortunate to be here. Everything here is beautiful, efficient, and interesting, and I feel like as a group, we’ve lived this week to the fullest.

Berlin Proposal

After walking down American streets a countless number of times without once having my smile acknowledged, I can’t help but wonder what hardens locals against strangers. Is it the fear of the unknown, or something deeper? More specifically, are people too lazy to acknowledge others? Could it be that smiling at a stranger on the street, waving to a vagrant, or even brushing against someone else affects a person negatively because it acknolwdges the other’s existence? Are we so selfish that we prefer to exist in our tiny bubbles, believing that at least in our worlds, we’re the most important?

            Clearly these, among other questions, will be difficult to answer, but exciting to explore. In Berlin, I seek to answer these questions: What cultural differences cause the issue of personal space to be different in America vs. Germany? How do citizens of each react to invasion of this space? Is the difference really that perceptible, or are people generally the same?

            To answer these from a scientific and objective perspective, I have conducted research here, including observing and interacting with others,  which I have recorded in a research journal. Upon arrival in Berlin, I plan to compare my results in order to come upon an accurate or at least logical conclusion. Yes, I may discover that human inter-action isn’t logical, but to me, that is an extremely significant discovery. Perhaps I will find that humans are too different to be sloughed into little masses of culture, and because of their uniqueness can not be classified. More interestingly, I may find that intrinsically, we are all the same. 

Abstract

Studies of prostitution, personal space, social interactions, and athletic inclusion regarding gender and religion come together to create an umbrella theme of Social Borders in Berlin. These social borders, exhibited through very different studies, which use very different methods, are generally lines that Berliners encounter and interact with in their lives. Studying them will attempt to further understand why they exist, how they compare with their American counterparts (do they even have American counterparts), how those who see and experience them feel about the existence of the borders, and whether or not these walls should remain standing.

Questions ask, more precisely: what cultural differences cause the border to exist? How do citizens react to the border? What are the “rules” that dictate the border? How many people does this border affect or influence? (Further, what is this border’s affect on cultural identity?) What are the implications of this border? Are insiders aware of this border? How do outsiders view the border? Focusing on and personalizing these questions will drive the research.

Each of these topics is very site-specific. An important part of the research will be attempting to experience these borders on-site and interacting with the people that the border directly includes (speaking with prostitutes, bumping into people, sitting in market places, and playing soccer, respectively). The concept here is that experiencing (directly and indirectly) the border itself and interjecting oneself into the social division being researched will promote more insight, understanding, and, frankly, more questions. Specifically, as each research topic in this “Social Borders” group deals overtly with society and social interactions, projects will all become clearer once that social (on-site) wall is confronted.

I never thought of that!

Having lived in Turkey for so many years, I expected to be familiar with most of the issues presented in Aksoy and Candan's papers. While I was aware of the issues with entering the EU, I was not aware of the extremity of globalization in Istanbul. I spent most of my time in Ankara, which I wish we could see, because it's so different from anywhere I've been. The streets are always dusty and cracked by stubborn and knotted tree roots, the streets are sparsely populated, and the people are friendly and eager to offer tea. When I picture Istanbul, I do picture the busy metropolis that was described in the papers, but sadly, I don't want to picture this. Turkey is so rich with culture that I fear it's turning in the wrong direction. Why should Istanbul expand and become more of a metropolis? Yes, it will attract more tourists, and it will continue to be, as was said, a 'microcosm of Anatolia,' but will this really please visitors? Visitors who come to see the true Turkey and end up seeing the Starbucks and Burger Kings that pepper the streets of their homelands? I fear that Turkey is concentrating so much on its entering into the EU that it's forgetting where it comes from. It's forgetting that it's culture and landmarks are arguably more rich with history than many other European countries. Why would Turkey want to lose the Lira, or want to join up with an organization that is clearly reluctant to accept it? I'm very interested to hear about what the speaker today has to say, because after the readings for today, I'm left thoroughly confused. 

It's pretty cumbersome being me

I make progress daily in my research, since I'm an extremely clumsy person. More frequently than I'd like to admit, I run into people, sometimes jarring myself so hard that I stumble. Lately, I've begun to not apologize when this happens (even though this faux pas eats me up inside), and I've been met by what can only be described as genuine glares. Some have yelled at me, some have sarcastically cajoled me on my inability to walk in a straight line, but absolutely none have ignored me. 

I seek to continue my blatant lack of grace in Europe, where I expect different reactions. I seek to find the source of this ignorance of personal space. What causes people overseas to be so much less uptight? Granted, to answer this question I'll need to do a lot of inferring and assuming, but it's better to postulate than to give up.

 

Mmm... learning

I'm extremely happy to discover that Berlin has a museum festival from January 31st- August 29th. Sure, this might not sound all that special or interesting, but what's fabulous about it is that it's called the Long Museum Night festival. Visitors may enter anywhere between 6pm on  a Saturday to 2am on the following Sunday. If night-museuming isn't enough to enthuse a traveller, it's worth mentioning that these museums will provide food, theater performances, and much more. I can't wait to go!