The American dream is built on Latin America's nightmare.

Thinking about exile lately, I found this essay that I wrote for a global core class. I highly recommend this book, especially for people who leave abroad and/or feminists. Despite the despair that is found throughout the book there is a beautiful light at the end:)

José Donoso, The Garden Next Door.

Donoso explores the double theme of exile and identity in this novella. Try to define those ideas in terms of the book and show how they affect the book's structure--its plot, characters, even its devices (metamorphosis especially).

Donoso explores in depth the themes of exile and identity of Latin American emigrants in Europe. Is exile defined by a place or by a feeling? How is one’s identity modified in exile? Can one go back? Should one go back? What is the cultural baggage of children of exiles? Is there salvation in exile? Is art a salvation? are questions that the characters attempt to answer.

Julio, the narrator and the reader’s center of conscience, and Gloria, his wife are Chilean intellectuals that immigrated to Spain with their son Pato. While in Chile they were part of the upper class, in their Spanish exile they faced personal, professional and financial hardships.

For Julio home is ‘a house, a limited space where your heart feels safe.’ (p.152) Exile is defined contrastingly, as a prison: while he loses his ties with Chile, its places and people, he is unable to construct a satisfactory identity in Spain, since his novel is repeatedly rejected. He is trapped between a lost identity, and a new one that failed to emerge as desired: ‘ I can’t go back. How? Without a single book published in Spain, …an exile at home and not abroad.’(p.148).

Julio’s attempt to write ‘the great Chilean’ novel that would build a political commentary based on his experience in a Chilean prison has been repeatedly deemed worthless by publishers: I couldn’t adapt…. Monclus’ (p.22) The Chilean reality was too specific and obsolete to be received by consumers of modern subjective literature. According to Bijou, the son of Julio’s exiled friends, ‘Chile has gone out of fashion’.(p.42). His parents left Europe as an accept of failure, since ‘they couldn’t take it anymore, they were old…failed as painters in the European world’ (p.42) Children of Latin American immigrants, grew up with’ identity problems, …, dispersion, defeat’ (p.23). Pato and Bijou both ran away from their troubled homes to live chaotic lives as luxury prostitutes and thieves. Having their roots in Europe, but still inheriting their parents desperation, children of immigrants tend localize at the periphery of the bohemian society.

One isn’t defeated until one hasn’t consumed most or all the possibilities of accomplishment. Old age comes with a consummation of possibilities. The garden next door, reminiscent of home, with its celebrations of youth and sexuality, as well as Bijou’s lifestyle, symbolizes the lost youth Julio and Gloria and emphasizes their failure. Julio desires Bijou and his lack of structure in life, his liberation from cultural, professional and sexual norms: ‘Bijou’s attraction was not quite sexual…pains that had been tearing me apart. ‘ (p.70)

Having hit rock bottom, Gloria with her nervous breakdown, and Julio with his literary failure, they must undergo metamorphosis. Paradoxically, Julio’s failure as the male of the family fueled Gloria’s healing. For both Julio and Gloria return to Chile is unacceptable. What is left to do is to transcend their inner prisons in exile, find their own adjusted ‘tone’ and embrace it by creating a new identity. Giulia escaped the prison of her illness and discovered her talent as a writer that has abandoned the greater political concern of her work. Since, as Julio said, ‘the great novel has never been a novel of convictions; it has always been a novel of the heart’, Gloria adopted a ‘minor tone’ by writing a subjective experience though the mask of her husband. (p.150, p.240). Art is for her the salvation. However, Julio transcended the prison of his lack of talent as a writer and exploited his ability to work well within imposed structures by becoming a professor: ‘I can’t create beauty but I know how to appreciate it’ (p. 136, p.228)

Interesting day, filled with things that went from negative to pozitive: bank accounts, Z scores, spirits.

Din intelepciunea dragei mele Andru, pe care nu am mai vazut-o 3D de doi ani (dar sa traiasca mess-ul).

Cata vreme traim sub acelasi cer, tot aproape suntem.

Cel mai important lucru este sa ne mantuim, fie ca iubim, construim coloane sau facem alte smecherii.

Atat de simplu si esential:)

Leaving Romania, never easy

I'm leaving tomorrow for Bucharest and on Saturday for NYC. It felt great to live with and for people for a month. I went to the seaside, to the villages around my town, I shared great moments with my friends. I cooked with my mom, went to Tom si Jerry almost every day with my friends, read Formula As and Idei in Dialog, re-discovered Kusturica, discovered Jean-Luc Godard because of my lovely Liana. I confessed my love for people (though Moni got me thinking when she said that I might be doing it for the show). Here, I feel that the inner world is as important as the outer world. I don't want to judge countries and their people, since subjectivity would prevent me from being fair. My holiday chill Romanian me is radically different from my nerdy stressed out American me and this highly interferes with my perceptions. I am stressed out therefore I am. Stress is such a great catalyst for intelectual development, when lack of sleep reduces the enzymatic activity of passion. In the short run, it functions great by blocking the reaction of the immune system and ensuring that all your body's supply is directed where is needed.
These intermezzos are always difficult, and I find it hard to extract myself from this big box of emotions that is Romania. I'm still not sure that I'm getting the most out of my American experience. Maybe I work too much when I should be studying more (though it feels good that I'm financially independent from my parents- but not from Ion), maybe I don't take advantage of the city's vibrant atmosphere (though this summer my friends were so lively and it was addictive). During the academic year, I have little time to think of much beyond the next problem set, or the essay that is due tomorrow, or the extracurriculars or the jobs or all the things that I'm supposed to do in the lab or the (many) midterms. I'm overwhelmed and weekends are for going out and disconnecting so that we can refresh the enthusiasm for next week's intense work schedule. Core classes are a delightful mix of academia and fun. Seminars with 20 people, where besides the professsor's lecture (who is most of the times a graduate student), people are encouraged to discuss on texts that are of historical importance. It is always interesting and people get so excited about things. Still, having so many deadlines every week is stressful. Alex and I joked how in high school we only had one deadline: the olympiad. For now, I want to think that this is the right thing to do: submit faithfully to an educational system that is definitely greater than myself ( oh, I'd make a great Muslim). I'm giving it my freedom, so that it can mould me into something, anything, something beautiful I hope.
I found a piece of writing from last year, trying to conclude what America meant to me after one year. I don't know anymore. I think I am more tolerant and more realistic now. After two years, everything seems so much more and so much more complicated. Here it is:


Cand eram mica, visam sa locuiesc intr-un oras mare mare, cu infinite posibilitati si infinita diversitate umana. Baia Mare, era, paradoxal, mult prea mica pentru visele mele, asa ca intrupasem acest ideal in Bucuresti. Am citit pe vremea aceea multa literature care ma ajuta sa imi proiectez viata in viitorul meu bucurestean: cam toate romanele si nuvelele lui Eliade (mosii care discutau filozofie in baruri nu erau de gasit in Baia Mare, dar, credeam eu, aveam sa ii gasesc cu siguranta in Bucuresti), Calea Victoriei a lui Cezar Petrescu, Bucurestiul tineretii mele de Ion Minulescu, Cismigiu & Co. de Grigore Bajenaru. Mizeria lui mi se parea ca boema, iar aroganta locuitorilor lui indicatorul unor puternice si interesante personalitati. Prima mea iubire a fost, evident, din Bucuresti. Cred ca numarul lacrimilor pe care le-am varsat pentru el a fost semnificativ mai mare decat numarul cuvintelor pe care le-am schimbat cu el. Aveam nevoie de o poveste imaginara dramatica care sa creeze o punte intre mine si acest oras al tuturor posibilitatilor.
Acum traiesc intr-un oras mare mare, care nu e Bucuresti, ci New York, un microcosmos al intregii lumi. Nu ma lega de el nici o poveste dramatica. Doar norocul. Dupa terminarea liceului, am decis sa aplic la universitati americane in urma unei incurajari din partea lui Dragos. Daca el ar fi zis ca nu am nici o sansa, asta era. As fi mers la Poli sa urmez ingineria chimica, in orasul visurilor mele. Ideea mea de universitate Americana in care as fi integrata era un spatiu izolat de lumea reala, o comunitate dedicata exclusiv cunoasterii. Am aplicat la Columbia University in the City of New York, aproape opusul a ceea ce imi doream, fiind situate in mijlocul valtorii vietii reale si al ispitelor ce te pot abate de la calea cea dreapta a cunoasterii. Asta pentru ca aplicatia era scurta si nu exista limita de cuvinte la eseul personal, ceea ce mi-a permis sa trimit eseul meu despre relatia mea cu chimia ca joc, interes, furie si pasiune. A fost un risc mare, caci lumea cataloga acest eseu ca fiind prea emotional pentru a fi digerat de pragmaticul spirit American. Am avut mare noroc. Probabil tocmai acest eseu m-a facut sa par interesanta, printre atatia tineri mult prea concentrate pe a intelege infinitul lumii exterioare pentru a da vreo atentie infinitului lumii interioare. De fapt, asta nu e neaparat o optiune, ci o constrangere a unui anumit tip de mediu: comunismul sau orasele de provincie: cand exteriorul e insuficient, ce iti ramane de facut e sa te intorci in interior, sa il asculti pe Socrate si sa te cunosti pe tine insuti, sa mergi cat mai adanc in tine insuti , sa te construiesti si sa te intelegi. Pe tine si pe ceilalti. Dar eu nu am trait in comunism, ci doar imi cauta scuze pentru lipsa mea de interes pentru lumea asta mare si, cred acum, fascinanta.
Infinitele posibilitati, oh da, sunt. Pe plan academic, cultural, personal. De cand sunt aici mi-am modificat radical limitele perceptiilor: de distanta, in sus, si de volum, in jos. Douazeci si cinci de strazi de mers pe jos( cam jumate din Baia Mare) mi se pare putin, iar o cantitate de 50 de microlitri risipa de substanta. Locuiesc intr-o tara in care algocalminul nostru cel de toate zilele e interzis. Probabil din exacerbarea unui pericol avand o probabilitate infima, sau probabil din cauza concurentei acerbe de pe piata farmaceutica.
La liceu, am crescut ca niste plante salbatice. Am avut profesori desemnati ca fiind buni pedagogi si care sa nu ne streseze, ca noi sa putem face performanta in domeniul preferat. Eram liberi pe atunci. Americanii nu sunt chiar liberi in liceu. Ei sunt constienti ca trebuie sa se cultive, sa experimenteze, sa calatoreasca, sa faca, sa ajute, sa progreseze si ca niciodata nu e prea mult pentru CV-ul impresionant ce il vor prezenta universitatilor la judecata de apoi a aplicatiei. Noi eram liberi. Atat de liberi incat ni s-a facut frica si a trebuit sa ne cream noi o structura, sa ne inlantuim de un ideal, ca sa nu ne pierdem coplesiti de atata libertate. La noi, Olimpiada pare o alegere populara de a te inlantui de un ideal. Nu e neaparat pasiune pura ce da pe dinafara, ci uneori e sete de faima.
Pe atunci, il citeam pe Cioran, iar mai apoi pe Noica pe vremea cand inca nici macar nu auzisem de incalzirea globala. Mai apoi, impreuna cu Mita si cu Nicu scriam eseuri despre Dumnezeu si prietenie si vroiam sa publicam o carte. Ne grabeam, ne epuizasem experienta celor 17 ani ai eram constienti ca in floarea tineretii noastre consta valoarea scrierilor noastre. Nu s-a materializat. Acum, scriu despre politica si filozofii ecologice. Inteleg, acestea sunt lucruri de o importanta prioritara si globala. Oamenii pot trai foarte bine fara mofturi ca transcendenta sau sufletul care vibreaza la unison cu tine, dar ce te faci cand te izbesti de lucruri concrete, daca te bombardeaza Al-Qaeda sau daca pamantul, agresat de noi se intoarce impotriva noastra? Mai bine ne concentram forta analitica intr-acolo, s-ar putea sa facem o diferenta. Si totusi, era frumoasa acea dulce feerie tinereasca, acel dans haotic al gandirii disconectate de pragmatism.
De la vise cu Craddle of Filth sustinand un concert intr-o catedrala gothica am ajuns la vise cu talibani, talibani a caror agresivitate e reala si nu doar scenica, in Vama Veche, tot o catedrala, a libertatii, sau poate a farmecului decadentei.
Studentii sunt diversi si atat de frumosi prin diversitatea lor. S, o viitoare inginera, crede ca toti oamenii cu probleme psihice ar trebui impuscati ( ce am mai studia noi la literatura sau pentru cine as mai sintetiza eu medicamente?), C simte cu toate fiinta lui ca matematica e regina stiintelor si ca restul disciplinelor sunt triviale( eh, ce te face daca te trezesti cu ceva substanta organica, o trivialitate, in bautura?), iar J e mereu high, simte ca viata academica ii limiteaza creatia (ca si de altfel toti poetii din generatia Beat, care nici unul nu au terminat Columbia, dar sunt mentionati cu mandrie printre absolventi). M si-a petrecut vara construind case pentru mexicanii saraci (nici noua nu ne-ar strica o asemenea contributie dupa valul recent de inundatii) iar L se simte vinovata ca nu s-a nascut neagra si doreste sa devina medic intr-o tara din lumea a treia.
Aici oamenilor le pasa. De politica, de copiii bolnavi de SIDA, de oamenii din lumea a treia, de literatura, de ecologie, de curriculum vitae. Mai putin de tine ca individ. Viata e un continuu teatru pe scena vietii. Intalnirile cu oamenii sunt preponderant in scopuri practice: iau cine impreuna, joaca tenis impreuna, organizeaza un club de literatura economica impreuna. In orasul care nu doarme, intr-o lume nebuna aflata in continua acceleratie, cine mai are timp sa existe cu si pentru oameni?
In New York, diversitatea ia o alta forma. Metroul e o adevarata parada a umanitatii, black & white. Omul anonim care sta in dreapta ta in metrou poate sa devina oricand semnificativ pentru tine. Ca asta nu se intampla, sau ca atunci cand se intampla acest lucru nu are neaparat conotatii positive, asta nu e essential. E frumos acest posibil, acest continuu flux de revarsare a diversitatii, culturii si a informatiei. E infinita posibilitate, asa cum am visat-o odata, demult, intrupata in Bucuresti. Un copil intr-un carucior tipa in metrou. Ma uit la el si ii zambesc, imi zambeste si el, iar apoi tipa si mai tare pana cand oboseste. Cand a fost ultima data cand ati strigat de atata fericire? E statia mea: Strada 116, Columbia University. Andrei spune ca nu e magie, ci totul se reduce la probabilitati. Da, a fost o fericita implinire de probabilitate ca am ajuns aici. Dar e atat de frumos, cu bune si cu rele, incat e magic.

Why another blog?

It all seemed so clear last night when I decided to start a blog. Not anymore, but here I am writing.
For a long time, I had no interest in writing a blog. I've been obsessed with the fragility of human memories for years and years, so I tried to conserve as much living as possible in middle school and high school by keeping a diary. What a life, growing up without daily internet connection! Later, my email correspondence with my friends became my most precious way of conserving living. It was personal, intimate and it allowed depths of emotional expression that I didn't feel comfortable to post online. My argument: I won't be selling myself for as long as I have great people in my life to give myself to (This sounds so much better in Romanian: Nu ma vand cat timp cat am cui sa ma daruiesc). And still, here I am, writing this blog.
Yesterday, Liana, Moni and I realized how little we remember from Pe strada Mantuleasa and Life is Elsewhere. We, people without a sparkling memory, are condamned to live in the present. Or rather, in a narrow interval centered around the present moment. What happened this month, what we felt this month, what we read this month. Of course, we have general ideas of everything, but they are just skeletons without precious, subtle, beautiful details. I feel that my arguments are less powerful because I always work with a finite amount of data, limited by my deficitary long term memory and my noncooperative hippocampus. This thought always annoys me, but of course, I have my own protective ideas: since we integrate less data in our analyses, we go deeper into it :P.
I've been very emotional lately, as I always am while in Romania and my state peaks right before I leave for US, which will happen in 3 days. I still have to write a 5 page account of my summer research experience, together with telling my friends how much they mean to me. It's interesting how much people can mean for us and how we never manage to say it right. I've known some of my best friends for 7 years now, and I seem to take it too much for granted. How it all began, how we grew up together, how we discovered movies, music, books that shaped us, how we had so many meaningful conversations and, recently, how we sent each other emails. These little bricks all added up to form solid, lovely friendships. The feeling and the love survive and follow us wherever we go, but some of the bricks are forgotten. Emotions attached to experiences are known to increase the probability of long-term storage of that experience. And still, I'm forgetting! This is what scares me and why I want to write, so that we can save the little bricks.
My obsession with writing to save the 'little bricks' is strongly connected to my desire to tell people how much they mean to me, without seeming false. If I'd remember specific shared moments, my feelings and compliments would be backed up by concrete 'evidence' and would have a lower chance of being perceived as just vain words. In a way, it's easier to tell your recent friends how much you care about them and how special they are because the 'evidence' is still fresh in your memory. On the other hand, it's harder, since we become vulnerable once we present our emotions openly. The easy way out would be to present people with our love and appreciation, without letting the feelings take over us. Saying the sentiment, without genuinly feeling it. But aren't we missing so much out of life, with its dramatic, burning emotional peaks, with this approach? Of course we are, but what other options are left? Take the risk. Consider the possibility that you might not mean as much for someone as that person means for you. Love. You'll grow out of your own ashes anyway.