An Argument for Optimism

I realized yesterday, that I haven't yet written about my neighbors, one of whom is my closest friend here in Berlin. This occurred to me yesterday evening as I was perched irresponsibly on the book carrying rack on the back of Patricia's bike cruising (if you could call our wobbly, stilted progress that) down the street towards Karl-Marx Allee. The cold, damp, sunless onset of winter, combined with the wear and tear of living in a foreign country had been grating on our nerves a bit. We discussed this as we sat drinking tea in her perpetually smoky kitchen talking about what we could do to take the edge off the winter/being foreign blues. I admitted that at the drug store the other day I bought a sock knitting kit on impulse. I had stared at the thing in my hand, and decided that I really had little chance of actually finishing a functioning pair of socks like those promised by the picture, despite the pledge on the front that the instructions included were "easy" and "for beginners." Fully conscious of this, I decided to buy it anyway. At the very least the rush I got from throwing down six euros impulsively for a project that I will probably never bring to fruition would make the purchase worth it. Ah the cheap thrills of retail therapy...

Patricia then suggesting taking up painting. It helped me last time I was living abroad, so I told her I was game. She then looked at me sideways, kind of giggled, and said, "hey, I've got this crazy idea. But, if you're not game just say so. It's kind of stupid, but I've always kind of wanted to do it." I was intrigued. "You wanna go for a bike ride?" The two of us? On your bike? I asked. "Yeah, my bike's got this basket-rack thing on the back." I think back to all the times I've seen kids on the verge of inflicting serious harm on themselves due to such antics. I watch them coolly, but at the same time envying a little bit their stupid fun. So there I was, riding side saddle on her thin wire book rack, hopping off every few minutes when I would hear the wheel starting to singe my coat. It was fabulous. A feeling I don't often get anymore, and appreciate all the more because of its rarity. Stupid fun.

We both felt a lot better by the time we stumbled laughing back up to her apartment. I stayed for dinner at her place, where her Italian roommate's friend Elisa was cooking up pasta. I asked Patricia what she had planned for Thanksgiving. She shrugged. Thanksgiving for Patrica has never been the traditional turkey-centric holiday of my family. Her parents moved from Brazil to the US, where Patrica was born, and consequently prefers traditional Brazilian food for their Thanksgiving celebrations. Her roommates were interested and insisted that we should make dinner. They asked what Thanksgiving was all about. I explained that it was similar to their harvest fest in fall, but more historically unique and significant. I explained that it celebrated the feast the pilgrims and Native Americans shared after the pilgrims had their first successful harvest with the help of the Wampanoags. And then they piped up "You mean, before they killed them all?" Hmm... somehow I don't think they got the idea. (I'd also like to point out here that while the settlers were quite good at the killing, their Native American contemporaries did not just lie around waiting to be killed. They were very able warriors themselves, not the naive innocents that such a comment implies. Particularly our Wampanoag friends.)

Their glib comment made me want to go find out more about the actual historical background of Thanksgiving. According to journal entries made by the pilgrims at the Plymouth settlement in Massachusetts, the first Thanksgiving actually did happen. It was a three day celebration in 1621 to which the Pilgrim's invited the Wampanoag people, who had helped them to survive their first winter and plant their first successful harvest. The pilgrims provided most of the food, and the Wampanoags contributed 5 deer. It was actually a very hopeful moment in American history, one that should remind us to strive always for peace. We should not forget the injustices of the past, but if we neglect to celebrate the beautiful and hopeful moments, how can we strive for a better present and future. If the past is reduced to a series of massacres, then how can we have any hope of making a better present for ourselves? How can you hold on to the drive to make things better without the belief that something better exists?

Growing up means realizing that adults are not inherently better people, that their wisdom and benevolence does not always increase proportionally to their years. When growing up our understanding of self and surrounding develop so quickly and steadily that it seems like time will inevitably continue to elucidate the world. At some point though time ceases to increase understanding as before, and experience begins to chip away at hope. I'm beginning to realize that intelligent optimism is very hard to hold on to, that it is much easier to become cynical, hardened, and hopeless. I want to continue to celebrate the things in life that feed hope. It is not easy though. Bad things in life are notoriously good at subjugating the value of the good. If we let it, one hurtful word will carry more significance than 100 loving gestures. Today in an effort to salvage this optimism, and give the good in life its proper place, I chose to find out the true story Thanksgiving.

And now I am going to knit myself a pair of socks.

Back and Boxing

So, I'm back at my blog, which of course means that Alex has crossed the pond and I'm back to my solo life in Berlin. Not bad, but not nearly as fun! We rambled all over the city, ate at lots of great restaurants, and just had a really good time all around. But, now I'm back to my regular life. I've been quite busy preparing a presentation "Globalization: American Perspectives" for a meeting of the English department heads of my school district. Luckily, another Fulbright TA is doing it with me. Man, globalization seems to be all they talk about in school. To me it seems a bit shocking that something so political and inherently moral is required curriculum. I guess it's not the only political and moral topic discussed in school, but somehow I always end up feeling guilty as an American at the end of class. As though, as the resident Ami (sorta like Gringo for the Germans), I were responsible for the McDonaldization of the world. This is all in my head of course. It's starting to get to me, hearing every day about American companies trampling over the cultures of the world and enslaving the little children of the third world. So yes, now I'm doing a presentation on this beloved topic of the Germans.

In addition to my regular school day and preparation for tomorrow's presentation, I went to boxing today. This was my second go around at the University boxing gym where I will be training this year. The class was quite full, and this time there was even another woman there, who was new to boxing, but very experienced in Karate. She's quite tough, and not at all arrogant. I like her. The guy who stepped in for the main trainer was quite the opposite, and managed to tick me off in good order. He was clearly just another student who had done some box, but he was quite interested in criticizing me on some almost insulting points. He talked to me like I was an idiot. He might have mistaken my blank look for a lack of intelligence. My blank look was rather born of my absolute disinterest in his opinion. I felt a little guilty for being so cool, so I explained to him that I was from the US and had yet to learn box jargon auf deutsch. He responded with a very heavy accent "Next time we can speak English then." This sealed the deal for me.

After a bit of observation, I think perhaps the disproportionate criticism I'm receiving may be due to the Germans having a different box style. I'm not sure about this yet, but it would explain why this guy only criticized things that I know I learned right, and not the things I'm actually interesting in improving. I must say, the gym is certainly a different style than I'm accustomed to. I've never boxed in a fancy, or particularly modern gym, rather the equipment is usually sparse and well worn, but relatively up to date. This gym makes me think of my great grandfather George's boxing gloves that are hanging in our basement at home: Old and puffy, but still in good shape. I half expect this guy to walk through the door at any moment:
The workouts are quite intense, and long. It is hard to box for 90 minutes. I'm used to 45 minute sessions, and even then at the end I'm totally kaput. At least we didn't have to jump for 15 minutes straight this time. The backs of my legs were covered by stripy welts by the time that little warm-up was done. I've decided that I'm a bit clumsy when it comes to jump-roping. Little did I imagine in elementary school while I jumped rope during recess, that I would be doing it 15 years later as a boxer. I suppose if someone had told me then, I wouldn't have been all that surprised. I might have just tried to get a little better at it so that years later I wouldn't have so many welts burnt into the backs of my legs.