The Do Write Blog for Creative Nonfiction

Springtime: Day 202-204

2012-02-02T19:28:00.000-08:00

Punxsutawney Phil says there will be six more weeks of winter this year, but I'm feeling spring in the air already. Perhaps it's because winter has been so mild in Northern California, with very little rain and not much cold to speak of. What excites me most, I must admit, is watching sunset come later and later. Tonight, the sun set after 5:30 -- just a few weeks ago, I was watching it set at 4:45! I'm excited and ready for spring.

When I drew this picture, I immediately thought of the earthworms that come up out of the soil at springtime. So, here is my Springtime Earthworm:

The Legacy: Day 177 - 201

2012-01-30T07:17:00.000-08:00

My creativity lately has come out in the form of writing rather than visual art, which is a very good thing since I am a writer! But it is much harder to post a story in progress than it is a piece of art. So, I haven't posted much lately while I allowed the numerous stories inside of me to flourish. One thing I've noticed is that the way I approach art has bled into my writing -- in a very good way. Mostly when I start art projects I have no idea where they are going, I simply follow my pen or brush. With writing, I'm usually more directive and I agonize over every word as if divine inspiration is not possible. But I know that it is, my artwork has taught me that. Even when i don't know what a piece of art is going to become, I know that if I follow my inspiration the right and perfect thing will materialize. I'm now applying that lesson to my writing, and it is working out well. It is allowing me to write. For that, I am very grateful.

I want to share some of my stories on this blog (it is a writing blog after all), but they are still in the editing stage and not ready for prime time. So, how about I share the first page of one of my pieces? I envision this story as part of a series of linked short stories all dealing with the modern day legacy of Columbus' voyage to the Americas. You won't see how the Columbus theme fits in from the first page, but trust me it's there!

Enjoy.

The Legacy

by Marjorie Florestal

The smell of urine pressed into her nose. It was a human thing, angry, acidic, and biting. It stung her nostrils as she fought to push Chris away.

“Stop! Stop!”

He bit her ear, as if that would stop the cries. And the more she struggled the more he pressed down until she thought her ear would fall off. She cried now for this new pain and for the feel of Chris’ hand ripping at her panties. Without pause he pushed into her with three hard thrusts, and it was over.

Rena immediately rolled away, wrapping her body into a tight ball. “Why did you do this to me?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

By now, Chris was staring at her with a look bordering confusion and horror. “Don’t cry.” He said. “Why are you crying?” He reached out a hand, wiping the tears off her cheeks even as she shrunk from his touch. “Why are you crying?” he repeated.

Rena pushed his hand away, and that seemed to unleash something inside her. She kept pushing and hitting until he doubled over with the pain. She wanted to inflict on him just a fraction of her own pain, but it didn’t seem possible so she stopped. Her belly heaved with sobs. Rena climbed over Chris’ prone body and rearranged her crumpled skirt before rushing out of the room with the sound of his words reverberating in her ears. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

* * *

Rena François kept her eyes focused on the landscape as her taxicab drove through the old Brooklyn neighborhood. It had been 12 years since that terrible night, and she had not been back here since. She felt bile rise up in her throat as the memories came flooding back. The taxicab inched forward in early afternoon traffic and turned the corner onto Foster Avenue. Belleville came into view dominating the landscape with its gray presence. The dull redbrick remained impervious to age and neglect while the spiral rooftop hung over the neighborhood like an umbrella against the steel cold wind. Rena watched as the taxicab drove through the wrought iron gates and up a long, winding driveway past a sign, which read: Belleville State Psychiatric Hospital.

“This okay?” The cab driver asked when Rena made no move to leave.

“Oh yes, yes,” Rena paid the driver before stepping out of the cab. It was time to slay her dragons.

The New Me: Day 140-176

2012-01-06T00:10:00.000-08:00

It's hard to believe I did not post anything in December, and I barely did much visual art to begin with. On the flip side, I have been writing more, so perhaps I got most of my creativity out through my words!

It's a new year and a new me. I've moved to a new home, and this small portrait is a work in progress of my new place.

I have also spent some time thinking about where I will focus my attention this year. I have lots of interests (never too many!) but concentrating on all of them at once just leads to paralysis. So, I did this exercise -- I call it the Scarves Exercise -- that helped me hone in on where I want to spend my time (no, I won't explain the exercise).

Here's what it looked like when I was done:

At the end of it all, I did get some great clarity. I've decided to focus much more on my scholarly writing. This is the year of the Scholar Me.

... and here is my artistic rendering:

My heart of hearts.

Visioning 2012

2012-01-05T22:14:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine introduced me to the idea of laying down images--in the form of postcards mostly--to express where I am and what I am feeling at a particular time. It works well when I just don't have a left-brain logical explanation for my feelings. I like it because it is less time consuming than drawing my own image, but the ideas and inspiration that come out of the exercise are equally as powerful.

I did a visioning for 2012 using this method, and I found it compelling. I don't try to analyze each individual image, but I do see some general themes. I've identified in the images the everyday aspects of life--drinking coffee with a friend, lying sick in bed surrounded by family and working hard while carrying a heavy burden. But these mundane tasks are enveloped by the spiritual and the divine--particularly the divine feminine. The images are topped by a pink shrouded divine mother who rains down her blessings. There is dancing and movement and music, all of which is done in a spirit of deep communion. There is also fear and trepidation to be sure, but it is all grounded in the strength of powerful women and the transformative power of the snake.

Not a bad way to start the new year. I look forward to the slow unfolding of 2012.

The Year in Review 2011

2012-01-02T01:34:00.000-08:00

1. I did art. I did lots of art

2. I enjoyed a year long sabbatical where I turned deeply inwards and got in touch with some tough things that needed clearing out

3. I did EMDR and got great relief

4. I trusted in the Universe that my sabbatical would be fully funded -- and it was

5. I let go of the house and moved just blocks from a neighborhood I have been eying for years

6. I wrote a little, got in touch with Columbus alot and sustained my interest over the year

7. I sustained a committed relationship

8. I exercised, went raw for 3 months, went back to sugar and flour and am finding my way back

9. I worked on my money wounds and shined the light on some of them

10. I am alive

Can Technical Assistance Save Poor Countries?

2011-12-01T01:09:00.000-08:00

Technical assistance is a joke. To be more precise, technical assistance is the butt of jokes, most of which feature a naïve do-gooder or a rapacious private company. Did you hear the one about the Americans in Mongolia? Sent out to advise the government on building free markets, they were heartened when officials asked for several hardcopies of the voluminous U.S. securities laws-photocopied on only one side of the page. It turns out the Mongolians were not true converts to the U.S. system; they merely wanted to use the documents for scrap to alleviate the government's chronic paper shortage. If that does not leave you breathless, perhaps you will find the one about the private sector advisor in Kazakhstan more amusing. When a local Kazakhstani bureaucrat fancied his red swim trunks, the advisor was forced to strip down and hand them over because angering the bureaucrat might jeopardize his chance of returning to the bottomless well of the U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID) renewal contracts.

Sadly, these stories are not apocryphal. A few years ago, I managed a U.S. government-run technical assistance program targeted at North and West Africa, and I have at least a few such stories of my own. At times, I felt my fancy law degree and stints at a prestigious law firm and the nation's preeminent *123 trade policy agency had led me to a job as a glorified travel agent. Some of the foreign officials we flew to the United States for seminars I spent weeks organizing appeared more concerned with shopping trips to New York.

Thus, the anecdotal evidence would seem to support the intuitive belief of most Americans (and many beneficiary countries) that technical assistance is a joke. But for every example of waste and graft, there are equal numbers of success stories. “Success” in the technical assistance sense of the word is measured in incremental improvements-it would be naïve in the extreme to believe the typical one- to three-year assistance contract could cure all the problems facing a developing country. For me, success was measured project-by-project, and even individual-by-individual. If I convened a drafting session with some of the best U.S. and African legal minds to produce a model law on arbitration for West Africa, or if I helped draft Cape Verde's foreign trade memorandum-the first substantive step in the World Trade Organization (WTO) accession process-in record time and within budget, I considered that a success. Similarly, if I provided detailed first-rate training to an Algerian lawyer who could then go back to the legal affairs ministry and guide her country's effort to join the WTO, I felt justifiably proud.

In the Anecdote Wars, then, there are at least two sides (admittedly, the successes are not nearly as funny as stories of naked assistance providers). But anecdotes aside, significant problems plague technical assistance programs, both in their structure and in their implementation on the ground. Problems range from the familiar bugaboos of ethnocentrism and biased assistance that merely seek to replicate in developing countries what has worked in the West (or what would be in the West's best interest), to difficulties within the developing countries themselves in identifying their needs and absorbing the assistance provided. As some developing countries have candidly admitted, “they need technical assistance to identify their domestic technical assistance needs.”

The Doha Development Round was launched specifically to address some of these problems just as developing countries' frustration with the rules of *124 the trading system had reached its peak. Six years after the close of the Uruguay Round negotiations, which ushered in the greatest changes to the trading system since its inception in 1947, poor countries still found themselves on the outside looking in as the globalization phenomenon brought untold wealth to already-rich countries. Technical assistance was to be the catalyst propelling developing countries from outsider to full-fledged beneficiary of the globalization revolution, while at the same time compensating them for taking on a plethora of new rules that proved expensive to implement. To date, technical assistance has not achieved those objectives. Why?

This Article explores some of the reasons for that failure, focusing on the challenges facing both developing countries and the WTO in its effort to provide effective technical assistance. These challenges are significant, and merely throwing money at them-increasing “aid for trade”-without addressing some of the structural impediments to meaningful technical assistance will not be enough.

Trade and Aid: An Uneasy Alliance

The effort to assist countries in achieving sustained economic growth has had a long, and somewhat tattered, history. After World War II, the United States expended massive amounts of money and technical know-how in the reconstruction of Europe and Japan. But the current technical assistance model finds its roots not in the post-war era but in the Law and Development (“L&D”) movement of the 1960s. The underlying premise of the movement was that law was an indispensable prerequisite to economic development. If developing countries had not as yet constructed a system of laws capable of steering them out of poverty and into the modern economy, then such a system would be imported for them from America. During this period, a legion of American-trained lawyers fanned out into the developing world ready to build the legal infrastructure for development.

Despite the fashions of the time, the General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade (GATT), and subsequently the WTO, resisted the call to join the ranks of assistance providers. Even as a record number of developing countries acceded to the GATT in the 1970s, and despite the adoption of GATT Part IV-which acknowledged “the basic objectives of this Agreement include the raising of standards of living and the progressive development of the economies of all [Members]” - the organization defined its core mandate as trade liberalization and maintained that assistance activities were not within its competence. But that was all to change with the ending of the Uruguay Round trade negotiations in 1994.

The Uruguay Round ushered in a paradigm shift. Under the GATT's ala-carte approach, Members could pick and choose the rules that would apply to them. [FN14] Essentially, GATT created a “two-speed” system where rich countries liberalized more of their trade and took on more regulatory commitments than did developing countries. In the Uruguay Round, developing countries changed course and signed on to a “single-undertaking,” obligating them to implement all *126 WTO rules. [FN15] Having committed to a multitude of complex new rules, poorer countries found themselves unable to cope with the demands of implementation.

The “Implementation Problem,” as it came to be known, galvanized the WTO to action as developing countries demanded more and better technical assistance to meet their commitments. In the early days of providing such assistance, the WTO's efforts were less than spectacular, even by its own admission. The organization faced the same problems that other assistance providers had confronted: lack of donor funding, or ear-marked funding, that lacked flexibility; lack of coherence among the aid agencies resulting in duplication of effort; and lack of an overall design-plan for the provision of assistance that incorporated input from recipient or beneficiary countries. In short, the WTO found itself with too few resources responding to one-off requests for technical assistance from developing countries without sufficient coordination with other technical assistance networks. The organization was truly outside its area of competence.

In response to its failure, the WTO adopted The New Strategy for WTO Technical Cooperation for Capacity Building, Growth and Integration (“New Strategy”). The New Strategy called for a revamp of the WTO's assistance model to provide “a more focused response ... within a coherent trade policy framework.” [FN17] One-off training opportunities were disfavored; the organization committed itself to providing technical assistance that was part of a broader *127 integrated national plan linking WTO implementation obligations with development plans and poverty reduction strategies. [FN18]

The WTO's new approach to technical assistance represents a sea change that the organization is “still digesting.” [FN19] Despite the changes, the New Strategy fails to address some significant structural impediments to the provision of effective technical assistance. Perhaps the greatest impediment is the organization's continued uneasiness with the idea that development and technical assistance are part of its “core function.” The first sentence of the New Strategy reiterates that “the core mandate of the WTO is trade liberalization.” [FN20] Implicitly then, development and technical assistance are ancillary activities; to the extent it continues to be viewed as peripheral to the organization's “core mandate,” technical assistance activities will continue to be seen as not much more than a boon-an almsgiving venture-developed countries bestow on their poorer colleagues.

Making Technical Assistance Relevant

There have been a number of excellent proposals for improving the WTO's technical assistance programs, including suggestions for working more closely with agencies like the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund, as well as regional development banks; creating a semi-autonomous agency that could provide bias-free advice; and opening a “branch-office” of sorts in Africa given the significant focus on technical assistance work on the continent. [FN25] Before any of these reforms can have a significant impact, however, the WTO must deal with the core of fear and distrust many beneficiary countries feel towards the organization and its assistance work. One African representative characterized WTO assistance as “ideological,” contending “[t]hey come to tell us what to think, what our positions should be.” [FN26] The WTO has responded, in part, by hiring more staff from developing countries, and by partnering with universities and respected institutions in the developing world, like the African Development Bank and the U.N. Economic Commission for Africa. [FN27]

More needs to be done to address the underlying distrust of WTO assistance activities. One suggestion I would make is to increase the opportunities for South-South technical assistance projects-perhaps funded by the WTO. Countries like India, Brazil, and now China, have a wealth of knowledge that can be shared, and they do not come with the same amount of “baggage” that WTO secretariat officials bring with them to the developing world.

Another suggestion-more in the form of an exhortation-is for the WTO to fully align its assistance activities with the development agendas of the beneficiary countries.

Conclusion

There is hope of integrating developing countries into the global trading system. But the coming end of the Doha Development Round [FN32] must bring with it more than hope if “developing countries, and especially the least-developed amongst them, [are to] secure a share in the growth in international trade commensurate with the needs of their economic development.” [FN33] Despite some of the problems identified in this Article, technical assistance is an important tool to propel developing countries into the global economy. It must be acknowledged, however, that such programs can play only a supporting role-albeit a significant one-in that process. Ultimately, it is for developing countries themselves to draft and implement coherent development agendas that are in line with their interests; technical assistance should be used to advance those needs rather than to promote the interests of the West.

'Tis The Season: Day 139

2011-11-30T16:45:00.000-08:00

Cornucopia

Grace: Day 138

2011-11-30T03:17:00.000-08:00


Grace

I am moving in a few days, and although I've moved too many times to count this one is proving to be a challenge. I have lived in my current home for 7 years -- the longest period in one place in my adult life.

The house has served me well. With all the ups and downs, this house has provided a safe place for me to grow and to learn, to begin new relationships and relinquish old ones. But I'm ready to start something new, to move to the Bay Area and to spread my wings even more. I'm excited to be closer to my sweetie and to partake of Bay Area culture.

Lots of new things (and hopefully good things!) are coming my way.

This little portrait is of the house I leave behind. She's got some personality! When I tried to give her a name a few years ago (some fancy French thing), she was adamant that her name was Grace. And the time I've spent here has been filled with just that . . . Grace.

Thank you and goodbye, Grace. May the next person who shelters within your walls find as much pleasure, safety and peace as I did.

The Collective: Day 99-137

2011-11-29T12:04:00.000-08:00

I haven't been doing much art at all -- life is simply too hectic. I'm moving both home and office, and I've just completed my teaching obligations for the semester and am preparing students for exams. I've really missed my art, and the truth is I should not have stopped. It helps give meaning and color to my life, and when it is missing I simply shrivel up.

Although I didn't manage to draw every day, I did have some artistic moments in the last month or so. Not bad. Besides, I know the way back, and my art and writing are just happy to see me.

Martian Woman Comes with Message

Charging Horse

Black & White Tree

Armstrong Woods Self-Portrait

Self-Portrait Sailor Suit

Red Fire Blue Sky

And then there is my orange phase . . . What can I say? Tis the season!

Colored Balls

Orange Landscape

Pumpkin

The Mouse Who Could Leap Across the Sky

2011-11-29T06:24:00.000-08:00

Welcome

Welcome to my blog. If you want to know more about me, take a look at the blurb on the upper right-hand side, and if you want to read my stories or see my artwork, you can find those under the section marked "Story Series" on the lower left-hand side.

But if you have just a few minutes, then I want to share with you just one story.

Here it is . . .

Do You Dance to the Beat of a Different Drum?

There are some of us who "dance to the beat of a different drum," but I've often wondered: What sound does the drum make?

For me, the sound of the drum can be relentless. "You don't belong here," it roars when I try to wedge myself into the tight, conservative and restrictive spaces of a traditional lawyer. The sound challenges me to create my own space for a holistic practice of law to emerge--a practice that sees the individual as more than a legal problem. "You aren't doing enough," the drum roars when I neglect my art, my writing, and my long walks in the woods. I am more than what I do, and when I forget that I suffer for it.

For those of us who hear the roaring in our ears, an ordinary life just isn't enough. For me, the roaring of the drum challenges me to live a worthy life, a life of purpose and meaning . . . and yes, even fun! And when I read the story of The Mouse Who Could Leap Across the Sky, I am reminded of the importance of finding my tribe of dancers who also hear the beating of the drum.

I share this story with all of you who hear the roaring in your ears--no matter how faint. May you follow the sound to your own joy.

The Mouse Who Could Leap Across the Sky

Once there was a little mouse surrounded by other little mice. But this little mouse was different for she could hear a great big roaring sound in her ears.

“Do you hear that?” asked the little mouse. “Do you hear the roaring?”

But no one else could hear what she heard, and soon they began to whisper that the little mouse had gone quite mad.

No matter what she did to silence the sound, The Little Mouse continued to hear the great big roaring in her ears. One day, she could not ignore the sound any longer, and the Little Mouse determined to set off on a Great Adventure to find the source of the roaring.

She set out across a vast desert full of snakes and hawks and coyotes. The Little Mouse was all alone, and she was scared. She circled and circled and circled trying to find her way, but she was lost. The Little Mouse was hungry and lonely and tired. Just as she was about to give up and return from where she had come, the Little Mouse came across a colony of Old Mice living out their days in comfort and abundance. "Welcome," said the Old Mice. They pulled the Little Mouse into their circle and fed her, gave her a place to sleep in peace, and kept her company. The Little Mouse was content.

But try as she might, she could not get the sound of the roaring out of her system.

"Do you hear that," asked the Little Mouse. "Do you hear that great big roaring sound?"

But the Old Mice simply shook their heads. They could not hear the roaring in their ears.

The Little Mouse decided to continue on her adventure to find the source of the roaring.

"Don't go," cried the Old Mice. "Stay here and you will never again be lonely or hungry or tired. You are safe here with us."

But the Little Mouse had to find the source of the roaring. She packed a little knapsack full of the essentials for her journey, and she set off across a vast forest, over a mountain and down into a deep valley. Once again, the Little Mouse was lost. She sat on the ground and began to cry, for the Little Mouse was hungry and lonely and tired, when along came Mr. Raccoon.

"What's wrong?" asked the Raccoon.

And the Little Mouse told him about the place from where she had come, and she told him about the Old Mice. But most of all, the Little Mouse told Mr. Raccoon about the great big roaring in her ears that she had heard her whole life.

"I know the source of that sound," said Mr. Raccoon.

"You do?" the Little Mouse asked in shock.

"It is the sound of the great, big life giving river. It is said that those who find that river shall find all that they are seeking."

"But how am I to find her?" asked the Little Mouse.

Mr Raccoon sighed, marveling at the naivete of the very young. "You need only leap across the sky, and if you are meant to you will see exactly the direction you are to go."

So the Little Mouse leaped across the sky and for one brief moment she could see the great life giving river that was the source of the roaring in her ears. She thanked Mr. Raccoon and ran and ran in the direction the river.

When she arrived, she found not only the river but a wonderful tribe of other little mice who had also heard the great big roaring in their ears . . . and, like her they had followed the sound back to its source.

Coming Into My Own: Day 98

2011-10-21T15:01:00.000-07:00

My drawing style is changing. These two herald a new period, I think, and I really love it! I'm excited to see where it takes me.

The Snail

Self Portrait

The Man: Day 97

2011-10-20T20:29:00.000-07:00

The Man

Assemblage: Day 91-96

2011-10-20T13:22:00.000-07:00

Inside the World Tent

You Are Not Alone

Pacifica Open Heart

The Mask

Triangle Mandala

Bird Woman: Day 90

2011-10-13T01:50:00.001-07:00

Exercise is Excellent

2011-10-11T17:16:00.000-07:00

I worked out in the water today and it felt soooooooo amazing. Why do I forget? Why do I whine and complain and avoid, avoid, aaaavoid! But when I'm gliding through that water, only then do I remember: Exercise is excellent!

May I remember always (or at least before I drop my exercise routine for 1 month or more).

Amen

Restoration: Day 81-89

2011-09-30T22:15:00.000-07:00

I've been battling with some energy-sapping ailments lately, so my creative output has not been prolific or consistent. But when I went through my portfolio, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that I have done some projects. Something is better than nothing.

The Mexican Revolution

I've become obsessed with Mexican history lately -- including with California's secession and ultimate integration in the United States (I visited Sonoma's Town Square recently, which is site of the beginning of California's Americanization). The tone, feel and colors of this piece call to mind Mexico, and the references (e.g., Hidalgo, Conquistadors, etc) is intriguing.

Sick Day Blues

I did this lying in bed one day and just getting sick of the lying in process. Illness as my muse!

The Universe

I'm not quite sure what this is all about. At first, it felt as if I might be drawing a representation of the planets, and stars. But then, SHE appeared. I like her. I'm also drawn to the figure at the bottom who is connected to all aspects of the drawing (except the brown ball). The figure is literally plugged in, while SHE oversees all of it. Hmmm . . ..

Dreams: Day 70-80

2011-09-21T10:58:00.000-07:00

My creative life is definitely taking a beating as I return to the everyday chaotic of the life of a Professor and PhD candidate. Sigh. It seems at times I hardly have time to pause let alone access my creative unconscious. But I recognize that if I simply ignore the creative part of me, I show up in my other roles as less than who I really am. Sigh. Sigh. I never was any good at balancing (although, as a Libra shouldn't I be?)

Oh well, onward and upward. Here are two things I managed to complete in the last 10 days.

This one was inspired by a dream in which I heard a song. The only lyrics I can remember are "Hidalgo, Hidalgo" and "Domine." A few days after the dream and this drawing, I got an email at work explaining the origins of the Mexican Revolution. Apparently, Father Hidalgo rang the bell warning Mexicans of a Spanish attack, signaling the beginning of the Mexican war for freedom against the Spanish.

Hidalgo! Hidalgo!

This piece started out in my imagination as three trees, but as I see it completed it reminds me more of kites blowing in the breeze and a lobster crawling out to get them! What can I say, I'm a bit slap happy right now from overwork.

Kites

Intentions: Day 69

2011-09-11T13:07:00.000-07:00

I have just begun a PhD program in psychology, and so I am setting my intentions now to remind me when the going gets tough!

Catching Up: Day 60 - 68

2011-09-10T20:27:00.000-07:00

I have been very busy these last few weeks but am extremely proud of myself for maintaining a daily creative output. I just haven't had time to post it on the blog! Some of the things I've done don't lend themselves to a blog post -- for example, I planned and executed a surprise party for my sweetie that was fab! A group of us went to Cafe Art and just had fun painting ceramics, laughing and eating pizza and cake. That was decidedly creative.

On other days, I created these:

Butterfly Maiden

I Am That

T-D Mandala

Honor and Obey

Mission & The Heart Bonnet: Day 59

2011-09-01T14:07:00.000-07:00

I did this one a few days ago but forgot to post. I call it "Mission":

This one developed completely unexpectedly. I intended to draw a heart with wings but instead got an old-timey Western woman's bonnet. I call it The Heart Bonnet:

Happy Turkey Day: Day 58

2011-08-31T22:27:00.000-07:00

I know! I know! It's a bit too early for this, but who am I to question creativity? Call this an abstract turkey for an imaginary Thanksgiving Day.

Turkeys and Black & White: Day 56-57

2011-08-30T09:30:00.000-07:00

I've had two separate and unrelated flashes of inspiration lately.

This one reminds me of a Turkey and the whole Thanksgiving cornucopia. Not surprising perhaps because I've been feeling the beginnings of fall in the air.

It's not finished yet, so who knows what it might turn out to be in the end.

My other project is on black paper, which I've been wanting to experience for a while now. I also got to use my white graphite pencil. What fun!

This too is an evolving project. I look forward to the finale.

The Journey: Day 53-55

2011-08-29T01:03:00.000-07:00

I took an imaginary journey the other day filled with amazing sights. These are the results of that journey:

Cancer: Day 52

2011-08-29T00:56:00.000-07:00

I'm really disturbed by this portrait. It is supposed to be of Columbus, of course. But then, I felt compelled to move through it and had to rearrange things a bit.

Someone called it a cancer. I think that fits.

Spider III: Day 51

2011-08-24T22:56:00.000-07:00

The End:

A word to the wise -- or at least those of us who are listening:

Spider II: Day 50

2011-08-24T00:37:00.000-07:00

I've reached a "big" celebration along this path of daily creativity: 50 days of material! During that time, there have been projects I've liked and some not so much, but I'm incredibly proud of myself for giving voice (and paper) to that side of me. Alas, life is so busy now that I've returned to work that the process of creativity goes much more slowly. Sigh. It is better than nothing. Here's to incremental improvement!

Spider: Day 47-49

2011-08-22T19:47:00.000-07:00

I woke up dreaming of spiders, so I drew one. Why is one of its legs missing? I don't know.

I'm very busy at work currently -- classes have just started, so there is lots of extracurricular activities in addition to all that goes into teaching itself. All of this to explain why I haven't gotten very far with this over 3 days.

The Ship: Day 46

2011-08-19T18:32:00.000-07:00

Today, I was able to do some writing with ease and grace . . . and also a great deal of fear and anxiety. It is possible to have all those emotions mixed up in you and still produce good writing. Thank God for that.

The Road: Day 45

2011-08-18T22:20:00.000-07:00

I pulled out the acrylic paints again and just had a good time! First off, I really enjoyed the silky smooth black. It is much more difficult to get that depth of color with my watercolors.

And of course the other colors look so dramatic contrasted with the black. I could not stop playing around with the lime green. I used charcoal pencil for the light gray.

. . . And that red! Oh la la!!

I kept thinking as I made this of Frost's poem: "two roads diverged in a yellow wood/and I/ I took the one less traveled by/ and that has made all the difference. Of course there is only one road here and there is no yellow to be found, but that is neither here nor there! The sentiment is the same : )

Balance: Day 44

2011-08-18T00:42:00.000-07:00

Words: Day 43

2011-08-17T23:52:00.000-07:00

Creativity

2011-08-15T02:00:00.000-07:00

Photo Credit

"Creativity comes to those who seek it."

--Anonymous

The Beginning of the End: Day 42

2011-08-15T01:55:00.000-07:00

I now bring The Time of Great Sorrow to its completion.

. . . And I begin anew. This one is called The Beginning of the End -- and it is just beginning! More on this later.

What Love Is

2011-08-13T21:17:00.000-07:00

"To be whole, let yourself break.
To be straight, let yourself bend.
To be full, let yourself be empty.
To be new, let yourself wear out.
To have everything, give everything up.

Knowing others is a kind of knowledge;
knowing yourself is wisdom.
Conquering others requires strength;
conquering yourself is true power.
To realize that you have enough is true wealth.
Pushing ahead may succeed,
but staying put brings endurance.
Die without perishing, and find the eternal.

To know that you do not know is strength.
Not knowing that you do not know is a sickness.
The cure begins with the recognition of the sickness.

Knowing what is permanent: enlightenment.
Not knowing what is permanent: disaster.
Knowing what is permanent opens the mind.
Open mind, open heart.
Open heart, magnanimity."

The Tao Te Ching

Stories: Defined

2011-08-13T21:09:00.000-07:00

Photo Credit

"Maybe stories are just data with a soul."

--Brene Brown

Courage

2011-08-13T21:04:00.000-07:00

Photo credit

"Courage is the willingness to tell the story of who you are
with your whole heart."

-- Brene Brown

The Time of Great Sorrow: Day 41

2011-08-13T20:27:00.000-07:00

Here's another artistic rendition of my writing project on Columbus. I'm just getting started, but I really enjoyed using my acrylic paints for the first time today. I love the texture of the paint -- something you don't get with watercolor (the sky and ocean were done with watercolors -- I used acrylic just for the boat):

And the piece has evolved into this:

The writing below says "Thus began a time of great sorry for the Taino of the Caribbean," which is a sentence I draw directly from a section of the book I am writing. The Time of Great Sorrow begins really with Columbus second voyage to the (now) Americas in 1493.

The Trinity: Day 40

2011-08-13T00:31:00.000-07:00

For my new piece, I focused on a visual representation of my current research and writing project. I'm exploring Columbus' legacy in the Americas, including his relationship with the Taino "Indians" he met along the way. Here's what I've come up with so far:

The Trinity: Tainos-Columbus-Marjorie Cocotte Florestal

And here it is in more detail:

Surf's Up (Part II): Day 39

2011-08-12T00:18:00.000-07:00

I'm so tired of the camera on my iPhone. It's really not that great -- but it is convenient. I always "mean" to pull out my super-duper Canon Rebel and take some real pictures, but it always becomes a bit too inconvenient. So for now, I continue on with the iPhone. I did, however, take more detailed shots of individual sections. So here goes:


The Gestalt

After drawing these symbols, I kept going back to the red object protruding out puzzling over what it reminded me of; finally, I decided it was a surfboard! So here's a closer look at that surfboard:


Exploring the surfboard!

Beyond surfing, I've loved adding more color to my Zentangles. This reminds me of a spring garden, and it even seems to include the snails and snakes we might encounter in such a garden.

And now I've discovered asemic writing! Asemic writing looks like writing, although it can't be read. The idea is to glean meaning from abstract shapes. It is both an ancient and postmodern art form.

The big question in the genre seems to be whether asemic writing is mere scribbling or doodling. Haven't we all done some "asemic" writing while sitting in some interminable meeting waiting for the speaker to stop droning on and on? The difference seems to be that asemic writing is done with intentionality. The artist approaches her subject with the intention to convey certain emotions/information. Whether this is more of a visual art rather than writing is a more difficult question. "[A]semic writing seeks to make the reader hover in a state between reading and looking." For me, it is a distinction without a difference so I'll simply let it be.

* * *

And for the finale of Surf's Up:

I added some more asemic writing and then just let the muse take me where it wanted. (~~Pic quality isn't great, but I've already put everything away. May try to re-post tomorrow~~).

Surf's Up: Day 38

2011-08-10T23:28:00.000-07:00

My one year sabbatical is over and it is now back to work and back to the hustle and bustle. I will miss days spent reading, writing and quiet reflection. I look forward to interacting with my students and leading them on the great journey of discovery that is the legal profession.

I'm not sure what this drawing is meant to depict exactly (as usual), but the red part brings to mind a surfboard. Don't ask! I like the idea of riding the waves into the deep.

The Triad: Day 37

2011-08-10T01:29:00.000-07:00

I've decided to wade into acrylic paints, so today's project was a quick sketch on "draft" paper to hopefully be translated later. I also spent a few hours (!) at the art supply store-- what creative fun!

The Eye: Day 36

2011-08-08T22:34:00.000-07:00

I see lots of symbolism in this picture. It definitely speaks to crowning the heart (rather than head) as my ultimate compass (the monarchy theme repeats!) And music in the form of flutes showed up. So much more, but I'm too tired to analyze it right now. Here it is:

Details:

365 Days of Creativity: Day 35

2011-08-07T23:32:00.000-07:00

I am so full of creativity after several days spent in intensive exploration of historically traumatic periods in history. It doesn't sound like it would be restorative, but it was! I spent a few days acting out moments in history, reciting poetry, drawing, collaging, writing and meditating. I find myself creating in all areas -- my writer's brain is fired up with new ideas, as is my artist's brain. Ahhh.

A collage in 3 stages. Stage one: The Dark

The title says "It takes guts to live well" Amen!

The Second Collage: We Believe in Tradition Transformed

. . . And the final one: Welcome Back

Today, I started a new piece, so this is a work in progress:

The Spider-Butterfly: Day 34

2011-08-06T05:22:00.000-07:00

As part of my creative process today, I did a Holotropic Breathwork Meditation and then produced this Mandala. It's a butterfly encased in a spider's web.

The Power of Vulnerability

2011-08-06T05:07:00.000-07:00

Healing the Wounds of History: Day 33

2011-08-05T06:00:00.000-07:00

My creative act on this day was to participate in an intensive on Healing the Wounds of History. A group of us used the techniques of drama therapy and psychodrama to relive our personal and collective stories of pain and healing. I focused on my Columbus story and the emergence of my Taino Indian ancestry.

Deep, intense and beautiful work. Very creative

365 Days of Creativity

2011-08-05T05:54:00.000-07:00

I completed my 30 Days of Art Challenge and I've found the experience has opened me up to my creative spirit. I don't want to quit!

What would it be like if I committed to produce a creative act every day for the next year? What might I learn? Who would I become? It seems a daunting prospect right now, but it is perhaps worth taking the first step. I'm going to adopt the same rules I had during the art challenge except I define "creativity" much more broadly than creating a piece of art. Perhaps I'll garden one day, play the drum, write, dance, do sand tray and of course art. And I'll post it here on this blog no matter how brief.

The rules:

I’ll do one creative act every day for 365 days and post what I have done.
I don’t have to finish what ever I’m working on that day, I just have to work on something.
I have to work for 30 minutes, but can work longer if time permits.
It doesn’t matter what I do as long as I work on a creative project.
I won’t feel guilty for taking the time to work on my creative project and I won’t have to justify why I’m doing it.
I don’t have to go into detail in my post about how I did anything or what tools, materials I used (unless I want to).

So, let's begin!

Blue: Day 32

2011-08-03T23:00:00.000-07:00

Today, I read a great deal about art -- specifically about how to draw one-point perspective. I'm struck by the idea that when artists of the Middle Ages "discovered" perspective, it was a liberating experience. They learned how to draw depth on a flat surface, and the resulting artwork was new, fresh and lively. But soon enough, the forms were reduced to "rules" and perspective drawing now can be some of the most rigid, technically accurate but soulless art. As in all things, there must freedom to experiment both within and outside the confines of the rules.

In any case, after a long, technical and decidedly left-brain exploration of perspective, I decided to do something more "loose" and just do some doodling on a piece I started a few days ago.

And so it continues . . .

Lotus Snakes: Day 31

2011-08-03T02:27:00.000-07:00

The 30 day art challenge is over, but I find myself continuing to draw anyway. Yes! I'll keep doing it until I'm called to do something else.

30 Days of Art: Day 30

2011-07-31T01:23:00.000-07:00

Day 30 has arrived! In some ways, it is hard to believe, while in other ways it seems a long time coming.

Ahhhhhh

I just want to bask in the glow of a goal completed for a moment. Stop. Let me enjoy this.

Yes!

It's really late (or early in the morning depending on how you look at it), so I don't have much to say right now. At some point, I want to write a post on what I learned in this challenge, but that is for another day. Tonight is the new moon, and I began a new project in its honor. So for me, this is more a beginning then anything else. At the same time, I'm very happy to have completed this commitment and to bring it to a close.

Thank you.

30 Days of Art: Day 29

2011-07-30T19:26:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was the 29th day of my challenge, but I did not get to produce any art. Instead, I went to see an artist at work! My partner and I went to a Melissa Etheridge concert and just danced to some good music and good vibes. All in all, I felt very fulfilled as an artist watching someone else perfect their craft.

This woman seriously loves what she does!

. . . and she draws so much energy from the crowd!

I'm not exactly a "typical" Melissa fan. I don't know the words to any of her songs (except "California" because it speaks to my own love affair with the state) and I'm not a rocker. But we went because my partner is a typical fan. What I got was the experience of watching someone produce art from the heart. And that was worth it.

30 Days of Art: Day 28

2011-07-28T23:43:00.000-07:00

Most of my day was spent on other things, but I did manage to take some time and work on the borders of this piece. Not a great picture I admit -- left it until late and was just too tired to get a good shot. But at least I'm keeping my commitment! In any case, it's a work still in progress. More later

30 Days of Art: Day 27

2011-07-28T01:39:00.001-07:00

Zentangle in progress

30 Days of Art: Day 26

2011-07-26T23:51:00.000-07:00

I didn't feel much like drawing today (although I did do a small, piece I'll keep to myself), so I pulled out my long-neglected camera and tried to take some interesting pictures around my neighborhood. As an added complication, I took these at night using my nightscape setting. Not great, but it's just for fun.

And now for some of last week's beach pictures . . .

30 Days of Art: Day 25

2011-07-25T22:41:00.000-07:00

Today, I spent my art minutes training my eye with pure contour drawings (I'll spare you my efforts) and Zentangling. I recently bought a book on Zentangling and I'm really loving the various suggestions -- so I've been incorporating them into my tangles. That's all I have for now.

30 Days of Art: Day 16 - 24

2011-07-24T23:37:00.000-07:00

I've just gotten back from a vacation at the beach. I'm proud to say that between picture taking and my new obsession with Zentangles, I did manage to get in the requisite 30 minutes of art. I just didn't find the time to blog about it!

Isn't it the pits trying to catch up after a week of fun and relaxation? After many failed efforts to adopt other 30 day habits because I was so adamant about doing things "perfectly," I have learned my lesson. To make things easier on myself (that's what it's all about!) I'm only going to post my latest project tonight. I may or may not follow up with some beach pictures. It is much more important to me to move forward, so that's what I'm doing.

Today's project (actually, I've been spending at least 10 minutes on it for the last few days):

30 Days of Art: Day 15

2011-07-15T23:42:00.000-07:00

It's the half way point of the 30 days of art challenge and a full moon all at once! (Not quite sure why that has me so excited -- it just does :)

Today, I felt a certain amount of resistance to doing art, and especially to displaying my effort. I think it's because I've suddenly become an intense critic of my work. I have a tendency to push and push to get "better," which only serves to take the joy out of the effort. And then I just stop doing.

This time, I decided to take another approach. I wanted to do something much more free flowing and abstract than I've been doing in my other projects. Plus, I'm always curious about new ideas. All this led me to try my hand at a zentangle. Have you heard of them? I didn't until just a few weeks ago. Basically, it seems to be a meditative form of doodling.

So that's what I did -- I doodled. I create a zentangle in the form of a mandala. And an interesting thing happened in the process; I heard The Voice of the critic loud and clear as I doodled away. It is the same Voice that appears when I'm doing other creative work, such as my writing. But this time, it was different. This time I heard The Voice whine on about how I "wasn't doing it right," and that one thing was "ugly" while another would be great if I just didn't mess it up. Finally, I just had to laugh: This is a doodle for heaven's sake! There is no right or wrong.

I thanked The Voice very much for its contribution, and I went on about my business.

30 Days of Art: Day 14

2011-07-14T22:41:00.000-07:00

Armstrong Woods, Guernville, CA

So, the last few days have been taken up with mandalas. After my meditation today, I felt called to draw this one, which depicts one of my favorite places on earth: Armstrong Woods.

Walking among the trees feels almost as if I have entered the most sacred of cathedrals -- one populated with the beauties of nature than of man. The Old Growth redwood trees reach so far up into the sky that they literally block out the sun. But rather than feeling dark and brooding, it is a place of great repose, silence, reverence and connection with nature. I was just there just a few weeks ago, and I spent the better part of an hour seated inside an enormous tree feeling sheltered and welcomed. I love that place.

I enjoyed using my technical pencil to draw the woman. I loved the precision of the pencil -- I was able to draw her hair as little cornrows (nearly impossible to do with other pencils). But I found it really difficult to draw her face. I kept getting the proportions wrong and just had to settle for what showed up. Maybe I'm just off tonight, or maybe it was the pencil (yeah, that's it . . . it was the pencil, lol!)

Anyway, I enjoyed doing this and I'm not going to allow myself to fall into the trap of perfection. So there!

30 Days of Art: Day 13

2011-07-13T18:38:00.000-07:00

The Drum

I've been playing around with mandala's lately after seeing some of the work Barbara Hagerty (a fellow 30 dayer!) is doing on at her blog ArtiphyTheSoul.

I've done mandalas before as part of my Holotropic Breathwork practice -- but it has been months since I've really dug in. This one is in honor of my new African drum. We've been getting to know each other over the last 24 hours. I'm learning her sound and rhythms, and she is learning my tentative, head-driven drumming patterns! Ahh, that soon will change.

30 Days of Art: Day 11 & 12

2011-07-12T23:13:00.000-07:00

After completing my 3-panel Legacy project yesterday, I have not felt like starting anything new. But not to worry -- my creative juices are definitely flowing!

The last few days, I've focused on drawing the human figure using one of my artist figures. May seem boring, but it is necessary. I've had some challenges with proportions and this is a great way to work on that. Also, my last few projects have been free flowing, so I'm enjoying the contrast of more focus and precision. Fun.

I'm noticing as I continue to do an art project everyday that my artistic eye is developing. I was looking at the sky today and was really wishing for my colored pencils so I could reproduce it!

Oh, one last thing . . . Today, my gift to myself was to buy a hand made African drum constructed in Malawi. A few years ago, I lived and worked all over Africa (Senegal, Cape Verde and South Africa -- and I visited a number of other countries) but I never managed to acquire a drum. But at this stage in my journey, the drum has taken on more importance to me. I have no idea how to play it, but I'm willing to learn.

So, here's to more music in my life!

30 Days of Art: Day 9 & 10

2011-07-11T23:35:00.000-07:00

Thrive!

I've been spending the last two days of my art time working on this collage. It's the final of my 3-part panel that collectively is called The Legacy. Part 3 is called Thrive! and the use of dark and light colors is really appealing to me.

One thing I don't like is the yellow gop up top; alas, I tried to use some colored sand mucked it up. I had to come up with a strategy to re-purpose my error. This is the best I could do. I love the yellow, but it isn't harmonizing so well with everything else. Oh well, this is about experimentation not perfection so I'm happy with what I ended up with.

I really enjoyed using the watercolor pencils -- and now I feel much better about using them in future projects.

30 Days of Art: Day 8

2011-07-09T02:17:00.000-07:00

The Middle Passage - Part 2

I returned to my watercolor pencils to complete this project. I love the steady darkness of the pencil -- I can't get that tone from graphite or anything else I have in my goody bag. It's been fun learning to handle watercolor; even as I make lots of mistakes, I'm really learning how to play with tone, depth, etc. I look forward to becoming more comfortable with it.

The subject matter of this piece is drawn from Jungian analyst Clarissa Pinkola Este's story of The Stolen Mother Moon. I set out the first part in my previous post, so now I want to pick up where I left off.

The Mother Moon comes down to earth in order to discover who or what is killing the humans on the days when she fails to shine her light from the night sky. Alas, on her arrival she is immediately attacked by The Evil Ones:

And the Mother Moon sank, exhausted into the mud, and as she did her head fell onto her breast and her hood fell back over her hair and all became darkness again. And the vile things that love the dark came to then with a kind of whisper chatter: “We’ll get her now! We’ll kill her. Yes, we’ll kill her.”

They gathered around the Moon Mother snarling and kicking and grasping, and they drove her into the ground. They. Who hated. Humans.

The Mother Moon is down, and all seems lost as The Evil Ones get exactly what they were looking for:

At last, no more light shown across those dark waters.

And the one who gave light—and even more: the one who shone done on mothers nursing their babies; the one who made sleeping women kiss their lovers backs; the one who put words into the dreams of poets. That one was pushed deep into the mud. For the evil ones didn’t care about mothers or babies. They didn’t care about lovers or poets.
And the Moon Mother let one last ray of light zigzag over the waters before she disappeared completely. And the evil ones rolled a great boulder over her grave and danced a crazy dance on top of it.

So then, on nights there was no light to guide.

And so many people became lost; and so many children became orphaned; and so many people suffered.

Finally, when the Mother Moon failed to shine her light for many days on end the villagers who relied on the light of the moon to guide their journey set out to find her. They found her buried under the great big boulder, and they immediately set about to free her. And in so doing, they learned their own lessons:

The light rose up, lighting their faces first from beneath and then straight on and then finally from the top as the Moon Mother escaped from her prison and climbed the dark staircase back to the sky where now, on most nights, she travels across the sky with her hood turned down and with her light radiant everywhere.

And on those few, now predictable nights, when she veils herself in grey and does not shine, travelers have learned to stay by the hearth and wait until she shows the way again.

When the moon is not in the sky, I feel her absence and I think of this story. Thank goodness for the full moon!

30 Days of Art: Day 7

2011-07-07T16:35:00.000-07:00

The Middle Passage

* This is a bit hard to see, but its a nightscape. I'll try to take a better picture later. It is only a beginning.

Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Jungian analyst, cantador and downright badass Old Crone (in the best sense of the word!) tells the gorgeous story of The Stolen Mother Moon. It is the story of losing ones way and getting lost in the darkness only to find your way again by the light of the moon.

Whenever I get to a difficult fork in the road and just can't see far enough ahead to know what happens next, I tell myself that story. And soon enough, the way is made clear.

Here is just a snippet of it right now to help you find your own way: As with most fairy tales, it starts out in joy.

So there was this village.

And it was a wonderful village because everything happened just the way it was supposed to happen. All the mothers and fathers loved each other, and all the children were terrific.

But all is not as it should be and perfection is marred by the touch of darkeness:

Except—as there always must be in the psyche and in fairy tales—except there was this one thing that was very, very adverse. And that was that this beautiful, harmonious village was surrounded by a moat of black, murky bogs. And it was dark there always, and it stank because everything was rotting.

And so it was for that reason, for the darkness of the quagmires and the quicksand, that the people depended on the light of the moon to guide them at night.

Ahhh. Don't we all have those moments in our lives? Everything is perfect so long as you don't stray from the marked path. The light shines, the birds sing and life is predictable if not exactly blissful. But invariably, the light gives out. And then, well then all seems lost:

Some nights, she did not come. And on those nights the bogs were filled with treachery because there were evil things that lived there. Things that live in the darkest corners of humans minds would come out at night and lead the poor struggling travelers—with no light—into the quagmires and drowned them.

Learning of the pain and suffering that goes on in her absence, the Mother Moon descends to earth to investigate.

Well, it turned out that several people died in the course of a very short period of time. When the Moon Mother learned of this, she was filled with sorrow for she cared for humans. In fact she was so concerned she decided she would come to earth and she would see for herself. So when the dark of the month came, she stepped onto a slow shooting star and landed at the edge of the marshes.

What happens next is the stuff of epic and legend. I'll have to save that for later!

30 Days of Art: Day 6

2011-07-06T20:23:00.000-07:00

On the Making of the Legacy

Cheesh! What a challenging art day.

I took on this project that just seems way more than I can handle, and I'm feeling it. I'm sure in the end, it will be worth it but for now all I can say is . . . cheesh!

My vision for this piece is a series of three panels, which will incorporate water color, pictures and other media (in other words, I don't know yet).

First off, I decided I wanted each panel to be a certain size, and so I had to cut the heavy stock watercolor paper I'm using. I guess I should mention at this point that the one and only job I've ever been fired from required me to cut paper. I'm not kidding! I worked at a law school library and my task was to cut card stock and glue it onto paperback books (to preserve paperworks I suppose, but I never asked).

I'm sorry to report my cutting skills have not improved in the last 20 years. They were right to fire me! Take a look at this edge -- rough and uneven:

Next problem . . . I mean challenge. I'm working with water color for the first time, and I'm scared! So I've been roughing out my ideas on scrap paper and using prisma watercolor pencils. But the quality of the paper is not the same, so needless to say the rough drafts look like crap. Sigh.

Finally managed to a gesture drawing outline of what I'm trying to do. It's rough obviously.

Here it is painted. It's getting better! No, it's not what I thought I was going to do, but for my first effort (and given my fear of painting at all!) I'll take it.

And here it is finished:

30 Days of Art: Day 5

2011-07-06T00:39:00.000-07:00

The Legacy

For my next project, I'm putting together a collage. I spent more than the designated 30 minutes choosing old family pictures and figuring out how to scan them into my computer. To make things more fun, I'm going to use some tools and materials I haven't used before -- such as watercolor pencil. To be honest, this project feels like more than I can handle. Definitely "the voice" is letting me know I don't have sufficient talent to pull this off.

But what the heck have I got to lose? This is just for fun and it's just for me (and anyone else who happens by this site . . . yikes!) :)

Oh well, life is either a daring adventure or it is nothing. So says Helen Keller, and she would know.

Pictured above are just some of the tools I intend to use.

And here are some pics I plan to use in the collage:

Here goes nothing!

30 Days of Art: Day 4

2011-07-05T00:09:00.000-07:00

Happy Independence Day! Today was a day spent with friends and family (and dogs) eating barbecue (veggie for me), playing Frisbee with the dogs and cards with the adults. And of course fireworks played a big part in the festivites.

All of this is to say that, as far as art goes, today was a day of conception and preparation rather than production. I considered the next project I want to do and got very excited about it (and maybe a bit afraid of my capacity to carry it out . . . which is exactly what a fun, ambitious project should do). I also had my partner put together my new photo printer, which will play a big part in project implementation, and assembled some pics I want to be up front and center in my project.

That's all for now. More later!

30 Days of Art: Day 3

2011-07-03T17:01:00.000-07:00

I completed Mr. Crow today and loved the way he came out ( it's definitely a he -- look at that face!) The more I look at crows, the more regal they become. Those hefty muscles suggests they can take care of themselves, and there is something so all-knowing in their gaze that after a while I begin to believe all is well.

It is precisely because the crow has been able to take care of herself that she has gotten such a bad reputation. As we destroy more and more of their natural habitat, crows are forced to live closer to humans in urban settings. We get to see them in all their pesky glory as they forage for food in our garbage and eat the remains of others' kill. They are scavengers to be sure, and like other versatile scavengers (like the cockroach -- yuck!) they are likely to be the last ones standing when the end comes.

I came across a poem by Mary Oliver, one of my favorite poets. She too has a love affair of sorts with the crow:

The Crow

by Mary Oliver

From a single grain they have multiplied

When you look into the eyes of one

You have seen them all

At the edges of highways they pick at limp things

They are anything but refined

Or they fly over the corn

Like pellets of black fire. Like overlords

Crow is a crow, you say. What else is there to say?

Drive down any road

Take a train or an airplane across the world

Leave your old life behind

Die and be born again--

Wherever you arrive, they'll be there first

Glossy and rowdy and indistinguishable

The deep muscle of the world.

30 Days of Art: Day 2

2011-07-02T21:03:00.000-07:00

The Crow

On the second day of the art challenge, I felt compelled to pull out paper and pencil to draw my newest obsession: the crow. I know that some consider the crow to be a "pest". How ridiculous. These birds are incredibly smart, and over the years they have developed ingenious means to feed themselves. They use makeshift tools to pry out their food; or they will sometimes drop a a nut from just so up in the sky and wait for a passing vehicle to pop open the recalcitrant nut from its shell. Even more wondrous, crows have been known to wait patiently at a curb with other pedestrians until a red light turns to green and they are free to walk across the road to pick up their bounty. Incredible.

Here's to you crow!

30 Days of Art: Day 1

2011-07-02T11:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, was the first day of my 30 day art challenge and I must admit I'm torn. In one sense, I "failed" because I didn't sit down and complete an art project. It was an incredibly busy day where I had to drive several hours away from home, spend time with my sweetie, and drive us all back up to my house. So much of my time was spent traveling to-and-fro. And since I did not get to sleep the night before until 5:30 am (working on this blog!) I didn't have much energy for art when I got back home.

But when I explore what I did do, I find that I did produce the effects of art in my life after all. Here are the things that satiated my artist's soul yesterday:

I spent 20 minutes writing -- sitting uncomfortably in the back of my car on a hot, northern California day, I managed to write. I've been "stuck" with this project for a long time, so any movement is vastly welcomed. I don't have a completed story yet, but the germs of one has formed and I am happy. Which brings me to another point: I've been deep in the bowels of writers block for months now. No stories played in my head, and nothing worth saving came from my pen or keyboard. But suddenly, the floodgates have opened and stories are pouring out. I consider that a huge artistic success.
I also created a gorgeous artistic meal for my sweetie in under 45 minutes. It was a Quinoa work of art smothered in shrimp in tomato sauce and topped with Tilapia. To round out the meal, I put together two veggie smoothies for us that were perfection in form and function. I should have taken a pictures, but they went down quickly!

All in all, I'm pretty satisfied with the way things went. Indeed, I did create art yesterday.

David & Goliath Lay Down Their Arms: Cape Verde Joins the WTO

2011-07-01T05:09:00.000-07:00

What’s a small island nation like Cape Verde doing joining the World Trade Organization?

With a population just short of 430,000, per capita income of $1,400, and exports totaling about $3 million annually, Cape is hardly in a position to compete with perennial export giants like the United States, China, and the European Union. And yet, this small archipelago of 10 islands and eight islets located in the extension of a vast semi-arid and arid zone of the Sahel in West Africa seeks to join “The Club” of nations in the World Trade Organization.

The World Trade Organization is the international community’s most powerful economic institution, with a membership of 153 countries and control over 97 % of world trade. Can a powerful organization dedicated to the principles of free trade help a small and poor country like Cape Verde?

Barefoot Divas and The Big Bang: A Brief History of Cape Verde

In the economic arena, Cape Verde has little in the way of comparative advantage. Nearly 300 miles of Atlantic Ocean and a vastly different geography separate Cape Verde from Senegal and the African continent.

Best known for the soulful music of Cesaria Evora – The “Barefoot Diva” – the Island nation lacks the resource base to become an industrial power. Agriculture, the backbone of many African economies, is not viable because of the Islands’ rocky and mountainous topography, lack of rain, and extensive soil erosion.

The size of Rhode Island, nearly fifty-four percent of Cape Verde’s land is non-cultivatable, and the only agriculture to speak of is the subsistence farming rural families engage in with the help of drip irrigation. The fisheries sector is not commercially significant because the Island lacks a continental platform.
Despite seemingly insurmountable odds, Cape Verde’s history leaves room for cautious optimism. When the Portuguese walked away in 1975, after 500 years of colonial rule, the Island was in shambles: In the whole country, not a single secondary school could be found, and the only roads in existence were ones that served a strategic commercial purpose. Faced with massive illiteracy, little infrastructure, and few natural resources for development, the new government turned to a Soviet-style command economy.

For years, Cape Verde’s development model sought to build the internal market through import substitution and state intervention in the economy. The government regulated prices and created numerous state enterprises ensuring wide spread employment and access to affordable basic goods, but at great societal cost. The country stumbled along facing a massive debt load, weak productivity and profitability in the public sector, an underdeveloped private sector coupled with a growing informal sector, and a constantly shrinking pool of development assistance.

By 1991, Cape Verde had reached a critical stage in its development; politically and economically, change was necessary. The country opted for the “big bang” approach to development: Almost overnight, the state moved from a one-party to multi-party political system, and economically it transitioned to a market economy. In both transformations, Cape Verde has some success stories to share.

The Politics and Economics of Cape Verde

In a set of events mirroring the Bush v. Gore campaign, Cape Verde’s 2001 presidential elections found two candidates separated from the Presidency by roughly 17 votes. After presumed winner Pedro Pires took office, the Supreme Court invalidated a few fraudulent ballots. At least some Cape Verdeans argued the presumed loser, Carlos Veiga, was the “real” president. In the face of mounting tension, Veiga graciously stepped aside for the greater good of the country.

Along with its political maturation, Cape Verde has seen real improvement in its economic outlook. The government adopted a liberal foreign investment law, and by 2002, Foreign Direct Investment had risen from $2 million to over $27 million. The country also created an export market, focusing on textiles, footwear, and some fish and fish products. Recently, Cape Verde qualified for benefits under the African Growth and Opportunity Act, a U.S. initiative providing enhanced market access, particularly in textiles, to eligible sub-Saharan African countries. In addition to these efforts, Cape Verde also made the decision to join the World Trade Organization.

Cape Verde Seeks Development: Can Joining the WTO Help?

So, back to the original question: Why would a country like Cape Verde want to join the World Trade Organization?

For starters, Cape Verde seeks to bridge the “credibility gap”. The government’s new development policy looks to services – primarily tourism and banking – as the engine for economic growth. The services sector is particularly sensitive to the perceptions and myths held by would-be foreign investors, and as a small, least developed, African transition economy, Cape Verde has enormous perception challenges to overcome. For Cape Verde, WTO accession represents concrete evidence, both domestically and to the world community, that its autonomous liberalization efforts are working.

Equally as important, Cape Verde wants its liberal trade policy to mobilize increased resources for economic development. While a debate rages in the international community over whether the benefits of multilateral trade liberalization ever trickles down to developing and least developed countries, Cape Verde is betting in the affirmative. Whether it is to attract a higher, more export-oriented level of foreign direct investment, or to loosen the purse strings of international donors who insist that recipient states make real progress toward free markets and the implementation of international “best practices” in economic policy, Cape Verde is hoping that World Trade Organization accession translates into more money in the bank.

Perhaps the third most important rationale for the Island’s WTO accession plan lies in Cape Verde’s view that it can only hope to influence international trade policy by joining forces with other developing countries. Fully three quarters of WTO members are developing countries; like most such members, if Cape Verde has an export advantage at all it may well be its populace. The Island’s literacy rate has risen to an astonishing 77 %, and the country has a long tradition of exporting labor to increasingly better paying jobs in the developed world (Cape Verdeans have been immigrating to the United States since the 1800s when New England whaling ships would sail in to port and take on new recruits). In fact, there are more Cape Verdeans living in New England than in Cape Verde. The country is highly dependent on expatriate remittances to cover its massive trade deficit, and the government would like to facilitate easier access to developed country labor markets. But free movement of labor is not covered in the WTO Agreements. Developing countries have long lobbied for its inclusion, believing that the WTO’s rules-based system is their best hope for obtaining fair access to rich country labor markets.

The notion of the World Trade Organization as a referee ensuring a level playing field among its membership is not quite as farfetched as some believe. Recently, Antigua & Barbuda, a small island nation in the Caribbean with a population less than a quarter the size of Cape Verde, brought the world’s super power before the WTO’s dispute settlement body. Antigua & Barbuda maintain that a U.S. prohibition on cross-border gambling and betting services has led to a $4 million loss to the Caribbean nation’s economy. The WTO has not yet issued a ruling, but whatever the relative merits of the Caribbean Island’s claim, it is a sure bet that they would have had no success in getting the United States to address the issue but for the World Trade Organization’s mandatory dispute settlement mechanism. Membership really does have its privileges.

The Costs of WTO Membership

But membership comes with real costs. Unlike most African countries that joined GATT (the precursor to the WTO) in the 1960s and 70s on the sponsorship of their former colonial rulers, Cape Verde will join under the full WTO accession process. The WTO treaty is largely silent on the requirements for accession, providing only in Article XII of the Marrakesh Agreement that a country may accede “on terms to be agreed between it and the WTO.”

In practice, World Trade Organization accession is a two-step process: the acceding country must negotiate increased access to their markets on those products of interest to World Trade Organization members. In addition, the acceding country must also negotiate on the rules applicable to its membership. For example, developing countries traditionally have been entitled to “special and differential treatment”, which allows them, among other things, extended periods of time to implement their World Trade Organization commitments. An acceding country is not automatically entitled to an extended implementation period. It has the burden of demonstrating the need for such a period.

Practically speaking, World Trade Organization accession amounts to significant costs for Cape Verde and these transition periods can be crucially important. For example, the Island’s customs regime, one of the key sources of revenue for the government, will need to be overhauled as it does not conform to the WTO’s Custom’s Valuation Agreement (CVA). New legislation and implementing regulations will have to be drafted; Customs officials, judges, lawyers and the business sector will all need to be trained in the new procedures. But more fundamentally, the dominant view in Cape Verde is that the government will lose revenue once it implements the CVA. There is little support for implementing the Agreement at all, let alone on an accelerated timetable.

Similarly, World Trade Organization accession means that Cape Verde will have to create and enforce an intellectual property rights regime. The country currently has no IPR regime to speak of. It will take not only time, but enormous financial and human resources to create a viable regime. While much of the rest of the world – including developed countries – took years, even centuries, to create their systems, Cape Verde will have to implement a regime within a handful of years. And implement it must because under the World Trade Organization’s “single undertaking” approach, all WTO members must sign on to nearly all WTO Agreements.

Conclusion

Cape Verde’s accession to the World Trade Organization presents something of a crossroads for the international community. There are no models to look to given that the only previous least developed countries to complete the full accession process – Cambodia and Nepal – did so only as of September 2003 (the only success stories to have come out of the failed World Trade Organization Cancun Ministerial Conference). It would be tragic if WTO membership brought additional administrative costs and failed to bring sustained economic growth to Cape Verde and its people.

Having achieved laudable results in the face of a challenging history, Cape Verde has demonstrated its commitment to a free market-based economy. The international community must in turn support its efforts to ensure that World Trade Organization accession brings real benefits to this small island nation.

Originally published in slightly different form in the American Bar Association International Law Section Journal (Spring 2004).Update: On July 23, 2008, Cape Verde became the 153^rd member of the WTO.

Why?

2011-07-01T04:34:00.000-07:00

I remember the moment I told my father I wanted to be a lawyer. It was a typically humid June day in New York City, and through the open window of our apartment could be heard all the sounds of summer: the gush of water escaping from an open fire hydrant, the blaring horns of ever-impatient motorists, and the occasional snippet of conversation from the old men gathered on the stoop outside. But in our tiny, cramped kitchen there was only silence.

“Why?” my father finally asked.

Family legend has it that I responded, “Because I want to be the international Thurgood Marshall.”
Perhaps. My career has been a (modest) homage to the late, great justice in that I, too, focus on issues of fairness and equity in my work as a trade and development specialist. As I grow older, I find myself less concerned with my answer, however, and more fascinated with my father’s question: Why?
At the time, I did not fully comprehend what he was asking—I was only 9 years old. Like a Zen koan, more is revealed each time I explore the question.

My father came of age during the “Papa Doc” Duvalier regime in Haiti, a time in which lawyers faced persecution, kidnapping and even death. Why would I aspire to a profession that pitted a single individual against the all-powerful state? Why would I contemplate membership in an organization whose ethics call for representation of the accused, the unpopular, the poor and the dissident? Why would I participate in a system that either corrupts or kills?

My father’s experience of law, lawyers and the legal profession is vastly different from my own. As an American attorney whose closest bout with danger was a pulse-pounding (but ultimately uneventful) trip to Algeria, I am not often called upon to risk life or limb in service to my profession.

Like so many others, I recoiled in horror last November as Pakistani lawyers faced down batons, tear gas, barbed wire and other implements of autocratic rule to protest the government’s manipulation of the judiciary. My first uncensored thought was “Why?” Why would these lawyers stage protests at local courthouses knowing they would be clubbed, beaten and jailed? Why would they risk their safety, their families and their careers to object to the firing of a single judge?

As I contemplated the actions of my comrades in law, I finally came to understand the true nature of my father’s question: Why choose a profession that eschews security in favor of a life lived holding authority figures accountable under the law?

It is a task that will often prove risky—and not just in “exotic” locales across the world. The lawyer who forces the prosecutor to prove her case when society has already found a murder suspect guilty faces public scorn. The lawyer who battles the U.S. government all the way to the Supreme Court to ensure those charged with terrorist acts have access to courts and justice risks public opprobrium. But we the lawyers do these things anyway.

I sometimes wish I could go back in time—back to that summer day in June in New York City. If I could face my father’s question all over again, here is what I would say: “Why? Because the legal profession is the greatest profession in the world. In the process of doing our jobs, we secure freedom for everyone else.”

This essay was selected by the ABA Journal Board of Editors as the winner of the 2008 Ross Essay Contest. The prize is $5,000. The contest drew 193 entries on the topic: “Why do you believe the legal profession is the greatest profession in the world?” The contest is supported by a trust established in the 1930s by the late Judge Erskine M. Ross of Los Angeles. The contest is administered by the ABA Journal.

White Bread Sandwiches & Other Memories of Childhood

2011-07-01T01:22:00.001-07:00

Although I became a New Yorker at the age of four, there were so many thing—big and small things—ever reminding me I did not truly belong.

On cold, wet mornings in January, with the sun barely peeking out of the sky, my sisters and I would set out for school. We would dress in our pleated blue skirts, freshly laundered and ironed on a Saturday morning, topped with a yellow shirt and white bobby socks. We must have made for quite a sight on those dusty Brooklyn streets: Four young Black girls trudging through the snow single file wrapped to the gills in coats, scarves and gloves, with two startlingly white silk ribbons tied in a bow peeking out from beneath our winter caps.

For me, the sense of difference never really materialized until lunch time. Down to the cafeteria I would race to take my seat among the smell of institutional Pine Sol and sweaty, chattering fifth graders. I would place my lunch box on the table as I uttered a short but heartfelt prayer: “Please God, please!” Or “Dear God, I beg you!” Or “This time, God. Surely this time!” My prayers were not in gratitude for the food, as one might expect. And certainly, they were not in memory of the less fortunate—as my mother would have suggested. All of the pleading and supplication came down to this: May there be a white bread sandwich lying in my lunch box nestled between my thermos of milk and a bag of chips. Just like all the other kids.

I would hold my breath and wait and watch as my friends threw open their own lunchboxes. Out came the smelly tuna, the soggy bologna and mayo, the thirst-worthy peanut butter and jelly, and even the dreaded bread and cheese sandwich, which often meant the end of the month was near and food was getting tight. I would have traded my own lunch for any of those—even the bread and cheese.

But as hard as I prayed, the result was always the same. Inside my little Wonder Woman lunch box was not the sandwich I pined for but an assorted motley crew of plastic bowls and aluminum foil-wrapped concoctions: red rice and beans, fish in a thick tomato sauce, spinach, okra, chicken gizzards, turkey necks, oxtail and pigs feet. It was the kind of food I savored at home but eschewed in public. It was home food, not school food.

I found it impossible to convince my immigrant mother I needed white bread sandwiches for lunch. I tried. After enduring the casual but devastating taunts of my schoolmates, I would race home from school determined to make my mother understand the importance of sandwiches. But the aroma of my mother’s cooking would nearly stop me in my tracks: boiled green plantains with a mashed red bean paste, yellow rice mixed with vegetables, dumplings, meatballs, conch in a rich stew. My stomach would growl in traitorous anticipation even as I tried to stand my ground.

“Maman,” I would begin haltingly. “Tomorrow, may I please have a sandwich for lunch?”

My mother came from a long line of Haitian women who toiled before coal-fired stoves to prepare hearty meals for their families. She met my request with a strange mixture of surprise, disgust and hurt. “Un sandwich?” she’d grunt as she ladled hot soup into a bowl and set it on the table. “That is not food. It will slip through your teeth before you can even feel it.” She would hrrumph a few times before continuing, “This is food,” she said as she set a mile-high plate of chicken gizzards next to the soup. “This will feed you and strengthen you and make you smart. Sandwiches are for motherless children. Do you really want to run around looking like a motherless American child?”

And that was the end of that.

It was impossible to convince my mother of the primacy of sandwiches. How could I when they were as foreign to her as my ribbon-wearing-rice-and-bean-touting self was to my classmates? We did not even have a name for sandwich in our own language. We simply used the English word with a funny French accent.

Sandwiches have a certain mystique for the immigrant child that may be hard for others to grasp. Very simply, it signals belonging. I am not the only one who believes this. The white bread sandwich experience seems to resonate with kids across the immigrant spectrum. Consider two scenes from the 2002 comedy My Big Fat Greek Wedding. In the first, a geeky young Toula Portokalos—with her thick, black glasses and pigtails—sits alone in a lunch room full of chattering, laughing, white-bread-sandwich-eating classmates. As Toula slowly pulls out her own meal, one of the perfect blonde Mean Girls pounces:

“What's that?” asks Mean Girl.

“Moussaka,” Toula hesitantly replies.

“Moose kaka?” Mean Girl sneers, sending her cohorts into gales of laughter.

Fast forward two decades, and a now thirty-something Toula stands at the brink of spinsterhood (at least by Greek standards!) She is living out the dreary life of a waitress in her parents’ restaurant, and she longs for change. Toula decides she will go back to school. After the obligatory ugly duckling turns into beautiful swan scene, in which she throws off her glasses in favor of contacts and fashionably curls her dark tresses, Toula finds herself back in a school cafeteria.

Once again, the Beautiful People are seated together at a lunch table, laughing and chatting and eating their sandwiches. But this time, Toula rejects social isolation just as surely as she rejects moussaka for lunch. She sits with the Beautiful People and whips out her own white bread sandwich while chatting and laughing with the best of them.

And so at last, Toula is accepted. She is one of them. By the grace of the sandwich, Toula belongs.

Interestingly, for all of its status as cultural icon, sandwiches are themselves mere immigrants to the American experience. They are said to have been invented in the Eighteenth Century by the high-born John Montagu, The Fourth Earl of Sandwich. A profligate gambler, the Earl faced a daunting dilemma: Should he extricate himself from the gaming table just so he could get a bite to eat? In a fit of inspiration, the Earl decided to remain where he was and have his meal delivered to him instead. To avoid sullying his cards—and who doesn't hate dirty cards?—he placed the meat in between several layers of bread. Voila! The sandwich was born.

In modern times, we may well have labeled the Earl an addict and prescribed an intervention or the nearest Gambler's Anonymous meeting, but the Eighteenth Century apparently was more forgiving. By 1762, when the word first appears in print, the sandwich had become such the rage among the English upper class that the Oxford Companion to Food noted “one was able to observe numerous important contemporaries supping off cold meat ‘or a Sandwich’.”

The sandwich made its way across the Atlantic with a wave of European migration. Like immigrants the world over, it was forever changed by the experience. Once the exclusive preserve of the upper class, the sandwich quickly became manna for the masses. Italian dockworkers in Pittsburg piled overwhelming amounts of meat, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes and onions onto an Italian roll topped with a dash of oregano-vinegar dressing and called it a Hoagie. Down and out New Orleaners created the Po’ Boy out of the unlikely pairing of French bread with fried oysters, shrimp, fish, soft-shelled crabs, crawfish, roast beef and gravy, roast pork, meatballs, and smoked sausage. The comic strip “Blondie” inspired the invention of the Dagwood—once described as “a mountainous pile of dissimilar leftovers precariously arranged between two slices of bread”—that in turn spawned a chain of Dagwood sandwich shops in Florida. From its quintessentially English roots, the sandwich became truly American.

It is a transformation most immigrant children long to make. Happily, like the sandwich, most of us eventually are able to wedge the dissimilar aspects of ourselves into a hybrid concoction that is uniquely American. At least, that is what happened to me. I grew up and learned to navigate the mores of two different, and at times competing, cultures. I learned how to eat sandwiches in the outer world and elaborate Haitian meals at home. The memories of my once frustrated obsession with white bread sandwiches faded into obscurity.

Until, that is, my new life unexpectedly collided with the old.

It is fair to say that probably the last place I expected to see a reflection of my struggle with identity, belonging and sandwiches was in the pages of a legal text. In the intervening years since my obsession with sandwiches, I had become a commercial lawyer and eventually an academic. It was a safe world far removed from the disquietude of childhood. But then, all of a sudden there it was. In the guise of legal analysis, a judge was being asked to answer a question that had bedeviled me for years: Is it possible to become a sandwich?

As a child, I very much wanted what the sandwich so casually embodied: to blend in, to belong, to become so commonplace as to be unremarkable. I wanted to be a sandwich.

Luckily for the judge, he was not asked to determine whether human beings could become sandwiches. At least on the surface, the judge faced a relatively straightforward legal question: Did a landlord violate his own lease when he rented out space to a burrito-maker given his agreement to refrain from renting to other sandwich shops? But circling around the edges of the legal question were the more poignant ones of transformation and acceptance. Could a burrito become a sandwich? Could “The Other” become part of the whole? Could the periphery join the center? Is it possible for something so foreign to become so quintessentially American?

The experts weighed in decrying the very idea. The blogosphere derided the case as one more example of the legal system run amok. After all, even a child could tell you a burrito is not a sandwich. One celebrated New England chef testified the notion was absurd. “A sandwich is of European roots,” he said, while “a burrito . . . is specific to Mexico.” Finally, the judge dismissed the lawsuit with the pithy reasoning that “common sense” will tell you a burrito is not a sandwich.

Ahhhh. Common sense.

It turns out I could not be a sandwich after all.

The summer of my fifth grade year, my mother went into the hospital for some tests, and just like that she was gone. One moment, she was standing in front of our stove stirring a big pot of bouillon as she dropped crab legs, yams and hot peppers into the bubbling stew. The next, I was bouncing in my seat demanding a once-forbidden Pepsi while my mother's spiritless corpse awaited burial.

When fall came, it brought with it many changes. My sisters and I now trudged to school dressed head to toe in black—black pleated skirts, black silk blouses, black socks and black ribbons in our hair. I now carried a Bionic Woman lunchbox, having switched allegiance from the hopelessly outdated (in my eyes) Wonder Woman.

Nestled within my lunchbox was a white bread and cheese sandwich.

The Story of Rum - Part 3

2011-07-01T00:56:00.000-07:00


Where the Atlantic Ocean meets Caribbean Sea

Rum has long been associated with the sword-wielding, one-eyed pirate of days past. No one has done more to transform that image than Don Facundo Bacardi Massó. But the story of Rum is about more than just one man. It is the story of a man, a company, a country, and even a region. The story of Rum is the story of the Caribbean.

The patriarch of the Bacardi clan, Don Facundo Bacardi Massó, was only sixteen when he migrated from Spain to work in the family's hardware store in Cuba. The streets of Santiago de Cuba in the 1800s was an intriguing place, and it wasn't long before young Facundo found himself traveling the narrow cobblestone alleys and long, winding roads in search of the heart of Cuban culture.

Rum, of course, was at the very center of that enterprise. But it was a harsh, dark brew with "an unpleasantly musty taste and smell." Aguardiente, as the Cuban Rum of the era was called (literally "burning water"), was shunned by polite society.

Bacardi dreamed of refining Rum and opening up vast new markets for its consumption. He experimented with various distillation methods and began aging the Rum in oak barrels. Soon, he and his wife Amalia purchased a distillery on the outskirts of Santiago to expand production. The story goes that when Amalia first walked into the distillery, she was greeted by a colony of fruit bats intent on making their presence known. Bacardi immediately realized he had found a logo for his new company. Bats were the symbol of good health, fortune, and family unity.

It wasn't long before Bacardi Rum found its way into the most exclusive Gentlemen's Clubs and drawing rooms in both the Old and New World. But just as Facundo Bacardi ushered in a revolutionary new era in Rum production, Cuban freedom fighters were brewing their own rebellion.

By 1895, the grumbling discontent Cubans felt for the repressive Spanish colonial regime had developed into all out rebellion. Revolutionaries like Antonio Maceo, Maximo Gomez and Jose Marti fought for independence on the battle front. The Bacardis fought their own clandestine war. Emilio Bacardi, who would take over the company from his father, provided funds to the freedom fighters. Equally as perilous, he would often refuse to pay the taxes levied by representatives of the Spanish Crown.

It was in the Cuban struggle for independence against Spain (1895-1898) that the Bacardi family's revolutionary spirit was born. That spirit lived on long after the Spanish were gone. The Bacardis were again active participants in the seminal battle for the future of Cuba: The Cuban Revolution of 1959. Initially, the family supported Fidel Castro in his efforts to overthrow the despotic rule of U.S.-backed dictator Fulgencio Batista. But it soon became apparent the two sides had deeply divergent interests.

The Bacardi family fled Cuba and dispersed to The Bahamas, Puerto Rico and elsewhere in the Caribbean and the United States. It is said that on the day they left Cuba, the fertile coconut palm tree that graced the entrance of their Cuban distillery withered and died. “As long as the palm tree grows, Bacardi will live on in Cuba,” had been the family's mantra. The death of the palm tree was to have marked the end of Bacardi's ties to Cuba.

Those of us who study international trade recognize the battle between Cuba and Bacardi has never truly ended. The warring parties have simply moved the battlefield into the courtroom and the political arena. For years, Bacardi and the Cuban government have been locked in conflict over who legally has the right to market the name "Havana Club." The original trademark was owned by a Cuban family who sold the rights to Bacardi in 1997. Alas, "Havana Club" is also produced in Cuba by a company that benefited when Fidel Castro nationalized private Cuban businesses back in 1960.

The question of who owns the rights to Havana Club has become an international sensation embroiling Cuba, the United States, Spain, France, Japan, Nicaragua and the European Union. It is a question that has winded its way through the Spanish courts, as well the U.S. federal court system. (For a taste of the U.S. dispute, see Havana Club Holding, S.A. v. Galleon S.A., 203 F.3d 116 (2d Cir. 2000)). The issue has been subject to much political posturing and late night machinations leading to the adoption of The Omnibus Consolidated and Emergency Supplemental Appropriations Act of 1999. The Bacardi-Cuba battle is one without end. Rum serves merely as a proxy in the love/hate relationship of a family, a company, and a country forever intertwined.

My visit to Bacardi's Puerto Rican distillery was the last in a whirlwind seven-day tour of the Caribbean. As I stood in the company's famed courtyard, reminiscent of a Spanish colonial grand home, I could not help but reflect on how much of the Caribbean experience was represented in those walls. Bacardi is firmly planted in Puerto Rico, but like immigrants the world over, it longs to go home. It's Puerto Rican distillery holds many relics from the Old Country -- down to a plastic replica of the famed palm tree.

The story of the Caribbean is one of forced migration and of loss, but it is also a story of love. No matter where you come from, or how you find your way to the Caribbean, you cannot help but fall in love with the region and her people. And when you leave, you long to go home again . . . if only for the occasional visit.

Luckily, a good bottle of Rum preserves the memories until the next Caribbean interlude!

The Story of Rum - Part 2

2011-07-01T00:52:00.000-07:00

Fifteen men on a dead man's chest
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum
Drink and the devil had done for the rest
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.
The mate was fixed by the bosun's pike
The bosun brained with a marlinspike . . .
And there they lay, all good dead men
Like break o'day in a boozing ken.
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!

A fort in Antigua

Rum and pirates. The image of the two is indelibly linked in our minds, and with good reason. Rum — or Kill Devil, as some not-so-fondly called it — was the drink of choice for pirates, sailors, and other “vagabonds” of the New World.

It had the good fortune of being plentiful, cheap, and highly intoxicating. Indeed, the British Navy kept their sailors just this side of blindingly drunk by providing each man with a daily ration of “grog,” which consisted of a quart of water mixed with half a pint of rum, sugar and lime.

Life was difficult in the New World. Rum was a necessary ingredient for making the unpalatable more sweet. For the pirates, sailors and others who scoured the New World, Rum was even sweeter than money. Why take money when you could down a pint of Rum for your trouble? Thus, it was only a matter of time before the spirit became a medium of exchange.

But when Rum became a commodity capable of producing great wealth, bad things soon followed: Wars were fought over Rum; families were ripped apart because of Rum; and centuries of slavery and bondage in the Caribbean occurred because of Rum.

It is surprising how effectively the dark history of Rum has been covered over. Say the name, and the images conjured up are of lazy, sun-filled days in the Caribbean and of tourists lying under umbrellas sipping mojitos. Yet this intoxicating brew was at least partially responsible for the American Revolution. No less an eminent figure than John Adams admitted as much: "I know not why we should blush to confess that molasses [the precursor to Rum] was an essential ingredient in American independence."

The colonists raged against the vestiges of the British mercantile system that forced them to import molasses exclusively from the British West Indies. The only problem was that Jamaica, Barbados, and the other Caribbean islands of the British Empire, could not produce enough molasses to satisfy the American thirst for Rum. That thirst was nearly insatiable. For example, in just one year, 1770, the white male population of the American colonies (less than 1.7 million) drank 7,517,000 gallons of Rum! The colonists simply ignored British law and sourced their molasses and Rum from islands throughout the Caribbean. Customs and trade officials were bribed to turn the other away while monumental amounts of Rum traversed The Americas. But when the British decided to enforce the law in order to increase their revenues to fight the Spanish, all hell broke loose. Americans loved their Rum, and they were willing to go to war over it!

Perhaps it is easy for Americans to forget their Rum history because we have no permanent markers to commemorate it. Not so in the Caribbean.

While driving around in the numerous over-priced Rum tours organized by the cruise ship, I couldn't help but notice these beautiful brick buildings dotting the Caribbean landscape. The stood out against the gaily-painted cement and wooden structures typical of Caribbean architecture. I soon discovered the brick buildings had a special story to tell, one that is intimately connected with Rum. It turns out that en route to the Caribbean, the British used the bricks as ballast in order to balance out their ships weighted down with slaves and other necessities. But once the ships arrived in the Caribbean, the bricks were no longer needed. They were discarded in favor of Rum.

Ever resourceful, Caribbean men and women used the bricks to create structures of great beauty.

*pic is of a fort in Antigua

The Story of Rum

2011-07-01T00:49:00.000-07:00

The idea seemed ludicrous on its face: Go on a 7 day Caribbean cruise? With my family?

With due apology to cruise aficionados, I am decidedly "anti-cruises". They have always seemed rather . . . tame.

My travels have been along the lines of the "exotic"--Senegal, Algeria, Côte d'Ivoire (during a coup no less!) I guess I like the adrenalin to flow when I'm traveling.

But this was an opportunity to spend time with my family, all of whom live on the East Coast. So, I agreed to go.

It turned out to be not nearly as bad as I had contemplated. In fact, I had fun -- most of the time anyway (Ok, so I skipped Disco Night in the ship's lounge. Sue me!)

One thing immediately struck me on the many land excursions: Rum is at the epicenter of Caribbean culture and the economy.

Practically every island organized a tour of their Rum distillery, and each proclaimed itself producer of the "best Rum in the world."

Rum was everywhere: Rum cake, Rum punch, Rum shots, and the ever popular Cuba Libre! or Rum and Coke (Bacardi and Coke, insists our tour guide at the Bacardi distillery in Puerto Rico). Our Bajan guide put it bluntly: For every church built in the Caribbean, a rum shop crops up right next to it!

The diversity of Caribbean Rum can be dizzying. Each Island produces a brew with its own distinctive flavor. Here's a snapshot for the next time you order up a bottle:

• Barbados, reputedly the oldest operating Rum producer in the world (since 1663), is famous for light, sweet Rums.

• Cuba produces light-bodied, crisp, clean Rums -- although it is illegal for Americans to import it.

• Puerto Rico is known for light, very dry Rums.

• Haiti produces heavier Rums that are aged to a full-bodied, smooth vintage.

But in truth, my memories of Haitian Rum are different. Every year, my parents returned to New York from their Haitian vacation with bags full of an innocuous-looking clear liquid. It was Clairin, an unrefined Haitian Rum some called "moonshine." It stunk! I can remember my father and his friends sitting in our living room drinking Clairin, laughing, and exchanging news on Island politics. Although we lived in New York, Rum was a rich part of our social life (well, not mine . . . I was a kid!)

How did Rum become "a global spirit with its beating heart in the Caribbean"? That story is a fascinating one.

While its origins are shrouded in mystery, Rum is truly a global phenomenon. Of course, it could not exist without sugar cane, a tall, thick grass originally from Indonesia. The Chinese are said to have spread its cultivation to Asia and on to India. The Arabs then took up the charge, bringing sugar cane to the Middle East and North Africa. The crusading Europeans of the 11th century came upon sugar cane, and the Spanish and Portuguese carried it with them to the Canary and Azore Islands.

And then came Christopher Columbus. En route to his second voyage to the New World in 1493, Columbus picked up cane cuttings from the Canaries and transplanted them to Hispaniola--the island now shared by Haiti and the Dominican Republic.

The Caribbean proved an ideal climate for the cultivation of sugar cane, and Europeans had a nearly insatiable appetite for sugar. To satisfy that craving, the huge sugar cane plantations were born. Sugar cane was planted, harvested and transformed into sugar, which was then exported to various European capitals.The sugar plantations in turn needed lots of labor -- from slaves and indentured servants, to minor European nobility seeking their fortunes.

With this cast of characters, and the harshness of Caribbean life in that period, it was only a matter of time before Rum became the brew of choice for the enslaved, the disaffected, and the lonely. French historian Alain Hertz de Lemp disparagingly called Rum "the drink of the Blacks, the buccaneers and all the vagabounds who scoured the new world."

How did Rum change its image? More on that later . . .

And if I've managed to whet your appetite for some Rum, here's a recipe for the Cuba Libre! as told to me by a bartender at the Bacardi distillery in Puerto Rico:

Fill a glass with ice. Add:

• 1-1/2 oz. dark Bacardi Rum

• Juice of half a lime

• 1 cup Coca-Cola

• Stir and garnish with lime twist

Enjoy!

What Christopher Columbus Taught Me About Discovery

2011-07-01T00:40:00.000-07:00

The memories of my ninth year are swaddled in cotton gauze and shoved onto the very highest reaches of the darkest corners in my mind. It was the year my best friend called me a refugee (before Wyclef Jean made it cool), and my first love Miguel Parkins promised to love me in return if I would renounce my "Haitianess". It was the year I transitioned to B-cup breasts without ever needing a training bra. And it was the year my grandmother became gravely ill, but my mother died instead.

It was a very bad year.

The faint tendrils of memory that lead me back to that time do not come from those packed-off remembrances. I am drawn back by the snippets of a poem some now long-forgotten girl wrote in my sixth grade graduation yearbook:

Columbus discovered America in 1492
But I discovered a good friend when I discovered you.

For reasons I don't quite understand, Columbus was a popular figure in my elementary school. We learned about him in Mr. Branch's social studies class, then we sang about him while jumping double dutch and playing hopscotch on the playground:

In fourteen hundred ninety-two
Columbus sailed the ocean blue.
He had three ships and left from Spain;
He sailed through sunshine, wind and rain.

I have a confession to make: There was something about the Columbus we learned about and sang about in those early days that really drew me. You have to remember, this was a time well before I learned about the small-pox infested blankets that were Columbus' gift to the natives. This was before I understood Columbus was on a divine mission to find the gold that would fuel the aspirations of a belligerent Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand--and the lives of the indigenous Arawak and Taino natives were as meaningful to him as the flies that swarm around a field of cow dung. This was before I learned of all those things.

Columbus sailed to find some gold
To bring back home as he'd been told.
He made the trip again and again,
Trading gold to bring to Spain.

All I knew was this: Columbus traveled beyond the known world to prove the earth was round (although the Vikings beat him by 500 years, I wouldn't learn this until college). I was drawn to his sense of adventure and his need to move past the expectations of family and community. I had those feelings too.
I used to sit on the firescape in that mean little apartment in Brooklyn staring up at the sky and imagining what Columbus must have encountered when he first discovered Haiti. Did he know those lush, green mountains like I knew them? Did he love the sound of crickets and the tinkling lights of fireflies after a long, gusty rain? When he found himself back in Europe's cold embrace, did he long for Haiti like I longed for Haiti?

I missed my home so much that when my father told us one day if my mother died, we would bury her body in Haiti, I prayed for death. Death meant nothing to me, but a trip to Haiti . . . was a trip to Haiti.

Just eight days later, my terrible prayer was answered and I found myself on a bird of flight back to Haiti. While my siblings and I were bouncing in our seats, craning our necks to watch the in-flight movie, and demanding the stewardess bring more of the once-forbidden Coca Cola, my mother's spiritless corpse lay several feet below in the bowels of the plane.

I felt a hint of smugness because I knew something the others apparently did not: The woman who lay with hands stiffly at her sides and lips pursed in studied disapproval of death was not my mother. I had caught a glimpse of the Dead Woman the night before at my mother's wake, and as soon as I peaked into the open coffin I knew the truth. This bloated, sallow woman clad in a long pink gown with a mile-wide streak of white hair traveling from the center of her forehead down to eternity was not my mother.

"That's not my mother," I whispered to my uncle who had accompanyed me on the trip from my front row seat to the coffin.

"She looks so different because of the disease," my uncle tried to explain.
"It destroyed her liver. That's why she looks so yellow."

But my mother was yellow. She was the yellow of sunkissed Haitian mangos and bright, happy kitchens. She was the high-yella of the Haitian middle class, the kind of yellow that meant we were closer to our colonizing, rapist white ancestors than most. And in the upside-down world of Haitian social class, that was actually a good thing.

The Dead Woman was not the good kind of yellow, she was the diseased kind. She was yellow in the un-natural way the final stages of hepatitis makes you yellow. She was not my mother. But I could not explain all of this to my uncle, so I merely shook my head and kept shaking it until he and my cousins led me away.

The day of my mother's funeral was the kind of sunny, blue-sky filled Caribbean day that tourists love so much. As our procession walked the streets of St. Marc following the long black hearse, I felt the wind pick up and begin swirling the red clay dust around and around at our feet as we marched up the unpaved road to the cemetry. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

My mother's funeral was a typical Haitian affair with lots of fainting, lots of food, and lots of stories. My favorite was about the time my nine year old mother—for reasons that were never explained—found herself on a dark road home late one night. It was one of those nights out of which Haitian legends are born, the air heavy with the scent of sugar cane and a deep sense of foreboding.

Around a bend in the road, my mother came upon a zombie master, clad in white, trailing a line of freshly-minted zombies behind him. Each was attached to the other by a long, thin cord nestled in the hands of the Zombie Master—who looked for all the world like a fisherman on his way home with the day’s catch.

“Ça wap fait la?” demanded the Zombie Master. What are you doing here? It was past midnight, time for all little girls and boys to be safely tucked in their beds. The night was his.

Hands on hips, my mother looked the Zombie Master straight in the eye, “Old man,” she said, “you walk your path, and I’ll walk mine. The donkey doesn’t ask the farmer where it is going.” Then she spat on the floor and walked away.

The women laughed and laughed as they endlessly retold the tale. “Immacula! That woman was something! Imagine saying that to a hougan?”

I thought then my mother was like Columbus: bold, unafraid, adventurous.

In 1492,
In 1492,
Columbus sailed across the sea,
In 1492.

For 70 days he sailed,
For 70 days he sailed,
Columbus sailed across the sea,
For 70 days he sailed.

He came to a new land,
He came to a new land,
Columbus sailed across the sea,
And came to a new land.

Exploring he did go,
Exploring he did go,
Columbus sailed across the sea,
Exploring he did go.

The Caribbean Book of the Dead

2011-07-01T00:34:00.000-07:00

In Haiti, the shadowy line between the living and the dead is both soft and permeable. The dead ride on the dreams of the living to bring back tales of the afterlife, to announce the birth or death of a beloved, even to reveal the winning numbers in the local lottery. The living, in turn, seek advice on how to keep a lover from straying, and how to neutralize a neighbor's powerful magic, which could as easily kill livestock as a newborn baby.

But that very permeability is also cause for alarm because it means the dead are never truly dead at all. In the underworld, the undead are often called upon by dark forces to serve a zombie master in perpetual slavery. Although their souls are beyond the control of the darkworkers—for that is the province of God—their bodies can be made to do things and be things they would never have contemplated when fully alive. The living, therefore, must be protected—even from those who were once loving and nurturing in the Top-side World.

In the days and months after my mother's death, I remember just these three things: the rituals, the sense of my absolute invisibility, and libraries.

As a nine year old with a dead mother surrounded by people who did not have dead mothers, I became unique--sort of like the way a giraffe in the midst of a pride of ravenous lions is unique. I learned to walk as the giraffe does, carefully, warily, gingerly, around the known pockets of obvious danger.

When school friends asked why my sisters and I (but not my brother) wore black all the time, I dared not answer that Haitian mourning rites called for a two year display of public sorrow. They might think I was strange. When I went to Saturday afternoon confession at Our Lady of Refuge, I knew better than to tell the priests of our bedtime rituals—the red t-shirts, the spoons, and the holy water that served as shields against unnamed forces—because those rituals would surely be dismissed as primitive and even sinful. But I could truthfully confess that I never went to bed without reciting the solemn promise of Psalm 23-4:

Yea though I walk through the valley
Of the shadow of death
I will fear no evil
For thou art with me
Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
All the days of my life

Traversing the open pit between my public and my private self was not nearly as difficult as the withholding silence of the adults in my life. I now know they were silent because my loss reminded them too keenly of their own mortality, but at the time I thought my mother's death had extinguished a special flame inside of me, which allowed others to see into my heart. Without that flame, I was as empty and invisible as the undead vassals who served their zombie master overlords.

I found solace in books and in libraries. I would sneak off alone to our local library when my father was gone and my sisters refused to take me. I would cover the fifteen blocks in record time, skipping over cracks, dodging shattered glass, running past the young guys on their bikes riding aimlessly up and down the street, and the old men on their stoops drinking from their covered bottles, smoking weed and talking shit. Brooklyn-style. I would race past the students coming out of the Orthodox Jewish high school—the girls in their long skirts and their headscarves, the boys in their yarmulkes. My legs would carry me past Ms. Han's corner grocery where Old Mr. Ferguson held his one-man protest march one day when she had placed his change on the counter and not in his outstretched hand. He stood in front of her shop yelling, “No Justice? No Peace!” while Ms. Han stood behind bulletproof glass and shouted back, “I don’t want no trouble!” I would stop for a moment at the train station underpass to chat with Bob, the crazy homeless guy who slept in one corner of the station and pissed in the other with fastidious precision.

I would arrive at the library breathless and overwhelmed at the sight of all those books. I loved books: I loved the weight of them, the feel of them, and especially the smell of them. To me, they smelled of adventure, and of unknown and forbidden places. I eschewed "age-appropriate" stories in favor of romance novels featuring Indian warriors mounted on horseback holding windswept, buxom blonde seductresses in their arms; or Indian maidens struggling against their White captors looking a bit scared, a bit lost, but so much in love you knew it would all work out (it had to work because romance novels always ended with a happily-ever-after).

On a day of no particular importance, when I had once again snuck out of my apartment in search of more romance novels, I walked out of the library and into the fuming orbit of my father.

“Tonnère de diable! Who gave you permission to go out?” my father shouted, his Creole mixing with his broken, borrowed English.

I froze as a giraffe does in the midst of a pride of ravenous lions ready to pounce.

"Answer me!" my father demanded, his accent growing thicker as the rage traveled up from deep within him. "What were you doing in there? You went to see some damn boy?"

I shook my head because that was all I could do.

"Don’t lie to me, you little pig! Bouzen! I am not raising any sluts in my house. I’ll kill you first!”

I barely understood his words--either in English or Creole--but I knew enough to deny them if only I could get my throat, my tongue, my mouth to work. But I could not, so I shook my head once again.

My father grabbed my arm and pulled me along, even as one of his hands went to his belt. He screamed a few more things I could not hear as my attention remained transfixed on his belt hand. I watched as he pulled off his belt and grasped it by the flat side rather than the buckle. I watched as he swung at me, and I watched as the buckle landed again and again.

There is a moment of initial stillness that comes when one is in great pain. It is as if some outside force draws you momentarily away from your own body holding you still and safe and silent. When the pain comes—in great gulping waves—it is something of a surprise. The buckle lands on flesh . . . my flesh. And the prong springs free and hits bone, or maybe it is just a particularly knotted patch of muscle. In any case, I bleed. I bleed as though something had ruptured inside of me and I was going to die. I bleed an endless flow of blood.

He beat me in front of everyone: Bob and Mr. Ferguson, Ms Han, the Jewish students, the old men on their stoops, and the young boys on the street. He beat me in front of my best friend, Gina Figuiero, who stood on the sidewalk with her mother, her mouth forming a perfect oh as a thin stream of sweet vanilla ice cream trickled slowly down her arm.

I told that story to a friend once who, although White, did not appreciate the taboo of her words: "He beat you like a slave," she said. I recoiled at first, as much from the messenger as from the message. But when I considered the claim, I could not help but conclude that she was right. He beat me like a slave. How could it be otherwise given our history?

The Haiti that exists today came into being on December 6, 1492. On that day, the towering sails of Christopher Columbus' scouting ships first appeared off the coast of an island he would rename "Hispaniola"--Little Spain--in honor of his royal benefactors. It is said that when the triumvirate of The Niña, The Pinta and The Santa Maria traveled into history, their crisp, majestic sails snapping loudly in the strong winds of the Caribbean Sea, the natives standing on shore were momentarily blinded by the sight. The vision of progress and achievement these ships represented was so far beyond their experience that their reticular processing systems—their brains—could not transform what stood before them into a comprehensible image.

Like most stories about Columbus, that too is apocryphal.

In fact, when Columbus first crossed paths with my Haitian Taíno ancestors--ancestors in toil if not in blood--there was nothing particularly majestic about him. If you can still imagine that pomp and circumstance surrounds sailors living in close confinement for over six weeks with their livestock while sleeping on wet, rotting straw, consider the fact that Columbus was the one in need at the time of First Encounter. The Santa Maria, the flagship under Columbus' command, had run aground at the mouth of what would become Mole St. Nicolas. If not for the assistance of the Taíno leader Guancanagari, one of five caciques who commanded the region, the history of European expansion and dominance in the New World might have been otherwise.

For his trouble, and for his refusal to expel the Spanish from the island, Guancanagari would one day be forced to flee the wrath of the other caciques to seek solace in the mountains. There he would die an ignominious death. But on that historic Thursday in December, Guacanagari could not have known of his fate, and thus he acted to save the lives of the strangers who appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

History has little to tell us about the thoughts, words, and deeds of the people who became Columbus' Indians. It is perhaps not surprising under the circumstances--as the old African proverb goes: "Until the lions have their historians, tales of the hunt shall always glorify the hunter." But until such time as the lion may speak, how are we to see the world through his eyes? Only in the imagination.

History does reveal that Columbus returned to Spain to proclaim the good news of vast new lands, immeasurable wealth, and a pliant and friendly people awaiting Spanish domination and control. By the time of Columbus' second voyage in 1493, Pope Alexander VI would issue the Inter caetera, the Papal Bull that divided the world between the Spanish and the Portuguese. All lands 100 leagues west of the Azores, from the North Pole to the South, were ceded to Spain to bring forth "the exaltation and expansion of the Catholic Faith . . . to subject these lands and islands and their inhabitants, and with the help of God's mercy, bring them to the Catholic Faith."*

Thus began a time of great sorrow for the Taíno of the Caribbean.

How the (Trade) Winds Blow: My Life With Christopher Columbus

2011-07-01T00:29:00.000-07:00

The earliest sound I can remember is the sound of the wind stirring through my grandmother’s house in St. Marc, Haiti. It would wend its way over the mango tree just outside her bedroom window, up and around the tin roof--making a strangely comforting rustle as it went--before landing gently on my nose bearing the smell of sea salt and endless fields of sugar cane.

In Haiti, the wind takes on almost human form: Often, it comes ashore as a soothing, cooling breeze just off the Caribbean Sea. But sometimes, it morphs into a loa and bears down on the island with the wrath of the gods--forcing humans, animals and spirits alike to take cover.

When I was a child, I believed I controlled the wind. It came and went at my call, just like any well-trained pet. It loved and soothed me when I needed it, and it served as intermediary to the unseen elements that were a natural part of my life. I heard and felt it everywhere I went.

On the morning of the day I left Haiti, the wind was nearly silent. I stood on the tarmac feeling the heat rise up to push me away, and I was just as desperate to go. The journey before us promised so much more than my six year old mind could imagine, but even I knew something exciting was about to happen: We were moving to New York.

“You’re going to be a good girl for your mother and father, you understand?” My grandmother said. “You’re going to show them I raised you well while they were gone.”

I nodded politely, just as I always did when my grandmother told me to do something. But my attention was not on her words. I was awestruck by the giant white beast in front of me: Its engines roared with power as they sucked in air and spat out the wind with a wheezing, metal-infused groan that both frightened and thrilled me. I imagined myself being pulled by the wind slowly, inexorably, into the big spinning blades.

“S’il vous plait!” a flight attendant shouted as she attempted to marshal passengers up the ramp into the dark, gaping mouth of the waiting airplane. “It is time for people with tickets to come take their seats. Everyone else must go.”

No one listened. It seemed all of St. Marc had come to the airport to see us off, and each person would have his turn. Our friends and family chatted and laughed and recounted when-you-were-young stories that always ended badly for me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my brother running around and around the crowd with his friends generally making a pest of himself. My two oldest sisters were getting words of advice from an elderly neighbor, while the three younger ones looked on with boredom.

We were ready for the journey to begin.

Finally, my grandmother straightened the ribbons in my hair one last time and tugged unnecessarily at my navy-blue pleated skirt. Then, she let me go. I practically skipped across the tarmac buoyed by the weight of the wind at my back as it pushed, teased and prodded me forward. I looked back at my grandmother just once and saw her tears. In a culture heavily dependent on its young to care for its old, she was being left all alone. First her daughter and son-in-law were lured away just four years earlier. Then her son. Now, her grandchildren had heard the call of the wind and followed.

It is a cycle that has repeated perhaps millions of times in the last few hundred years. Since early sailors learned to harness the sun, stars and wind to power their journey across the sea, the world has never been the same. As a child in Brooklyn, I remember chanting a short little song on the playground to that effect:

"In 1492, Columbus sailed the oceans blue ..."

And he changed the course of global economic history (and the trajectory of my life) while he was at it. None of it would have been possible without the wind. Forging a watery path from Spain to the Caribbean and back again took an incredible amount of wind power expertly harnessed. I have long been fascinated by that journey. Did you know, for example, that shortly after arriving in his first port of call in the Canary Islands, Columbus was delayed for over four weeks because the winds were too calm? What did those winds know even then? What would have happened if . . . ?

What does it matter the possibilities? Columbus arrived in the Caribbean on October 12, 1492--just days before my birthday five centuries later--and promptly Christened the people he met there "Indians" (I will forever be known as a West Indian to cover up one man's error). More importantly, a bruised and battered but alive Columbus returned home several months later to be met with a hero's welcome. By October 13, 1493, (now just six days and five centuries short of my birthday--do you begin to see a pattern?) he was back on his ship sailing the oceans while trailing global economic catastrophe in his wake. Well, as to that, it was only a catastrophe for some of us.

Columbus' second journey was a spectacular affair. Seventeen ships and over one thousand men set sail for the New World. On board was a cacophony of sounds: Men shouted orders and scurried across the deck as they loaded up for the journey; sheep made sharp, braying noises as they were being herded into position while cattle shuffled restlessly, and horses uttered soft, frightened whinnies at the unfamiliar feel of a ship beneath their hooves. In the echoing distance, not yet discernable to human ears, was the faint moans of the millions of women and men who would follow Columbus' path into a life of perpetual bondage.

What was remarkable about Columbus' journey was not its refutation of a belief that the world was flat (an idea Thomas Friedman would resurrect to great effect in 2005). What Christopher Columbus discovered was the wind. The lyrically named trade winds of the Caribbean--"regular, dependable, steady winds that blow east to west at the 20 degree latitude"--allowed Columbus to complete his second journey to the New World in only twenty-one days. That fact would herald in a new era of colonial expansion and economic development the likes of which the world had never known. It was a period of globalization pure and simple. Not the first. And certainly not the last.

I like to imagine the wind that played at my back in Haiti that day in March 1975 is the same wind that powered Columbus' journey. It is the same wind that carried my Béninois ancestors from the African coast into a life of slavery and bondage in the now-conquered lands of the Taíno Indians. It is the same wind that whispered words of freedom in the listening ears of the great guerilla warrior Toussaint L'Ouverture. And it is the same wind that forged a path from my grandmother's mango tree to the display cart at the Safeway on Alhambra Boulevard in Sacramento (3 mango francis for $1? You can't beat that!)

It has been with us a long time.

So, how is that someone like me ended up an international trade lawyer of all things, you might ask? That, I am afraid, is a story for another day.

30 Days of Art Challenge!

2011-06-30T18:32:00.000-07:00

I'm delighted to take up the challenge of producing art every day for the next month. Whooohooo! Traci Bunkers has created a 30 day challenge where those of us who yearn to create art just for the sake of it can support each other in our process. I am so happy to have found this community of kindred spirits, and I look forward to taking up the challenge.

So why "get your art on?" After all, I see myself as a writer rather than a visual artist or an arts and crafts type. Of course writing is its own art, but why the focus on creating pieces of visual art? For me, there is something about putting pen (or pencil) to paper without having to produce words that--ironically--frees me up to write! I don't consider myself "good at drawing" or painting, and perhaps it is because they are not in my expertise that I allow myself to just be with them. The judging voice is silenced (well, most of the time anyway!) and I can just enjoy the process. So, why not? What have I got to lose?

Traci has established some excellent ground rules for herself, which I have adopted here.

I’ll make art every day for 30 days and post what I have done.
I don’t have to finish what ever I’m working on that day, I just have to work on something.
I have to work for 30 minutes, but can work longer if time permits.
It doesn’t matter what I do for the art making, as long as I work on art.
I won’t feel guilty for taking the time to work on art and I won’t have to justify why I’m doing it.
I don’t have to go into detail in my post about how I did anything or what tools, materials I used (unless I want to).

I am so excited to get started -- I think I'll go make some art now!

2009-10-14T05:41:00.000-07:00

Take The 500 Words Challenge!

2009-10-13T23:11:00.001-07:00

testing the blog