Pep-talk for Paris

Sometimes I wonder and think what they'd have done in Paris. What they'd have done in any paradise, even if it wasn't paradise, and what I'd do if paradise existed. I should have done my field study in New Orleans. I should have gone down there and been a volunteer, helping rebuild something, somewhere. I should have asked people about jazz. I should have read Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston at night. Is it ridiculous to say that my mother would probably be more nervous about me going to New Orleans than me going to Paris? Not to mention, Caitlin would never forgive me.

It's funny, that I'm less than a month away now, and more than aware that I'm doing the craziest thing I've ever done before, but also aware that this is just a stepping stone for doing things that are crazier in the future. I was watching The Music Man last night with some friends, and I realized how good it was for me that I wasn't born in a small town. The old women talked of the librarian in a way that I realized people would talk about me if the people from where I'm from weren't used to people hauling off and doing crazy things. For most of them, moving to LA from wherever they were from was the crazy thing. So me going off to Paris is surprising, maybe, but not unexpected, if they know me, which many of them do.

My mom says she's afraid I'll never come back.

I'm not afraid of that, though it wouldn't upset me if I found a reason to stay somewhere.

Going over culture shock again I realized what I'm most prone to is holing myself up in whatever apartment I get or wherever I'm living, reading, writing, but never going out because it means I'll have to go out on my own. That's how I am at home. I love getting in the car and driving somewhere, but I always have to have a purpose, and directions. But then again, I am prone to wander. But wandering for me usually comes with the need for comfort--not total comfort, just an understanding that I can control myself, or...something. I haven't figured that one out yet.

I wanted a way to "mitigate"--I hate that word--this issue. I hate the word because it's so impersonal, and it means nothing to me. It's just meaningless. Anyway, I've decided that I'm going to chose one place that I have to visit every day. Not the same place, a new place. Something to get me out of the apartment. When I went to London, and realized I had no idea what I was doing there, and I didn't have alone time, and it was brand new, and I'd never been abroad, I got an email from my father telling me to go to St. Paul's. Honestly, to make him proud, to tell him I had gone, to write back to him about it, was all that got me out that first weekend. And that was all I needed.

I'm not afraid of the romanticism of Paris. I'm afraid that'll all melt away as soon as I'm in that city alone, and part of me wants to just sit on a park bench for two or three days after Kate leaves and force myself to realize that this city will be kind. I think that's why I might need Langston Hughes with me, to keep me company. I may have found something to love. But which love? And in which life? Kate says that God let me listen to the music, enter those speakeasies and listen. I feel I can remember asking, please let me go. Please. And I imagine God rolled his eyes at me. But it makes me wonder if perhaps I've been to these places before, and if I have, then why be nervous?

I remember thinking when I was in Heathrow for the second time, so nervous because it was such a big airport, and that taxi driver had just cheated me out of about £20 and I was angry at him (and will not be speaking for him in the trials of heaven) and I was afraid of never getting home. Getting into JFK airport was like coming home. You could feel America in the soil, coming up through your feet. Everything clean and in straight lines, the shops on the right in the left, rather than circling around you, and I knew I'd get there. On the plane to JFK they gave us these horrible airplane pizzas but on the cover of the pizza box was the Coliseum, the Eiffel tower, and the London Gherkin, all of which I had seen and been to, if not inside of, and it occurred to me that 4 months ago I hadn't at all been to those places, just seen pictures of them. This wonderful sense of accomplishment came over me. The boy sitting next to me laughed at me, and I explained. He said he was going on holiday to Florida with some friends. I thought that a very odd place to decide to go on holiday, but didn't say so. All of this goes back to the point that I said to myself, "If you can get through Heathrow, you can do anything." I honestly believed that, because I was nervous about it, and I was afraid, and it seems a ridiculous thing to be afraid of, if you've done it, but I hadn't. So when I got back home, an occurrence I don't actually remember, Heathrow had been done. And I knew I could do anything.

Why shouldn't that apply now? Why can't I use that as my reason for going to Paris alone on a Field Study? Gosh I'm crazy, but going crazy--so I've been told--can be a fun experience. If I just let it happen. Damn. I've been through Heathrow! What can't I do? Learn and speak a foreign language? Sure! Travel a foreign country on one's lonesome? Done! Live abroad for as long as a tourist visa will let you stay? Not a problem. I mean let's be clear about this: Heathrow is 10 miles in diameter. 5 terminals. Outside of London. It's got really circular design, so its easy to get lost, and there are a trillion people so it's easy to not be certain where you are. It's only when the plane is going to board that they actually tell you where your gate is, so you have to stave off sleep while you wait for the board to update your gate, meanwhile you may be on the other end of the terminal from your gate. That's not nerve-racking at all.  (In another time-continuum, by the way, Jennifer is still sleeping in Heathrow; she missed her plane and just became an illegal immigrant of the UK.) My question is, if I've been through Heathrow, what can't I do? Well, honestly, I'm aware there are plenty of things I can't do. Like speak Romanian. Or French, for that matter. But you know, people have been doing this for centuries. Americans have been doing this for centuries. What really is the problem?

If you haven't figured it out, this is my pep-talk. Because it's easy to tell yourself its all going to be fine when you've got 3 months until you go. But now it's a couple of weeks, and I really have to do myself some convincing.

Ethics of History

"There are different kinds of love and each, according to the Fitz, is never like the other." - Rachel's ofdeerfolk

Um.  So, I totally found a source on the Ethics of History (not the History of Ethics), and I kind of want to give this some more thought, and also I mentioned today in class that it'd be a good post to write about.  So here goes it.

As indicated by my annotated source for Wednesday, this source has a chapter that outlines the three responsibilities of a historian: 1.) to be "advocates of collective memory and responsible for its order."  2.) to be "responsible for the future insofar as it is a matter of their representation of the past." and 3.) to be "responsible for taking over the heritage of the past," doing "justice to the people of the past and..." coming "to terms with crimes and horrors which belong to this heritage" (Carr 197).

I love this idea.

I wish I were a historian.  Also, history is not dead!  And I like the idea of being an advocate of the collective memory, responsible for its order.  I think that means not only uncovering lost truths, but learning and holding on to known truths so it passes through the ages.  This is why I want to learn about these people who played music and lived in Paris, because their experience was also an American one and I don't want it to be forgotten, but I also don't want it to go unnoticed.  I think there are ethics to not letting history be forgotten.  But I also think there are ethics to being expansive and open-minded about the history that really is, and never making a decision.

"The time to make up your mind about people is never." - The Philadelphia Story

I would add, no matter how long they've been dead, you should always take in new information, ESPECIALLY if it will change the way you see a human being.

But I also look at this history in a very real way as my responsibility to the future.  I like the idea of the past reflecting onto the future.

I think the biggest relationship to ethics, however, is in the 3rd point: being responsible for taking over the heritage of the past, doing justice to the people of the past and coming to terms with crimes and horrors which belong to this heritage.  I believe this is important because it implies staying away from the interpretations of history done by others, and making your own decisions.  It means staying away from the stereotypes or decisions people made about others in the past to interpret history at this time and place.  We do this particularly with the horrors of war where we refuse to teach some of the worst parts of history.  But ethically, it is important not to dredge up old hurts, but to see people in the context of those hurts, and when dealing with history I think its particularly important not to color things in a rainbow of goodness for it is much too hard to understand people, their motivations or their intentions if we forget the trauma they went through or the challenges they faced.  As an example, I think it would be ethically wrong to portray the 20s as a time of great fun, new ideas, liberal lives, and wonderful pervading ideals of equality and love for all men.  Sure we remember the flappers and the speakeasies, the great clothes, and the freedom from tradition and strictures.  But it's important to remember also that there were race riots, horrible acts of violence, overspending and reckless living that led to the Great Depression, the racketeering, the murders, scandals, the breakdown of familial relationships, and the oversimplifying of the issues that pervaded the time period.  I think it is far more ethical to make educated guesses about people living at the time when they are taken in the context of the trauma, "crimes and horrors which belong to [their] heritage."

I think there are incredible ethics to writing and representing and learning history.  I think it means endless reading and research, open-mindedness, and a willingness to take all stories into account as possibly true, while checking sources to confirm it.

Ah, Socialism. Or is that--what?--history?

I'm loving Sixty Million Frenchmen Can't Be Wrong by Jean-Benoit Nadeau and Julie Barlow.  It's helping me recognize some aspects of French culture that I might not have been aware of before reading.  In reading just a couple of chapters, I'd like to report that I'm fairly certain that at least outside of the business place, if not within the business place, too, the French operate on P-time unless otherwise directed.  This may explain what North Americans tend to categorize as "bad service" because the French take their time.  It may explain why they work only 35 hour weeks, or why they take entire months off of work.  Because working every second of every day is unimportant, is unproductive, in the end.

But what I really want to discuss is something French businesses do that the book discusses called Les soldes or "the sales."  Twice a year, once from the middle of January to the middle of February and once from the middle of June to the middle of July, the French have their "sales."  Anything can go on sale at this point in time from clothing to furniture.  "To hold a sale outside that period, merchants have to obtain special approval from the police.  The rest of the year, smalls hops and big retailers can't so much as offer a rebate without facing the wrath of the law" (11).  Honestly, when I read this, I thought of socialism.  Of bureaucracy.  The state decides when stores have sales for goodness' sake!  But then I continued reading.

"It dates back to practices of the merchants' guilds in the Middle Ages," the book reads (11).  Um...before socialism existed.  "At that time, guilds had two functions: they settled disputes among tradesmen of one town and protected the tradesmen against competition from other towns" (11).  Such a rule explains why France still has what we call "Ma-and-Pa" shops.  Because quality and pricing is protected and managed, allowing small stores the chance at survival.  And thus, in France, sales are regulated.

It's not socialism, which is easy to accuse a country of, but not so easy to prove.  It's history.  I like this little addition in the book, "The practice of regulating sales predates the discovery of America by at least three hundred years" (11, emphasis added).  I.e. before we feared socialism, before we worshiped capitalism, before we even existed, France had a system in place to protect its business men and women, by way of guilds, regulation, and police.

And that's why its important to know history, because politics, government, and therefore culture are innately connected to it!

In defense of Annotated Source for 1 February

I know that this isn't a scholarly article, a documentary or a book, but I am not an anthropologist.  In fact I am an American Studies major, and part of my project is going about studying the experience of African-American expatriates in Paris with the methodology of the American Studies field.  A very big part of that is 'Textual Interpretation' in which you read the books, listen to the music, view the art, etc. of the men and women who lived in Paris, conversed in Paris, created in Paris, etc.  Josephine Baker's Complete 1926-27 recordings is one of a list of books, music, or art, that I will be citing.  Art pieces will not be cited, though records of 'gallery' shows will be.  Part of the American Studies methodology is putting the art in the context of the history, the institutions and the social implications they would have come into contact with, making this album extremely relevant.

Baker, Josephine. Complete Record Works. 1926-27. A piece for textual interpretation, to be taken into account as the first of her recorded works while she was in Paris.  She stayed in Paris and/or France basically for the remainder of her life, returning to New York for a short while, only to realize that she didn't want to deal with the racism there and returning to Paris.  To fully understand these people and what they expereinced as Americans in Paris, one must read their writing, listen to their music, view their artwork, and roam their city.