White is not an ethnicity.
My whiteness is a void of cultural identity. Even when I meet other Caucasian individuals, they are often first or second generation Polish or Serbian immigrants. I love this diversity and I am fascinated by the stories these people carry, but when contrasted against my own fallow immigration narrative, these characters are so much more alive and visceral, so much more interesting than my farm boy upbringing.
Showing posts with label Diversity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Diversity. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Monday, October 10, 2011
The Great Unknown
Today, as I was deleting the scads of forwards, email newsletters, and other garbage that had inundated my email inbox, I came across a post from a blog that I follow. The author of the Mission Paradox Blog is Adam Thurman, a theatre producer from Chicago, and he has some very interesting ideas about promoting your craft, whether it be a theatre or a corner store.
Today's post was entitled, "Most People", and in it Mr. Thurman discusses how, in our current disparate society, it is virtually impossible to achieve even a minute level of fame or notoriety, let alone the star power that will land you on the cover of Rolling Stone or The National Enquirer.
Thurman is absolutely correct. Consider the music or film industry in the 40's and 50's. How many genre's of music were there when Elvis, Sinatra, Buddy Holly, or Hank Williams were crooning their love songs? A handful at best. Now, there are more sub-genres and niches in music than hip-swivels in an Elvis song.
Some of the most clever, well written television programs are have only lasted a few seasons, before being bumped for some cheaply-produced reality show. Programs such as Arrested Development or Freaks and Geeks have kick-started the careers of some now wildly-acclaimed actors, but never saw even a paltry following during their existence. And yet Two and a Half Men and King of Queens have been on for nine seasons (I apologize to any fans of the aforementioned programs)?!
Thurman states in his essay that, "The goal isn't (or shouldn't be) to have the world know you. The goal is to build a following large enough to sustain you . . . large enough to be able to devote a substantial portion of your life to art creation."
On one hand, I agree with Thurman completely. Obtaining a regional or genre specific following, in today's cultural climate, is the realistic way to position yourself as an artist.
On the other hand, I disagree entirely with the premise that you should not try to conquer the world.
This is a potentially dangerous way to look at the world. A true renaissance man looks beyond his comfort zone, surpasses his area of expertise, and attempts to understand all things. This means becoming ubiquitous your niche, then moving past it, into areas yet undiscovered.
Master the craft that you want to dedicate your life to, but don't restrict yourself to only that world. That is what drives me - a respectful curiosity for the world in which I live. I believe that this is the most fulfilling way to approach life.
Seek to understand the world as a whole, so that you might exist in the world as a whole, rather than simply the world that you know.
~CW
Today's post was entitled, "Most People", and in it Mr. Thurman discusses how, in our current disparate society, it is virtually impossible to achieve even a minute level of fame or notoriety, let alone the star power that will land you on the cover of Rolling Stone or The National Enquirer.
Thurman is absolutely correct. Consider the music or film industry in the 40's and 50's. How many genre's of music were there when Elvis, Sinatra, Buddy Holly, or Hank Williams were crooning their love songs? A handful at best. Now, there are more sub-genres and niches in music than hip-swivels in an Elvis song.
Some of the most clever, well written television programs are have only lasted a few seasons, before being bumped for some cheaply-produced reality show. Programs such as Arrested Development or Freaks and Geeks have kick-started the careers of some now wildly-acclaimed actors, but never saw even a paltry following during their existence. And yet Two and a Half Men and King of Queens have been on for nine seasons (I apologize to any fans of the aforementioned programs)?!
Thurman states in his essay that, "The goal isn't (or shouldn't be) to have the world know you. The goal is to build a following large enough to sustain you . . . large enough to be able to devote a substantial portion of your life to art creation."
On one hand, I agree with Thurman completely. Obtaining a regional or genre specific following, in today's cultural climate, is the realistic way to position yourself as an artist.
On the other hand, I disagree entirely with the premise that you should not try to conquer the world.
This is a potentially dangerous way to look at the world. A true renaissance man looks beyond his comfort zone, surpasses his area of expertise, and attempts to understand all things. This means becoming ubiquitous your niche, then moving past it, into areas yet undiscovered.
Master the craft that you want to dedicate your life to, but don't restrict yourself to only that world. That is what drives me - a respectful curiosity for the world in which I live. I believe that this is the most fulfilling way to approach life.
Seek to understand the world as a whole, so that you might exist in the world as a whole, rather than simply the world that you know.
~CW
Monday, July 25, 2011
Movin' On Up
The last month has been rather Hellish. You may have noticed the blatant lack of postings over the last 4 weeks. It is because I am in a funk. It's called the "I'm in a weird state of transition" Blues.
My lovely wife has recently finished her coursework at the University of Iowa in music therapy, and on June first she started her final hurdle on the road to certification: a six month internship. The location? Des Plaines, Illinois. So a little over a month ago, my dear wife, our worldly possessions in-tow, headed for the Chicago Suburbs. And I was left to fend for myself in Davenport, Iowa.
You'd think that without my wife around, I'd have nothing to do after work, so I'd be able to blog like crazy. That's what I thought. Unfortunately, an obstacle got in the way of my much-anticipated productivity. Writer's block.
It came in the form of lack of motivation. It came in the form of exhaustion, as I couldn't sleep well. It came in the form of YouTube and Facebook and working late and sleeping in. It hit me like a blitzkrieg on the London skyline. But the best way to move past a block is, simply put: start writing again. It's going to be stiff, it's going to be awkward, but it's the only way that I've found to actually get back into the rhythm.
"All Them Foreigners"
This weekend, Annie and I went down to Southeast Iowa to attend a wedding and then visit my mother. The wedding was beautiful, the weather was cool and overcast, and the rolling hills of Southeast Iowa tugged on my reminiscent heart strings.
On Sunday, we went to lunch with my mother at a little gas station-turned-grocery-store-and-restaurant (you know the type) in Farmington, Iowa. We pulled up under the converted gas awning and parked our car, the only Toyota I'd seen in at least three counties. As we went inside, I snagged a Bonny Buyer, the local classifieds rag. The cover was brightly promoting "Heartland Fireworks: Best selection, Best quality, Best price". Out of Wayland, Missouri, you know these folks are serious when they typify their final statement with five exclamation points!!!!!
As I flipped through the listings of Allis-Chalmers' and F-350's, an open wagon pulled by two scraggly-haired mules pulled up to the building. At the reigns was a man wearing the biggest cowboy hat and mustache combination I've ever seen. A girl who attended my high school sat beside the man, wearing a matching hat. Two Australian Shepherds panted lazily in the bed of the wooden cart. They strode in and sat down in a dingy booth across the room.
We chewed our pork tenderloins and country-fried steaks in relative silence and as we were finishing our meals, my mother leaned out of our booth and hollered to the couple,
"Hey guys! How are you? I haven't seen you in ages!"
With that, the couple wanders over to make small talk. I gear up for a superficial conversation with someone I've long since lost any common interests with. My mom announces,
"You remember Chris? This is his wife Annie. They're living in the Chicago area now, although I keep hoping they'll decide to come back!" She laughs at that, though there is more truth than jest in the statement.
The mustached man scoffs. "I used to drive truck through there on the way to Indiana. Always hated that stretch. Too many foreigners."
I clenched my teeth as I forced a polite smile. Below the table, Annie's grip was cutting off circulation to my left hand, signifying her disdain for the mustache clad mule driver. As the one-sided conversation continued, the man continued to explain how southeast Iowa was much better, without all the problems of the "Big City". In his mind, simpler was better.
We smiled and nodded and finally they left. We paid our ticket, and headed on our way as well, relieved to be removed from the mans closed minded epithets.
But the Mule man got me thinking. As he railed against several other ethnic identities, complained about the traffic, and besmirched the bureaucracy of city life, I realized that, from his limited perspective, these things were awful. Why would you want to interact with someone from India, who you could hardly understand, when you could talk to someone who was born and raised in America, lived down the road from you their whole life, and had the same experiences as everyone else in the county?
To me, this is what makes the city so exciting. We drove down Devon street last week, passing by shops promoting kosher meats, kebabs, sari's, Hijabs, and Bollywood films. The people who walked the crowded streets were probably Israeli, Pakistani, Iranian, Indian and who knows what else. They were likely Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, Christian, and Buddhist.
And I loved it. I watched every person who passed our car. Some were dressed head to toe in black robes. Others wore short shorts and tee shirts. Some had flowing robes of silk. One man had the most impressive beard I'd ever seen up close. The sheer diversity in culture as we drove down those half dozen blocks blew my mind. And they all lived in relative harmony.
To some, diversity is a frightening thing. As for me, I'll deal with the traffic to meet some people who haven't spent their whole life in the corn belt.
My lovely wife has recently finished her coursework at the University of Iowa in music therapy, and on June first she started her final hurdle on the road to certification: a six month internship. The location? Des Plaines, Illinois. So a little over a month ago, my dear wife, our worldly possessions in-tow, headed for the Chicago Suburbs. And I was left to fend for myself in Davenport, Iowa.
You'd think that without my wife around, I'd have nothing to do after work, so I'd be able to blog like crazy. That's what I thought. Unfortunately, an obstacle got in the way of my much-anticipated productivity. Writer's block.
It came in the form of lack of motivation. It came in the form of exhaustion, as I couldn't sleep well. It came in the form of YouTube and Facebook and working late and sleeping in. It hit me like a blitzkrieg on the London skyline. But the best way to move past a block is, simply put: start writing again. It's going to be stiff, it's going to be awkward, but it's the only way that I've found to actually get back into the rhythm.
"All Them Foreigners"
This weekend, Annie and I went down to Southeast Iowa to attend a wedding and then visit my mother. The wedding was beautiful, the weather was cool and overcast, and the rolling hills of Southeast Iowa tugged on my reminiscent heart strings.
On Sunday, we went to lunch with my mother at a little gas station-turned-grocery-store-and-restaurant (you know the type) in Farmington, Iowa. We pulled up under the converted gas awning and parked our car, the only Toyota I'd seen in at least three counties. As we went inside, I snagged a Bonny Buyer, the local classifieds rag. The cover was brightly promoting "Heartland Fireworks: Best selection, Best quality, Best price". Out of Wayland, Missouri, you know these folks are serious when they typify their final statement with five exclamation points!!!!!
As I flipped through the listings of Allis-Chalmers' and F-350's, an open wagon pulled by two scraggly-haired mules pulled up to the building. At the reigns was a man wearing the biggest cowboy hat and mustache combination I've ever seen. A girl who attended my high school sat beside the man, wearing a matching hat. Two Australian Shepherds panted lazily in the bed of the wooden cart. They strode in and sat down in a dingy booth across the room.
We chewed our pork tenderloins and country-fried steaks in relative silence and as we were finishing our meals, my mother leaned out of our booth and hollered to the couple,
"Hey guys! How are you? I haven't seen you in ages!"
With that, the couple wanders over to make small talk. I gear up for a superficial conversation with someone I've long since lost any common interests with. My mom announces,
"You remember Chris? This is his wife Annie. They're living in the Chicago area now, although I keep hoping they'll decide to come back!" She laughs at that, though there is more truth than jest in the statement.
The mustached man scoffs. "I used to drive truck through there on the way to Indiana. Always hated that stretch. Too many foreigners."
I clenched my teeth as I forced a polite smile. Below the table, Annie's grip was cutting off circulation to my left hand, signifying her disdain for the mustache clad mule driver. As the one-sided conversation continued, the man continued to explain how southeast Iowa was much better, without all the problems of the "Big City". In his mind, simpler was better.
We smiled and nodded and finally they left. We paid our ticket, and headed on our way as well, relieved to be removed from the mans closed minded epithets.
But the Mule man got me thinking. As he railed against several other ethnic identities, complained about the traffic, and besmirched the bureaucracy of city life, I realized that, from his limited perspective, these things were awful. Why would you want to interact with someone from India, who you could hardly understand, when you could talk to someone who was born and raised in America, lived down the road from you their whole life, and had the same experiences as everyone else in the county?
To me, this is what makes the city so exciting. We drove down Devon street last week, passing by shops promoting kosher meats, kebabs, sari's, Hijabs, and Bollywood films. The people who walked the crowded streets were probably Israeli, Pakistani, Iranian, Indian and who knows what else. They were likely Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, Christian, and Buddhist.
And I loved it. I watched every person who passed our car. Some were dressed head to toe in black robes. Others wore short shorts and tee shirts. Some had flowing robes of silk. One man had the most impressive beard I'd ever seen up close. The sheer diversity in culture as we drove down those half dozen blocks blew my mind. And they all lived in relative harmony.
To some, diversity is a frightening thing. As for me, I'll deal with the traffic to meet some people who haven't spent their whole life in the corn belt.
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