bicyclemark

How Do We Get There From Here

Newark — photo by eutrophication&hypoxia on flickr

As the sun disappears behind the concrete horizon, I look across the 10 lanes of highway that are currently all filled with cars moving extremely slowly. Everyone in their own vehicle on their way back from work heading home, everyone hoping this traffic will clear up, just as they hope everyday around this time. The highway is massive and bleak, with shards glass and tiny nondescript car pieces along the shoulder. The sound barriers couldn’t possibly block out all this sound, but communities along the highways of New Jersey figured that out long ago. Most of them are used to the 24 hour, year after year sound of trucks and cars roaring in the direction of New York or Pennsylvania.

This is New Jersey in 2012. This was New Jersey in 1992. A few decades pass, but other than the shape and design of the newer cars on the road, the feeling has not changed. If anyone happens to tune into news in the car, they could surely hear a report about the state of the world, specifically about the environment and the point to which humans are pushing it through our own collective behavior. But thats just on the news, the story out there is doing the daily routine. Getting through the day. Making that car payment. Paying that mortgage. Living that life we were taught to live.

Along the highway, between the occasional tree or building, there are the billboards. One in particular is for solar energy for your home. There’s a phone number under a picture of a solar panel. I wonder how many people have dialed it and how things are working out for them. A Prius pulls in front of me, I almost forgot there were hybrid vehicles out here among the SUV’s and livery cabs. The exit ramp takes me around and over the highway, the bridge I grew up crossing everyday looks worn and crumbling. The etched date in the concrete reads: 1974. I wonder how much we’ve really learned since then.

91 Excellent Years, And Counting

I can remember at the end of every summer when I was kid, having to wake up before the sun came up, to get a ride from the town’s lone taxi driver, who would take us on the long journey via the treacherous and twisty national roads of Portugal before the dawn of highways, to catch the plane back to New Jersey. Right before my brother and I would get in the car, my grandparents would do the routine: wish us a good trip and ask us if we forgot anything. Then my grandmother, who even back then never had trouble speaking her mind, would speak a dramatic line like she was rehearsing for a very poor rendition of McBeth, “I probably won’t see you next year, as I’m old and I probably won’t survive til next summer.” This would be followed by us half-laughing at her over-dramatic delivery as we’re trying to focus on the journey ahead, and the traditional, “oh be quiet with that stuff” from my grandfather. More than 20 years later, I’ve noticed my grandmother no longer says it, as I guess around the age of 90 it is simply implied.

The beauty of having grandparents around the age of 90, who are still of mostly sound mind, is that you can ask all the questions many people never get to. Instead of learning about your family based on second or third hand stories, you have the very people who lived unbelievable moments and did the kind of hard work that seems impossible for any modern day work-from-anywhere self-employed person. You also get to watch them reflect on a world that they have observed for almost 100 years… even if they were too busy or napping for many of those years. In an era where we stash our elderly out of sight and praise the virtues of being young, I’ve had the good fortune of never losing touch, and always being enlightened/entertained by one set of my grandparents. Even better, throughout my life, I’ve gotten to help my grandfather in his orchards, listen to my grandmother in the kitchen, and laugh at the cold weather while sitting with them around a fireplace.

Not everyone gets to do this. That truth never eludes me. It is a rare treasure that no one is guaranteed and many are denied. I would call that one of the main reasons I would share stories about them, to share the wealth in some tiny and perhaps naive way.

Today my grandfather, José da Fonseca Jr. turned 91 years old. Whatever his age, however different my world might be from his, he is a part of everything I do and the way that I do it. Parabens Avô!

Galvanizing Canadians

Galvanize 1. b: to stimulate or excite as if by an electric shock

-(merriam-webster)

News out of Canada today still lacks in-depth information and examination, but so far what is coming out is that a same sex couple who got married back in 2005, while trying to get a divorce, were told by the Canadian government that their marriage had never been legal. The British-American couple was shocked at this revelation, and according to the Toronto Star (newspaper) the same applies to thousands of other same sex marriages between non-Canadians that have taken place in Canada since 2004.

If you remember back to 2004, it was the height of same-sex marriage phobia in the United States, and the re-election of George W. Bush. Americans, as well as people from all over the world who could manage it, went to Canada where the country had embraced its role as a nation where same sex marriages could be legally performed and recognized. The government even used this image, as they do to this day, as part of their promotion of Canada as a world leader in human rights. The reports that have surfaced this week indicate that government lawyers are now arguing in court that if same sex marriages aren’t legal in the home country of those getting married, then the marriage isn’t legal in Canada either.

In the coming days the government as well as the lawyers may change their story. The prime minister, unsurprisingly, claims ignorance as to any change in government policy. But regardless of what elected officials, lawyers or the media say, this development should be enough to galvanize Canadians who value human rights and equal treatment. The spark that reawakens a movement that has, perhaps, fallen asleep to what seemed like mission accomplished. Suddenly betraying thousands of couples should be an electric shock that sweeps representatives out of office, and embarrasses lawyers and others into resignation and generally speaking – the social wilderness. This is the time to take something horrible and turn it into a rally cry to demand justice, a real, lasting justice that cannot be undone.

Write Our Own Histories

The headlines coming out of Chilé this week echo throughout the world, “government shift in policy regarding learning about Pinochet era in school,” from now on to be described as a “regime”, and not a “dictatorship”. Which is immediately met with anger and disapproval, criticized as an attempt to rewrite and whitewash history.

You don’t have to be Chilean to know something about re-writing history. One constant that transcends borders and time is that history gets told in different ways as time passes. People often refer to the old Churchill quote, “History is written by the victors,” in an effort to explain how the stories from the past are told. Christopher Columbus was an explorer. George Washington, a great leader. Genghis Khan, a brave fighter. None may be true, but each is often told, retold and accepted as fact. Few of the victims are alive or represented to tell a different story, though some brave souls with seek out and bring their histories back to life.

In the context of the classroom and what appears in history books, there is no doubt that these things have tremendous influence as to how children will grow up understanding the world and how it came to be as it is. Chileans have every right to be concerned or outraged when their nation’s history is rewritten in favor of those who committed mass murder and other atrocities. Most nations on this planet have marginalized or harmed people in some way in their past, yet not all are willing to admit it and let the shameful stories be told in the classroom. It is easier to hide behind pride and boastful patriotism, far more difficult to be honest and critical of what your country does and has done in the past.

All outrage aside, in our present world of plentiful information and the informal learning renaissance, citizens could also look to each other to address this problem. At home and in our communities, both offline and online, we have the power to tell history from the bottom-up. The government may shift and attempt ridiculous revisions that might even be implemented for periods of time, but we have a fantastic arsenal of experience and communication to counter such hubris. The children of the world could stand up during the revised history lesson on how charming dictators from the past were, and calmly respond — we know this is false. Better yet, they could rewrite the whole section with help from stories of people who lived through the horror.

The Backbone of our World

“Family farmers are the backbone of our nation’s economy,” – the words of the legendary Willie Nelson speaking on behalf of farm-aid not too long ago. I thought about the words of Willie today as I walked through the mud, under the fences, past the sheep, next to the cows, over the stream and yes.. through the woods. Up here in Normandie, I’m not sure there has ever been a farm-aid organization, though we do know that farmers in France get their share of – often referred to as unfair- subsidies and market protection. Maybe it is unfair, but when you’re walking passed the old fashioned farm houses and over the majestic green hills, you can’t help but breath deep and feel… healthy.

Back in New Jersey, in the town where I spent much of my childhood, older people always told me about how my sprawling suburban hamlet used to be a farming town. Yet by the 1990’s there was not a single farm left, and it looked more like a town made up of strip malls, big box stores, and cozy suburban homes. Whatever majestic green there may have once been was long paved over by several highways criss-crossing the town. No one thought about what had been lost – too late now anyway.

Country life isn’t for everyone. It may not even be for me. But when you’re eating cheese or bread, and you can look across the street and wave to the sheep or baker who were responsible for the deliciousness on your plate – there is a satisfaction that anyone could and should get to enjoy (city or country dweller). And my utmost compliments to the people of Northwest France who have managed to preserve their farms and their wonderful environment. Wandering around these sleepy forgotten places, it doesn’t just feel like the backbone of France, it feels like the backbone of a sustainable world.

Green — Somewhere in Normandy today, looking towards the sea.

Only Near Death Experiences

My Malev-Hungarian airlines flights on the way back from Kosovo were heavily delayed, which seems like standard practice with that company. We are in what is supposed to be the last 30 minutes of this return flight to Amsterdam, its evening so there is nothing to be seen out the window, other then what seem to be clouds as we begin our decent. For some reason the decent is taking forever, 15 minutes, 30 minutes, we’re obviously circling the airport. No big deal I suppose, most passengers seem to know how this airline can be and are taking it in stride. Among the languages being spoken around the cabin I can clearly hear that Dutch is the dominant one; In front of me people are chatting casually, I get the feeling by their light conversation, they’ve just met on this flight. Most aren’t talking at all, just focused on the device or book in front of them. On my left there is an empty seat followed by a young gentleman occupying the window seat. He seems to be in his 20’s, of African descent, listening to music on those really high quality headphones I think P.Ditty produces. I haven’t said much to him all flight, other then offering to take his garbage and facilitating some communication between him and the flight attendant. My only excuse is that I’m tired, I fly constantly, I don’t have the energy to get chatty and make friends. I figure he doesn’t want to make friends either. So it goes -normally.

photo by Saga Arpino on Flickr Then it happened. In what even now seems like it never happened, something that I can only describe as feeling like a giant ice-ball slams into the engine outside our window. This is immediately accompanied by a small ball of fire that seems to appear over the engine. This causes the plane to only momentarily shake a little, resulting in a natural sound of panic, fear, and surprise from most passengers on the left side of the plane. They then break into a loud whisper and murmurs, as everyone leans over trying to get a look at the wing. Then gentleman and I look out at the wing and can’t make out much of anything, not smoke, not damage, nothing. The plane seems to be flying normally, but the panic on board is thick. For the first time of the entire flight we’re looking at each other needing to say something, searching for some way to make sense of what has happened and what will happen. In an effort to find something to say, I assure him like some kind of plane expert, “If it is only one engine the plane can still land normally with one engine.” Neither of us seems comforted. Wiser voices among the passengers shush the panicking whispers, “calm, stay calm,” I hear in several languages. Amazingly things get quiet. -And then it happens.

From out of the cloud cover Amsterdam appears below us. I won’t bother to describe how I know, after a decade of flying to and from the city that I call home, I know when I see it from above at any time of day. Nervous people start making jokes and talking about life. I turn to the gentleman and ask him his name. We break into friendly conversation and I learn about his work as a professional soccer player in division I Romania, and his Angolan ancestry. We speak a bit of Portuguese and laugh a little about I don’t remember what. In that moment I’ve decided two things: 1- If something should happen I want to at least know my neighbor in these last minutes. 2- Probably nothing is going to happen but we both need to be distracted right now. Might seem dramatic but all around the plane I noticed the same thing happening, people who had barely spoken to each other suddenly asking each other questions and sharing thoughts and experiences. Some trying to calm or comfort their neighbors, others maybe thinking what Im thinking.

Minutes later the wheels touch down and despite the strangest thing Ive ever seen happen to a plane in mid air, there seems to be nothing out of the ordinary outside. But inside, something even more interesting is happening. Laughter and smiles, all around. I notice a group of 3 people who are not traveling together suddenly exchanging numbers. People are handing each other bags and patiently letting others go before them. Everyone is relieved and there is a euphoria that we rarely experience in our day to day. It would probably be psychologically exhausting if we did. But at the same time, to see such kindness and joy, I was left thinking about how good we can be to each other when we allow ourselves.

The gentleman and I walk towards the baggage check together. We’re still smiling about being safe on the ground, and swapping a few stories. I learn about his kids and his life here in Amsterdam. I tell him a bit more about mine. We part ways at the baggage carousel, in the same style many new friends did that night: “Great meeting you. Ill keep an eye out for your name on the internet. Guess we’ll never forget this flight eh? See around town.”

In the end it is a long story with no big ending. Even the pilot didn’t bother explaining what did happen. And I suppose we can’t live life the way that people who have had a near death (or at least what seems like near death) experience do. But in a world where most of the news and the stories we share describe how cruel people can be to one another, it is fantastic to live a moment where you see how fantastic we can be towards one another.