Reclaiming Hope

"First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out--because I was not a socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out--because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out--because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me--and there was no one left to speak for me."

Pastor Martin Niemoller, German minister imprisoned during World War II for opposing the Nazi Party

This is the quote I read Tuesday night as I awaited the six train going uptown. It was printed on a flyer for the 2007 Darfur Op-Ed Writing Contest This is the quote that I read after I left Hunter College, feeling hopeless about what I had heard. The Holocaust. Armenia. Rwanda. Now, still happening, genocide in Darfur. Suddenly, it made sense to me why more Americans prefer to read about Brangelina and feel good, than the attrocities occurring in Sudan, and feel bad. And, who can blame them? No one likes being left feeling powerless and hopeless. And, no matter how sunny or optimistic your disposition, when you hear in detail about the ethnic cleansing going on in the Sudan right now, and how little the international community is doing to stop it, you feel bad. Who is going to take responsibility for this massive slaughter of human life? Has history taught us nothing?

I had picked up the flyer at Hunter College outside the auditorium where, as part of the Times Talks, the New York Times' speaker series, Pulitzer Prize-winning Times Columnist Nicholas Kristoff and journalism graduate student Casey Parks talked about the trip to Sudan they returned from one month ago. Parks was chosen from among 3,800 students who applied to join Kristoff filing reports from Darfur as part of the "Win a Trip with Nick" contest.

"We in the media have traditionally not done a great job of covering genocide," said Kristoff.

"It's hard to get these images out of my mind," he said. "I fight with the power of the pen."

Kristoff described a time in his early reporting in Darfur when he was speaking with victims gathered under a tree. Displaced. Dismembered. Raped. Demoralized. He went on to the next tree and heard more tragic stories. And then, to the next tree. After talking with victims under the fourth tree, he looked up to see more and more trees. As far as his eye could see, trees. Each with a group of traumatized people standing under it. It was then, he said, that the scale and level of atrocity hit him, utterly overwhelming him.

He spoke of two sisters whose father was beheaded in front of them. And, he told of a roadside checkpoint where he was told that his interpretor, a university student, would be detained. Refusing to leave his interpretor for dead, Kristoff was also detained.

"It is extraordinary that the international community is letting this happen," said Kristoff.

According to the Human Rights Watch Web site "Since early 2003, Sudanese government forces and ethnic militia called “Janjaweed” have engaged in an armed conflict with rebel groups called the Sudanese Liberation Army/Movement (SLA/SLM) and the Justice and Equality Movement (JEM). As part of its operations against the rebels, government forces have waged a systematic campaign of “ethnic cleansing” against the civilian population who are members of the same ethnic groups as the rebels. Sudanese government forces and the Janjaweed militias burned and destroyed hundreds of villages, killed and caused the deaths of possibly 200,000 people, and raped and assaulted thousands of women and girls. The government’s campaign forced more than two million Darfurians from their homes. As of 2006, more than two million displaced people live in camps in Darfur and approximately 208,000 people have fled to neighboring Chad, where they live in refugee camps."

When asked by an audience member if he thought US ground troops should be sent into Sudan, Kristoff said no. Instead he sees these as steps the international community could take: enacting a no-fly zone; applying pressure to the Sudanese government; shaming China for playing a facilitating role; and, sending United Nations peacekeeping forces to Chad and Central African Republic now in severe danger of becoming fallen states as violence spills over from Sudan.

When asked by an audience member his thoughts on President Bush's naming Andrew Natsios, a former administrator of the U.S. Agency for International Development, as his special envoy for Darfur on September 18, said Kristoff: "He means well, but he's not Colin Powell."

Don't be left feeling hopeless:

Send an e-letter to President Bush here

Sign a petition here

Attend a local event

Organize a local event

Read about the genocide in Sudan here

Get the STAND e-newsletter (Students Taking Action Now: Active locally at NYU and Columbia University)

Buy a Save Darfur Tee Shirt and Wear It; Hang a Save Darfur Poster
Donate Funds to Humanitarian Groups Working in Sudan

Don't wait for someone else to act.

Do something today.


Your Girl About Town

**If you're planning on attending an event at Hunter College's Kaye Playhouse soon, be advised that due to construction the entrance on 68th Street is blocked and plan to enter on 69th Street.

Franzen in the House

You may remember him as the author -- when chosen by none other than Oprah herself to be one of her recommended authors whose book cover would be stamped with her seal of approval, her logo -- who said thanks, but no thanks. I remember something different.

While we were in Peace Corps, my friend Jay received this book called “The Corrections” in a package. For a while, there was one copy of the book in the country (of course, one copy we knew about) -- that which belonged to Jay. He raved about the potency of this book, which centered on an unhappy, dysfunctional family. A kind of dysfunction, though, that seemed eerily run-of-the-mill. Jay, affectionately known as 'The Professor', was valued for his literary criticism among volunteers. After his praises were sung -- and supply and demand being what they are -- a veritable waiting list for the book came into existence.

One volunteer would read “The Corrections” at post, then place it in the cubby hole of a friend when next at the volunteer house. As such, the book traversed the whole of Benin. No one seemed able to put it down once he or she picked it up. When finally I was the recipient of “The Corrections”, this much talked-about novel thick as a brick, I was no different. It was my friend Jen who had passed the book onto me.

I devoured that book whole, large chunks of text at a time. I read so much of it by candlelight that I am somewhat surprised I can still see without wearing glasses. At times I laughed out loud. I marveled at the unwound professor accepting little yellow pills, among other things, from one of his college students in the hotel room with the red velvet chair. I got caught up in the estranged dinner table scenes in the book. Mother was tightly wound and on-edge, mousy; Father was far-removed and oblivious; Adult children each with his and her own idiosyncrasies. All of them passing the salad and slicing the bread as they always had. Glazing over some problems, clinging uncannily to others. Here is a book, years after I read it, from which I still clearly recall scenes. It makes me wish I could find more time these days to read, to get wrapped up in a novel.

So, it was only fitting that it was with Jen, Peace Corps volunteer cum law school student living here in New York, here in the Upper East Side, that I saw Jonathan Franzen read from his most recent work, his memoir, "The Discomfort Zone." I wanted to go and hear for myself. If our friend Jay could see us now, I thought as we sat there. After all, it was he who had transformed us into near cult followers.

The first author who read was Donald Antrim, author of "Elect Mrs. Robinson for a Better World" (1993) and “The Hundred Brothers” (1997) among other novels, who told the audience he was especially thrilled to be reading at the Y because he lived right down the block when he first moved to New York City 25 years ago. Antrim had a few surprises in store for the audience, a crowd much younger than what you might normally see at local readings and events.

The first surprise was the manuscript page he had printed on the program instead of a bio: typed text fresh with penned-in copy-editing and proofreading markings. Anyone who's seen all of the press on Steve Reich's recent 70th birthday celebrations at the Whitney which hit home this idea of recognizing artists while they're living would have appreciated seeing this. The word "very" crossed out twice so that 'very strong and very determined' became 'strong and determined.' And, the words "my heart sped up" circled. Here was writing -- this revising, revisiting, mulled-over, dwelt-on process.

Then, surprise number two, Antrim announced he'd be reading from a yet unpublished novel that had 'fallen to the side' over the years.

Fast and fervently, he read. His voice shook. He was putting so much of himself into these words. To hear them read aloud, at that lightning pace, was powerful. I was thinking, 'If I was reading this novel (yet unpublished) leisurely on my couch, I would not have that same pacing. And something would get lost in translation.' In his story, a man grappled with his relationship to his deceased father and attempted to understand his father by making of a study of his life's work. He would critique his father's literary criticism of critics' commentary.

And as layered as that sentence sounds, is as intricately woven the description in this story was. Think: dream within a dream reminiscent of Gabriel Garcia Marquez. He described with comic detail parents of a bygone era, a mother with an orthopedic leg and alcohol habit, and a strained relationship with a sister. Then, flash, he lapsed into descriptions of the alcoholic woman who recently left the man in his adult life, the woman who left him alone to sleep in the twin bed of his childhood at the top of the back stairs next to the study. But wait, was it his study, or his father's study -- and round and round it wound.

He describes this vision of the woman who left him standing in front of him in a doorway with exactitude. I could see how her feet looked planted into the wooden-planked floor, the blue mini skirt she wore, the white cotton shirt she wore with the sleeves rolled up, how her hips tilting into the interior of the door...only to realize that she was not there. No, she was not there. He had been talking to emptiness. The description deepens into full-on longing, as the man calls out to her, his voice raising, saying he wants to see her there if just for a moment, sober or drunk, so he can crawl on the floor over to her and bow in front of her and just as he gets into describing what he’d like to do next...he stops. Full stop. Right there.

There's a pregnant pause. This is reading at its finest. He wipes his partially balding head, now slightly shining with perspiration, with the back of his hand and takes a sip of his water.

Next, Jonathan Franzen enters the stage. He takes off his brown coat and drops it to the ground on the side of the podium. Whereas Antrim read at a fast pace growing ever faster until his voice abruptly trailed off, Franzen read at an even pace, slowly and melodically from his memoir "The Discomfort Zone." He told the story of going to his Mother's house to select the real estate agent who would be charged with selling the place. He was funny. Really funny. Jen and I laughed out loud, his description of human behavior so on the mark.

He talked about the three different real estate agent candidates that showed up at the house. The second of which, who arrived with her daughter, though she seemed the most rational of the three options, being passed over for the fast-talking sexed-up female named Mike, the last agent to pass through the house who arrived in jeans and boasted at how high a selling price she could get. It was only when he called Mike to tell her she was the chosen one that she informed him she'd be leaving within days on vacation with her husband and child and wouldn't be able to show the house until month's end.

After the readings, the authors stood side by side, maneuvering comically around each other to get to the microphone to answer questions audience members had written down on tiny index cards. When asked how he arrives at character names, Franzen said he may have a character name in his mind for years before knowing anything about the character, and Antrim added that he looks for a simple name that a reader won't trip over when reading. Both authors said they preferred writing fiction to writing memoirs. As Franzen put it, writing fiction allows him to create a world to which he can go and live in when he is working, a world that breaks from reality.

The last question was "How important are the friendships you have to other writers in your life?" He is blessed, said Antrim, to have friends who are writers in his life, saying how deeply he values those ties. Franzen said something along the lines of how we are all alone sometimes, and to write you have to move far away from home, at least for a while, so that your friends become your family. Then backing up, he said, "I'm getting sentimental, aren't I?" looking at his comrade Antrim, bringing the audience to gentle laughter. Regardless of the words they used to express their bond, it was clear that they were friends who gained an understanding of each other through their impassioned work, their way of life, their love for words and stories, perhaps their need to tell them.

One is left to wonder. How do these talented writers make the description so compelling, so gripping, so meaningful? Do they keep track of everything they see -- fodder for a later description in their latest working novel? Are they always absorbing, ever working? Are observation, pondering, and writing omnipotent forces in their lives? And, spending so much solitary time working, meshing seamlessly myriad complex characters and dramas together, are they analyzing continuously? Eternal thinkers? Do they carry tiny notebooks around making notes of description on what they are seeing, on what is affecting them?

Well, too bad I couldn't an autograph for Jay, who introduced all of us in Benin to “The Corrections”, the world according to Jonathan Franzen.

The next reading in the 92nd Y series takes place on October 30, 8pm
With Mary Gordon, Marilyn Hacker, Ed Hirsch, and a reading by Mary Ponsot

Trusted Strangers

Yes, it seemed only fair that I go to see the Royal Drummers of Burundi at the Met on Saturday after imploring each and every one of you to go.

The Metropolitan is one of my favorites along Museum Mile. Yes, I like it more than the Whitney, more than the Guggenheim, and more than the Cooper Hewitt. It is vast and abuzz with chatter and activity whenever you enter.

It was the first time I had been there after dark. I was surprised at how much energy still bounced around. The lighting was mellow. Chamber music flowed into the foyer from an unseen stage.

I had planned on going with my friend, who's a museum member. The $50 ticket price was a little steep (well, considering we're still young enough to go down to the LES for our live music, where entry's a fair bit cheaper). We felt sure there would be some discounted price for members. But, to our dismay there wasn't.(The Met should consider what 92nd St. Y does for its authors series: 35-and-under pay just $10)

Though the auditorium was only half full, (Hmmmm. Could it have been the ticket price?) the seats were assigned. I was asked if I wanted the downstairs or upstairs. "Where can I see best?" I asked and was given a seat in the balcony.

Up I went and took my seat, in between an older gentleman in a suit and a woman in her sixties with hair dyed dark reddish-black who was wearing a peachy orange sweater and corduroy pants. When I saw she was wearing orange, such a warm color, I knew I would like her.

The music began. I was excited. Since I have returned from living in Africa it is not often that I think about the experience. Most of my treasured relics are hidden away. Not intentionally, but living intently in the present can sweep away the past. Hearing live African music is always a surefire way to help me recall.

There were three men and one woman on the stage playing music. The sounds were light, mellow.

But, I was disappointed. This was all fine and dandy, but not what I signed up for. I wanted trancelike drumming. I longed for the intensity. The driving beat awakening my inner rumble. The intrinsic thump of the village. I wanted it to bring me back, to swallow me whole. And, here we were swaying to easy-listening tunes. I felt cheated. Where was the exuberance I had been promised? Here I was on a Saturday night. Where was my African drumming? Where was the thunder?

Let me back up to say that the Mombassa Party musicians were very talented. Zuhuru Swaleh on vocals wearing traditional garb and headwrap had an amazingly soothing melodic voice. She swayed to the rhythms of the bass guitar and percussion, drawing in the crowd.

Misumari (Nails)was the melody that took hold of me. Looking at the lyrics translated I liked it even more:

"The boat has fallen apart, planks and nails are apart.

They have hit a rock, the boat has sunk, it will not reach the port.

To steer, a boat needs knowledge, it is not about boasting and quarreling."


Converted to a satisfied listener, there I sat.


And, then, it started.

Bam. Bam. ... Bam bam bam.

Bam. Bam. ...Bam bam bam.

Oh yeeaaahhhh.


Here came the drummers -- one after another until there were nine burly men, with biceps as large as cantaloupes, standing in a circle beating drums that stood as high as their wastes. One drummer stood in the center playing a drum painted red and green. The men were barefoot and held drumsticks as thick as rolled up magazines. Red and green togas draped from their broad shoulders. They were smiling and swaying as the full force of their arms struck down.

The auditorium walls shuttered with the loud all-consuming cadence. The audience moved to the tips of their seats.

After the rhythm was played the lights came on bright. I turned to the woman next to me. At first I had felt cheated, but now I just felt teased. One riff?

I asked, "Is it over?"

No, she said, almost laughing. My eyes have never figured out how to hide truth, an inability I sometimes despise. It is certain that in this moment they wreaked of a ten-year-old's pout.

"No," she said. "That was just a taste of what's ahead."

Phew. It was just intermission.

She was chatty and so was I.

In the course of a ten-minute intermission I was informed of her life. She was once married to a Wall Street lawyer. Then, she divorced. Later, she had married a Jamaican man and lived in Jamaica for some ten years buying up villas that she now rents out. Her Jamaican husband died six years ago. And here she was. She had driven in from her home in New Jersey by herself. To hear the drumming, yes, but more to dredge up the memories. As perhaps had I. Memories of a different sort, that's sure, but memories all the same. What was once part of us never leaves us, but can get lost.

The lights blinked. Below me and to the right, there filed the drummers down the aisle, each man carrying a heavy wooden drum on his head, banging it all the while. Once on stage they drummed with fervor. This was an otherworldly force not to be reckoned with. In sync, the men struck the drums one arm at a time, their hands subsequently rising far above their heads. They danced with the drums, leaning far to the right while lifting up their left legs, and bouncing blithely from left to right foot in place behind the drums as they played. The men took turns at the center of the circle where they would acrobatically jump, kicking their legs forcefully to their foreheads. Some would pull the drumstick around and around their necks while spinning their heads.

They gave themselves over to the beats... Entirely. I envied their absolute abandon and marveled at how the sound moved so fully through their bodies.

And, I relished the pure joy exuding from their every pore. It was real. It was natural. It was good. They were radiating smiles and sweat.

Here sat the audience. Needing prodding to clap along with the drummers, tending to fade off hastily if they did start clapping. Many audience members wearing suits and ties and fancy dresses, applauding their barefoot counterparts.

After the performance, and a standing ovation, the lights returned. It seemed only fitting I should introduce myself to the woman next to me with whom I had been blankly conversing. She grinned gently.

Doh! I had inadvertently crossed that line. Of course! I couldn't know her name. Silly me. We were strangers. Perfect. Trusted. Nonjudgmental. Unopinionated. Strangers. She had opened up to me because she needed to and knew that she could, because she knew she would never see me again.

I returned the smile and left it go with an understanding nod. I was on fire in the most wonderful way, having been injected with the drummers' light spirits, their love of the music, their conviction.

I adored the drummers and the spirit of their Kenyan nation for that fleeting moment, and I floated on my way, warm memories of the African village of Kouande, Benin filling my head. Indeed, what was once part of us never leaves us.


**The next concert of the One World series is Thursday, October 19, 8pm, $55: Sitarist Anoushka Shankar plays music from her Grammy-nominated album "Rise"

Your Girl About Town

Don't Miss This Beat

All you world music fans out there: Gear up. And, get out that red felt-tip pen. All the better with which to circle Saturday, October 14 on your calendar.

The Royal Drummers of Burundi are set to perform at the Met at 8pm.

Of course, I must warn you. This event will set you back 5o bucks.

But, you must ask yourself (that is if you go gaga for world music):

What will stay with you--and move through you--longer? The beer you'd be guzzling down at the bar (we all know how generous we feel as the night goes on and how mysteriously "friendly" rounds add up) or soaking up the Royal rythyms of these African percussionists.

Known as the music of the Mombasa Party, these sounds represent the sacred traditions of east Kenyan Taraab artists. Experience the throbbing drumming that once introduced African kings.

Maybe you can't trek it to Burundi anytime soon.

But, Burundi's coming to you.

By way of the drumbeat.


Ok, Ok, a case has been made. I'll leave the final call up to you.

Find details on the show here


Your Girl About Town

Plane Hits Belaire, Yankees Pitcher Dies

Have you seen this? At about 2:45 this afternoon, a plane crashed into the Belaire Condominiums at 524 East 72nd Street and York Avenue. Sitting in the plane, was 34-year-old Yankees pitcher Cory Lidle and his flight instructor. CNN reported that emergency responders found Lidle's passport on the street along with two limp bodies. Yankees owner George Steinbrenner confirmed to CNN that Lidle was killed in the crash.

Lidle has a wife Melanie Varela of nine years, and has a son Christopher Taylor Lidle, who is six years old. New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg told CNN "There is nothing to indicate that anything remotely like terrorism was involved in this." At least 150 firefighters rushed to the scene of the fire and the Times reported that 11 firefighters were injured. From the street, flames were seen spitting from the windows of the 50-story building. Read more here ...And here

Upper East Wonderland

Yes, it's every bit as dainty and weirdly wonderful on the inside as it promises to be from the outside. Enter Alice's Tea Cup and you feel as if you're stepping into the fantastic pages of the famed Alice in Wonderland storybook.


When the girls and I were sketching out a plan for dinner, it popped into my head. Alice's Tea Cup. I'd walked past it too many times, intrigued by the little tables out front and drawn to the quaint light posts flanking the front door. When the streets surrounding Hunter College are dark, you catch just enough of a peek between into the elongated second-story windows to entice you in. The time had come.


Yes, it's girly and frilly, but laced with the same tinge of the bizarre that's injected into the fairytale. Step inside and the hardwood floors creek. It's warm and intimate on the first floor. Take the rickety, narrow staircase to the second floor which is opposingly expansive. The 12-foot ceilings create a spacious, airy feel. You'll be seated at a table with delicate plates and intricately-designed teacups with rose-colored flowers that span the rims. The walls are just one shade bolder than Easter-egg pastel blues and pinks. It's a more acidic combination of baby blue and deep maroon. Bright hand-painted murals of Alice and her companions decorate the 12-foot high walls. And, storybook text runs the periphery of the room. In the bathroom, you'll see something written backwards on the wall. Before you take a moment to decipher the words, look in the mirror, and reflected, there's the message spelled out left to right. Tricky.

Baby pictures line the upstairs hall and there's a separate, dimly lit dining room with an extra-large table beautifully set with teacups and teapots and shiny silverware. Perfect for a birthday party. You can all but imagine the hurried rabbit sitting at the head of the table, keeping an eye on his watch as Alice clinks glasses with the fat cat.

The service was not speedy, but impeccable nonetheless. I love to ask for recommendations when I'm at a new place. When I did, I was blown away by the suggestion I received: the roibus with lemon and orange citrus hints, the healing powers of roibus and the rich combination of flavors expounded on fully for my benefit. Each guest gets his or her own teapot for the pouring pleasure. What an intense senses-cleansing waft. We passed around our delicate china teacups, sniffing and comparing the steaming brews. Then came the scones. Oh my. These concoctions are ginormous, fresh-from-the-oven and teeming with melty chocolate chips. As if that's not delectable enough, they're served with fresh preserves and cream. We topped it off with soup: chicken vegetable and white bean. A good match to the cooling temperatures outside. Hey, who says you can't start with dessert?


This is a best-kept secret, perfect for getting together with your girlfriends and catching up. You're not rushed out when the teacup is empty, and the walls provoke the nearly forgotten girlhood whispers of yesteryear, the kind on which lifelong friendships are built.

*Alice's is also baby-friendly. The couple across from us was sitting with their adorable, roly-poly toddler. Outfitted in lace and ruffles, she fit right in with the storybooked walls.

A definite recommend:

Alice's Tea Cup
156 East 64th Street
(212) 486-9200

Dear Neighbor

Dear Anonymous Neighbor,

I'd like to take a moment to thank you for the magnificent maroon-colored, plumpy chair you left on the curb.

Rest assured. We have given your chair a good home. We sit in it regularly. And, our guests have an inexplicable natural affinity to the maroon-colored, plumpy chair. It's a magnetic attraction, really. Indeed, old maroon has become a beloved fixture of our living room and a favorite spot from which to read the Sunday paper or to nestle into when there is work to be done.

We feel that we know so much about you, anonymous neighbor. And, we like you.

You had a pet, we gathered, when we vacuumed up the stray pet hairs under the seat cushion. And, you read People magazine. We found the subscription slip tucked in-between seams.

You have fine taste, you do. You bought your Stanton Cooper Limited chair in High Point, North Carolina, which was delivered on March 28, 1988. We know because you left the tag on, you did. Must have been a hard farewell -- you had old maroon for nearly twenty years. The springs make for supreme comfort and the color is spot on (though many an internal debate has stirred -- is it pink? or purple? or maroon? -- old maroon won out in the end).

We want you to know, dear neighbor, that this is not a practice we typically endorse, picking up furnishings from the curb. But your chair, the color, the condition. We felt compelled to take it in. So many curb-side monstrocities abandoned every day. Broken shoe racks, stained rugs, chests of drawers with holes punched through the cardboard sides. But, oh no, not your chair, anonymous neighbor. In impeccable shape, there sat old maroon. Not a hole in the fabric. Not a visible stain. No shredding, fraying, threadbaring.

Indeed, we did spray your maroon-colored, plumpy chair down with disinfectant spray. Three times over. And, truth be told, it did take us time to warm up to your chair. But, don't be offended, dear neighbor. It was never your hygiene in question. This is New York City, after all. And, well, the chair was on the curb the whole time I was at the 86th Street book store -- more than an hour -- subject to bugs and whatever else lingers out there on the curb.

We've wondered where you went, good neighbor. Perhaps you've retired to sunny Florida leaving this city bebop behind. Or, maybe you met an unfortunate demise by way of a reckless cab driver. Or, maybe you were won over by the West side. Maybe you got divorced, and the pink, or purple, or maroon chair had been your lady's pick -- one you could no longer bear to look at. Or, maybe you won the lottery and decided to refurbish the interior from pink to full-on red. Are you man or woman? That we'll never know, will we.

One friend is particularly enamored with the chair. She says it reminds her of the movie "Puffy Chair" , a movie she found out about from her cousin who starred in a different film by the brothers Duplass.

Oh, kind neighbor, citizen generous, how can we ever repay you?

Just to say thanks from our home to your new home, wherever that may be.

In you honor, we'd like to assure you we will uphold the level of care you provided the chair. And, one day, when it is time to part ways with our apartment, we will leave old maroon curbside, too, hoping to pass it on to others deserving of its charms.

Your Girl About Town