A Tour of Ruined Pianos

Oct 23

Open Letter to the Norweigan Nobel Committee

Dear Norweigan Nobel Committee:

It’s easy to understand why you would award President Obama your esteemed Peace Prize. After all, it’s easy to succumb to the pull of charisma, sincerity, and vision. It’s also clear that the award is meant (a little bit) for us, too—the Americans—who have swiftly assumed the role of the world’s most erring citizens. You’re giving us a chance to feel proud about something, right? A chance to bring up our season record, our grade point average, knock off a few license penalty points. Thank you.

Unfortunately, people all over our country are grumbling and huffing and raging over reasons why President Obama should not be given the award and also why he is obligated to not accept it. But that’s all weird national business here in the states, and you’re an international organization. You’re not obligated to think as U.S. citizens, thank goodness for you.

Which brings me to the real reason for my letter: Joan Baez.

America, Je t'aime. But France, I love you more.

When I was born, Korea was ill-prepared to claim me. Coincidentally, the United States had space and love to spare. So just before my first birthday, I was delivered to my new American family.

Once home, I was given a room of my own, a nice family, and if no one had ever suggested otherwise, I would’ve guessed that I’d been born for Rockford, Illinois. In cul-de-sacs, swimming pools, and public school I thrived. Did I mention also that Jimmy Carter was my first President? Oh, yes.

Although I would find, later on, that Rockford was not the city best suited for a disillusioned, heartbroken, embarrassingly smarty-pants-acting girl of 18 years, it offered me a version of America that remains, still, quite accurate: hard workers, nosy neighbors, comfort food, bored youth, and predictable hairdos. Kind of (occasionally) refreshing.

When I finally moved on, it was westward, toward what my Great Grandmother called “God’s Country,” with mountains and blue skies and starry nights included. And Colorado was cordial for many years, a better fit than Illinois, but I never really felt a part of the landscape—natural, social, cultural, or otherwise. Of course, I did find my dear husband there, so to date, Colorado remains the location of my greatest fortune.

Fast forward to the present, and here we are in Brooklyn, New York. Although we’ve made a comfortable home for the time being, I’ve struggled. I wanted to love New York, and I wanted New York to love me. I mean, this is it, right? Where else in America do you go if you want diversity in all things, if you prefer (fairly efficient) public transportation, if you want your choice of vegan restaurants, green markets, and anonymity? Still, it took more than a year for me to feel at ease here.

And as it were, I question whether that ease is the result of honest feelings or simple defeat. Accept your surroundings or feel at conflict every day? Park Slope is a beautiful neighborhood, but soon we must move on. Where to? Perhaps Chicago. Or the Bay. But really? Really, we’d like to go to Paris.

We belong to France.

Illustrating the Machine That Makes the World: From J. G. Heck's 1851 Pictorial Archive of Nature and Science (a review)

There’s a poem in Joshua Poteat’s new book called Illustrating the theory of ebb and flow, and I love it. I’m sure copyright law would tell me that I cannot reprint the poem without permission from the author and the publisher, but let me just give you a taste:

“When I have had enough of reason, / I turn to the evening boughs / among the wild fern, / steam on the horse’s back, / the tidy white guts of ants spread / across the floors, and field after field”

Actually, I want you to have a little more, … the ending—but then the entire poem, except for two lines, will have been exposed. (You’ll want to buy the book to discover those missing two lines for yourself, right?) I hope I don’t go to jail for this, but if I do, it’ll be like practicing my own kind of civil disobedience.

“Every bit of it simple, entire, intact, / maybe even ordinary. / All the essential lonelinesses / giving account of themselves.”

Truthfully, all of the poems in this book are sort of devastatingly wonderful—meaning (among other things): 1. Challengingly precise; 2. Constructed among and of important questions; and 3. Beautiful.