Lightbulb Over Head Blog

In my last post, I made mention of my support of the Obama Administration. The author of Acre of Independence (http://acreofindependence.com/), regarded as one of the top 100 Libertarian websites and blogs, questioned my assertion of Obama’s progress. When I praised Obama’s work abroad and his success in improving our international reputation, Acre of Independence responded with the following:

What policy area has America’s newly gained prestige you referenced helped us out in? In terms of our major foreign policy challenges (Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, et al), there has been little shift either way. Much of our activity in Pakistan such as the Drone Attacks on suspected insurgents (as well as in Africa), which have increased in tempo since Obama took office, are likely to push many people into Al Quaeda or affiliated groups, too.

I happened to have lunch today with a friend who just returned from a trip to Egypt with his father. I believe they were abroad for three full weeks. As we ate our Thai food and he showed me pictures of adorable stray cats in a market place and camel rides around the pyramids, he mentioned how positive his reception was in the country. He also shared with me a letter from Alexandra Bonds, a professor of Lighting Design from the University of Oregon who is currently living Cairo. I asked him if I could share the letter here as it is well written and very interesting, as well as giving us here in the United States a sense of how effective our President’s work in foreign policy has been. The letter was prompted by a question about how Obama’s speech on June 4, 2009 had been received.

Yes, Obama scored big in Cairo. The city is basking in an afterglow and aftershock of disbelief. Could an American president really have said all those things? The  Egyptian media is uniformly positive, rapturous at times. I watched commentary on Nile TV after the speech. The three women, a professor, politician and journalist were positively moon-eyed. Made me want to hand them a cigarette. Then I turned to Al Jazeera where they were interviewing a senior member of Hamas. With deep reverence, he called it an “I have a dream” speech. Then a former Israeli government official waxed on about it. Today, I read an op-ed in the Al Ahram with the line, “..I wasn’t the only one  in the audience with tears in my eyes.” It seems the only really negative reaction is coming from American conservatives, Israeli settlers and the Taliban. You can come to your own conclusions on that one.

The brilliance in the speech was how well it addressed its audience. The tenor, cadence and rhetoric were Arab. He used the word “Palestine”, which no other  American president has done. Arabs notice these things. Obama is brilliant at hitting his audience beneath the cortex. He goes for the heart and lymbic system. Arabs, suckers for eloquence, emotion and grandiose praise, wilted like lettuce in the desert sun. Many have criticized the speech on a few strategic or policy issues, but the criticisms are transparently tepid. “But, he understands us and honors our culture,” is the subtext. Saeb Arakat, a Palestinian spokesperson who has frequently shows up on  American news programs over the last decade, said “Since 1698 (then referenced some incident between the Ottomans and some European power) this is the first time a western leader has (then something about respecting the culture)” 1689. These guys keep track.

And, on the street it’s the same. My landlord, clutching his chest, said, “This man Obama has a great heart!”  My doctor (whom I saw on Thur PM for a vaccination), having just returned from Cairo University where he watched the speech, was so excited he couldn’t contain himself. He rattled on from English to French, brandishing a needled syringe about with expressive but scary flare. “This man is a genius!” And, these two guys are Christians. You should hear the Muslims, may peace be upon them (like my Obama technique?)

My response has been strange. For the first time, I welcome taxi drivers asking me where I’m from (in the past I cringed and often replied “Canada”). AMERICA I say, knowing I’m going to get the same response: “OBAMA, meya meya (100%) good man”.  Thank you, I utter humbly, taking credit for it all. Yes, it’s nice not to be ashamed.

Alexandra Bonds
Professor of Costume Design
Department of Theatre Arts
University of Oregon

In the mid 1990’s, I asked my parents if we could take a trip to Egypt. I had dreams of being an Egyptologist and an Archeologist and I was crazed with what could only be described as “Egyptomania.” I had hieroglyphic kits and my attic was packed with relics and treasures that I had used to build my ancient Egyptian clubhouse/palace where I dined with Rameses II (imagined as Yul Brynner from The Ten Commandments) on a regular basis. My mother and father looked at me sadly and said that Egypt wasn’t a safe place for Americans to visit. Judging by this letter and by the things my friend told me about his journey, we may be a little bit safer as public opinion regarding America and Americans is changing there. Perhaps we will be able to journey to the Middle East to learn more about Muslim culture and engage in a dialogue of learning rather than cave to fear of  religious radicals.

I have included youtube videos of the President’s speach in Cairo for your consideration and enjoyment.

This morning, I killed a man.

That’s a lie. I didn’t “kill” him, but for exactly three seconds after the following event transpired, I harbored murderous thoughts in my heart.

I was walking down the street and skipping to the next track on my iPhone when a man, who was apparently walking behind me, RAMMED into my left arm so roughly that I was shoved against the glass window of GNC on Lexington Avenue. Then, this man had the AUDACITY to glare at me and say “Watch it!” while motioning in a frantically pissed off fashion at the device in my hand. The man was older and had gray hair. He was certainly spry and didn’t carry a cane, but he had an undeniable crotchety quality.

Firstly, Sir, you approached from my rear. Even if I hadn’t been looking at my iPhone at that exact moment, I wouldn’t have seen you coming. “Why?” you ask. Well. Simply put, I don’t have eyes in the back of my head. If I did, they would be covered in hair. For those of you who are unaware of this fact, I have very long, very full brown hair.

So you know what, man? YOU WATCH IT.

Seriously, after this happened, there were three seconds where I could have killed him. If I hadn’t been regaining my balance at the time, I might have. Plus, as he stalked off, he walked BETWEEN a man holding the hand of his young daughter. That’s right. He’s a homewrecker.

That’s a lie.

He’s not a home wrecker, but what kind of man has the choice of the ENTIRE SIDEWALK and chooses to walk between two people, nay, a man and a child holding hands?

This incident reminded me of a time I was rushing to catch a train to class at NYU. I was transfering like I did every day. Pause. Let me tell you how much I hated this transfer. Firstly, its a long, sweaty, stupid transfer. It looped all around the underground station and I think everyone who had to transfer there hated it because from what I could tell, everyone looked like they were in the calvary in the movie Gladiator. They were bearing down with clenched eyes and brandishing their backpacks, briefcases, and umbrellas menacingly. Their mission was to make it to the platform and race up the stairs to the train. However, this was harder than one would think.

These stairs led to the Sophie’s Choice of subway platforms. The train never came to the same platform, so essentially, everyone would stay huddled between the two stairwells as other people rushed by and jostled you on the way to their other less complicated commuting situations. You had to crane your neck and listen through the ambient noise to guess which platform the train was pulling into and then race at break-neck speed to the correct stairwell. Anyone who has ever been on the NYC subway knows how hard it is to listen carefully to anything. If you guessed wrong you missed the train.  Basically everyone was huddled in silence like Anne Frank in the attick or slaves on the Underground Railroad until the train pulled in. Once it did, there was a frantic stampede up the stairs. I’m pretty sure there have been casualties at this station, but everyone is so frantic to get to where they’re going that no one notices if any of their comrades in “commuting battle” fall. You also have to race the closing doors of the train and that damnable vixen who announces them. Every time she says “Doors Closing,” I want to slaughter a white kitten.

On the day in question, I was dashing up the stairs and I was at the back of the pack. The woman in front of me should have had a walker, but she didn’t. No one was helping her up the stairs. I couldn’t even help her because we were sandwiched in so tightly. Time was ticking down and we finally made it up the stairs. People were filing into the train. Me and the walkerless broad SHOULD have been able to make it, but that would be too easy and there wouldn’t be a story, now would there?

She stopped at the door with arms outstretched, looking for the train number, letter, or maybe even a sign from God himself, but for whatever reason, she made no move to enter the vehicle.

“Doors Closing.” Ding dong.

The doors slid shut with her still gaping and scratching at her dry freckled scalp, which yes, I remember quite clearly.

“COME ON!” I screamed at her and threw up my hands. After I bellowed, she turned around and stared at me, her eyes wide and teary with obvious terror at my outburst. After the adrenaline died down, my heart sank and I felt pretty awful. I appologized demurely and walked all the way to the other end of the platform in shame to wait for the next train, praying it would come to the same platform so I wouldn’t have to repeat the whole bloody ritual again.

You can hate me if you want because I yelled at an elderly lady, but I tell you this because I think New York is full of these sorts of moments. Just today I was walking through Time’s Square with a friend of mine. The streets were packed with people here for the weekend of the 4th of July and some tax protest was also going on. I felt trapped and claustrophobic. As we were crossing a street, I felt like we were in that scene from Footloose where they play chicken on the tractors. No one was moving to allow anyone to pass so the two sides of the the street were converging on each other like batallions on opposite sides of the feild. It was as if the sides of the parted Red Sea were crashing down on Yul Brynner and his Egyptian chariots.

Time’s Square is often like this, but today something bizarre happened. My friend grabbed my backpack as he walked behind me. He wasn’t pushing me, but because we were both walking forward, I now lacked the ability to stop if I needed to for fear of tripping him up or creating a massive pedestrian traffic jam. It made me think of how we pass through time. There’s no fast forward or rewind, you just keep moving whether you like it or not. I had a miniature panic attack in my chest and I actually think I yelled out “Stop Pushing me!” even though he wasn’t. I’m told I caused a scene, but honestly, it was such a stressful mom.

Does these things happen to everyone or just me? It must happen to us all. I know I’m certifiable, but I don’t think I’m so far off base that my experiences aren’t relatable.

After a few evening errands, my friend and I ended up in Washington Square Park. I had wanted to check out the new fountain installation because I hadn’t seen it yet. As we entered the park, I was immediately hit by a lilting drum beat and the quivering vibrato of a jazz saxaphone solo. It was divine. We spotted a bench and sat down. The fountain was pumping at full force, pushing and pulsing high into the air. Whenever the breeze moved towards us it took a refreshing, non-invasive mist of water in our direction. We talked of Twitter, recent plays we had seen, and our fears that we might be going crazy, amongst other things. They sky was like a painting. Its not often I take a moment to actually look at the sky while I’m in the city. Sure, I look at the buildings and skyscrapers, but not the sky itself. The clouds were long, fluffy pillows and they were catching the firey orange light from the setting sun. Then, my friend giggled and pointed to a perfect bubble that was floating towards us in the air. At the same moment be both miraculously exclaimed, “It’s a Glinda Bubble!” Then we convulsed in laughter till our sides hurt. A man in the park had a bubble wand and was dragging it around the fountain as he danced to the many different musical strains springing like creative fonts from all the corners of the park. There was also a strange Asian boy dancing with a hula hoop who I must admit was pretty mesmerizing.

After our restful moment in the park, I decided to buy the first installment of Percy Jackson and the Olympians from the “teen fiction” section of the Shakespeare & Co. bookstore. It was kind of embarrassing to buy a book from the teen fiction shelf, but I did it anyways. I can’t be stopped when it comes to modern fictional interpretations of mythology.

So at the end of the night I sit here on my couch and despite the rough start to the day and some comedicly stressful reflections, July 1st had a rather pleasant end. All of these intense moments just seem to add up to the right equation. And that’s just life in the big city.