Speaker's Corner on a sunny day

This afternoon we headed down to Speaker's Corner - working our way down the London check-list we drew up - and were surprised to find glorious weather waiting for us in Hyde Park.  It was hard, to be frank, to listen to the orators when the sun was shining, footballers and frolicking children were enjoying the green open spaces, and deck chairs were waiting out beneath the white fluffy clouds.

But we tried - Speaker's Corner, after all, is a grand statement on the importance of free speech, and what good is free speech if nobody is listening?  So we can report that there were, of course, proselytizers from all three religions of the book (I had never seen a Jewish street proselytizer before - I thought Judaism wasn't quite so expansionary - but hey, what do I know), as well as an impassioned atheist, loudly mocking the Bible's math (crucified on Friday, rose on Sunday, how is that three days and nights? ha, ha! he said) and a fervent nationalist belittling her hacklers (you are all just foreigners, why don't you go back where you belong)

but the sun was shining on the green grass so we went and sat in striped deckchairs and looked for shapes in the clouds.  Freedom of Speech was buzzing behind us - boisterous but not violent - while a toddler chased pigeons and rollerbladers circled the trails.

How do you think you can come here and be British - you don't belong here!  and how can you leave your own people in your own country, leave them there all by themselves --  she was white-haired and slightly trembling, eyes intimidated by the crowd but voice strong.

Are you born again?  [No...]  Well, what's your problem?  (and old man, and his listeners shying away from him) I'm serious, what's your problem?  You - do you know the Lord Jesus Christ?


but there's no MONEY back there, a skinny, brown-skinned man shouted up at her.

that's two days, tops - two nights, not three - (the biggest crowd by far, for this charismatic man in a winter hat) so, what, can God not count?  (loud laughter)


And you are only allowed in here temporarily, you won't be staying here forever, because that's not the way of things - things can't stay like this - even on her stepstool she's barely taller than her audience-

what I don't understand (an American accent, in a sequined jacket) is why we're here talking about details - why you're going on about three days, two days, three nights, two nights - when what we should be doing is arguing, discussing, putting our opinions out, celebrating that we disagree and learning to live side by side-

But I like it here!  I'm comfortable here!  I'm not going anywhere - I'm staying here forever! (loud laughter)

Are you going to listen to me?  Are you?  (painfully polite tone of voice from this man the charismatic atheist calls 'Minister') Or are you just going to talk - I'm telling you, this "three days" thing, you must understand that the Bible is metaphor, is allegory, is parable...

As the afternoon crept on, the clouds got a little darker, the wind a little colder - it would rain soon, but not before we were safely within the walls of the Oxford St department stores.  The voices stayed surprisingly strong.

"It feels so safe here," William mused.  "Did you notice how the maintenance vehicle slowed down when it got near all the children?"  Like clockwork, a man came by to politely request payment for the chairs.  People were eating picnics, playing with their babies.

There was murmuring behind us, and a cluster of synchronized motion.  Men across the park laid out prayer mats on the grass or gathered on the bare asphalt, kneeling down for salat al-asr, the evening prayers.

Go back to where you came from, shouting the white-haired woman, still going strong, and her audience replied in a loud voice: NO!

Angela Merkel has declared multiculturalism to be dead, but the prayers in Hyde Park continued unabated and undisturbed, groups of men facing Qibla- reciting, Allahu Akbar- bowing, prostration, and again.  The soapboxers and the hecklers didn't pause for a moment.

The atheist had changed his tactic, preaching now on the unjustly low salaries of police officers and teachers, this time to no rebuttals.  We walked by, the wind a little too chilly, now, as he talked of cuts and government responsibility, and we left the public park, walked past public art and under public monuments, back into the British public space where debate is, while legal, considered rather uncouth.  And maybe I'd have some thoughts about that but I've put off my homework long enough.

cuts, veils and gypsies

These are interesting times to be living in England - or in Europe - but then again, is every place, always, an interesting time to be living there, if you look hard enough?  I suspect so... though I am hardly convinced... but at any rate, one needn't look hard here and now.

Today, during my anthropology class, we were terribly distracted by the sounds of protest in the streets outside as a march slowly gathered strength, furiously decrying the brutal cuts that were finally announced today.  They've been prognosticated for years, and the coalition government has been bracing the British people for them for ages now, using language strongly reminiscent of the Blitz: we're all in this together, sacrifice for the sake of the country, buckle down and we'll make it through, that sort of thing.  "Tough but fair" is the rather well-crafted slogan they've chosen, but some folks seem hesitant - but based on my observations, despite the protests, most people here seem to think that, unpleasant though they might be, something is necessary, isn't it?

So the cuts are inevitable, just like it's inevitable that unless a miracle is flying our way, at some point America, too, will have to tighten our belts... but it sure isn't fun, and students are disruptively banging on drums to mark their disapproval.

Of course, this is nothing compared to what's happening in France - here in London I've yet to see a single car on fire, a single violent battle between hooded youths and cops, a single freeway incapacitated by furious lorry drivers.  No, the protests in London - protesting massive cuts across almost all areas of government expenditures - are NOTHING compared to how Paris reacts to a threat to raise the retirement age from 60 to 62.   Yes, you read that right.

But how do Britons respond to this difference?  A flatmate, a professor and a newspaper columnist all agree: "We have a lot to learn from the French."  I kid you not!  They wish that they had the gumption to set a few cars on fire to express their displeasure - figure that if they were willing to go quite that far, maybe they'd get the amount of time off the French do - but I suppose it's just not in the British character.  They don't think it is, anyway, and maybe that's all that matters.

Meanwhile, of course, a deeper conflict seems to be brewing - yes, even deeper than this very meaningful encounter between socialism and capitalism, the welfare state and the deficit, the bleeding hearts and the empty wallets of the state - even deeper than that, there is a serious crisis of liberalism all across Europe.

Did you know that Angela Merkel has declared multiculturalism to be dead?  That France - having already banned the niqab in public areas - has proceeded from alienating Muslims to directly ejecting the Gypsies?  The Roma have been cast out of France, and if that seems like a headline from five hundred years ago, well.  Welcome to modern-day, liberal, tolerant Western Europe.

In Sweden, the neo-Nazis have broken into parliament.  The Danes beat them to it.  In the Netherlands, Geert Wilders is being put on trial for vicious anti-Muslim speech - protecting free speech vs. punishing a xenophobic demagogue, and half the populace doesn't seem to know which side to root for.

Did I mention that Angela Merkel has declared multiculturalism to be dead?

Meanwhile, the Guardian asks, "Whatever happened to the good Europeans, those nice folks in small northern countries who liked to think of themselves as the world champions of liberty and tolerance?"  But I would argue that Britain has not yet decided where it will fall on the spectrum - the immigration laws have been tightened, Americanized, even, and while the country rallies behind a reality TV star of questionably legal presence, it also debates the death of a deportee and how much responsibility the state bears towards new arrivals, and - of course - the headscarf, the niqab and the burqa.  Britain debates with less vitriol, fewer bans and much more politeness than the Continent is displaying - once again, no cars on fire here - but not, I would argue, with a clear impending verdict.

It's as though Western Europe is asking: Do we continue the grand cultural experiment of liberalism, multiculturalism, religious tolerance and polyglot international cities?  Or do we throw it aside, kick out all Muslims (if you think I'm exaggerating, you haven't been reading enough about the Geert Wilders trial) and brace ourselves for war?

Keep an eye out - the public's fickle opinion could yet fall either way.

hello how are you

i know, i know, I'm an embarrassment.

OKAY so the british don't really do formalities like we do.  Isn't that strange?  We think of Brits as formal but - well, I'm confusing my words here, I did say formalities, and what I meant was - hello, how are you, thanks, I'm sorry, you're welcome, a smile and a nod of appreciation - and it feels rather cold and awkward at times, and rude, because why would you ignore me like that,

so it's funny to read a British perspective on the idea of forced friendliness from servers (which I miss, I truly do!)


"All of it - the whole highly-trained, slightly clammy and cultish-feeling "hi-I'm-Danny-and-I'll-be-your-server" business seems cynical, false and utterly un-British. That level of intimacy with a complete stranger makes me feel profoundly uncomfortable anyway, but the idea that it may have been taught, drilled and rehearsed by professionals in "the art of conversation" makes me feel exploited."


http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/wordofmouth/2010/oct/15/flirt-waiter-waitress


And now I have to run off to class - i know, shamefully short and shallow,


I apologize!  Sorry about that, a smile and a nod, and I'll say hello when I see you again because I'm American, punks.




(I did meet an extremely friendly waitress the other day - she smiled at me and EVEN asked how my evening was going.  It warmed me to the soul)

true confessions

I was GOING to write a post about brick lane, but the Guardian cryptic crossword is killing me.  Killing me dead.  Like no crossword has ever killed me before.  I might well follow in the steps of one of my heroes, the great Frank Lewis, who grew so obsessed with these dang things he started writing them for Americans (and retired to the Caribbean, must be a pretty good deal!)   But I could sometimes solve Mr. Lewis' puzzle, and the Guardian's are leaving me completely bewildered.

So if you'l excuse me, I'm goig to try to figure out how on earth to decode "Title: 'Took offence ... just" (5-6)

gah!

contrasts

I'm sitting in one of the reading rooms in Senate House library - an enormous, stone-clad tower in Central London - surrounded by worn wood shelves and dusty old art folios.  I like to work here because of the terrible wifi (which rather effectively discourages me from getting distracted) and the massive windows, which show off the gray skies about as well as anything can.  It's another chilly day, and from this window it looks like the trees are feeling rather windswept and rain is on its way.  In short, I am a long, long way from the islands!

And yet I am immersing myself in my endless pages of transcriptions - yes, I'm still working on this dang article, don't judge!  there's so much material and I'm so busy and so easily distracted and yes, okay, judge away.  I can almost feel the oppressive heat of a Manila summer and see palm-covered mountains rising out of the sea.

Almost.  But not quite.  It's still rather chilly.

I am hearing voices, though - not literally, as I've misplaced my headphones, but reading over the interviews is bringing up memories so vivid I'm almost looking over my shoulder to see if Ana or Anamaine or Bernice or Catherine is standing there.

I'd tell you more, but as you can see, I'm only up to the C's!  Much to do!

they CALL it English pt 2

and I quote:

"I want to get blootered and dance like a wazzock."

Printed in the Evening Standard.  I mean, you think I could make that up?