Rough Sketches from a Work-in-Progress, a Memoir

When night fell in my grandparents’ village, Berlovka, it blanketed the entire celo, which had existed for decades without a single street lamp, in a collective darkness that mimicked the heavy hand of the Soviet state. In all my summer visits to the village with my mother and sister, I do not remember a time when the lights in my grandparents’ kitchen and the hata did not come on, or when we weren’t able to turn on the black and white TV, with its clumsy knobs, and view the grim but earnest-looking faces of the actors on the glowing screen. Because of the poor quality of the antenna’s reception, which always involved static, and my limited vocabulary in Russian, I’d look up from whatever I was doing when a scene was accompanied by music and watch the moving images, often of fair-skinned, dark-haired women and men, beautifully cast against the agrarian countryside of the Soviet Union. I marveled at it all, my lack of understanding, my racial difference, obvious in the color of my skin and the texture of my hair, my existence in this very village, unlit on the outside, thousands and thousands of miles from the equatorial Africa I called home.

On Reading and Writing in the Future and Now: Blogs, Twitter, and the Kindle

On a very humid spring day in New York City last month, I listened, quite intently, to four accomplished writers try not only to define their reading experiences in today’s interactive multimedia environment, but also to reveal their level of openness to such an environment and its effects, if any, on their work.

Responses varied loosely on reading experiences—we are, after all, living in a time when we can read Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, for example, on the Kindle, iPad as well as in a bound book. We could even read snippets of it on a blog or come across a quote from it on Twitter.

Why not dabble?

The discussion on openness, however, revealed a strong yet eloquent, dissenting voice—that of Ben Orki, one of Nigeria’s celebrated writers and author of the award-winning novel, The Famished Road. As if referring to a distant past, Okri said that he loved the “tactility of books”; he also enjoyed “the peculiar feeling of wood, paper, and depth, words on a page—something to put in your pocket and travel with.”

There is, he believes, something very magical and enduring about books—and that magic is in part due to the fact that the book, which is “close to the tree, is a human work of art that retains the visual, aesthetic field of the natural world.”

Fair enough. But his example of reading the first line of a well-written novel and being transported via one’s imaginative abilities to another “world” cuts both ways. I confess that this has happened to me while reading on the Kindle—and it is the reason that I sometimes opt to buy (or not buy) a book after downloading a sample.

On the other hand, it is probably a very good idea to remember that technology and nature are not necessarily always “friends”—nor should they be. That afternoon, Okri quoted Octavia Paz to further support his views, saying “Technology is a criticism of the natural world and the natural world is a criticism of technology.” For Okri, this dichotomy still exists. And it should, apparently.

Interestingly, though, writer and editor Alberto Ruy-Sanchez revealed that for him new media is a form of “translating the reading experience, which is very traditional, into another experience”—and one that is actually similar to that of using ancient scrolls before the book was invented. Are we, he asks, going backward or forward here in the experience of reading?

This is a good question for it involves some consideration of mechanics--are we reading differently because of all these new devices and interactive outlets, and is the reading that we are doing any better or worse?

Russian writer Sergi Sokolovskiy added to the discussion here, saying that “there is indeed going to be a change in the way we read—and it will be an evolutionary change ... one that might even involve our forgetting learned mechanics of reading.” He noted, referring to blogs, that we are even writing differently already—“people write knowing that their work is going to be read in an electronic format.”

But this may not necessarily be a bad thing, Alberto Ruy-Sanchez implied. He wrote his second novel, Los Demonios de La Lengua, using letters he got from people through electronic media, specifically from his blog. He found that the blog was a very useful way to receive feedback and may in fact alleviate the loneliness that is often characteristic of the writer’s craft. He also discovered that Twitter is a great way to “spread things.”

For authors, Ruy-Sanchez said, who often harbor a pathological need to reach readers, diffusion is better with interactive media, especially since one doesn’t need to go through any sort of establishment. So, is it thumbs up for Twitter?

For Ruy-Sanchez, that would be a yes. Last year, he kept a travelogue on a trip to India on Twitter, and at the end of the trip, he had compiled about 500 twits (with about 100 photos)—all images in their own right that reached his readers with an immediacy he liked. "Literature is made of images," Ruy-Sanchez said, "and the challenge for writers today is that they have to find new ways of creating these images."

Ben Okri, however, is more reluctant to embrace Twitter as a way of creating images--however, literary, lyrical or poetic--in his writing. He acknowledges Twitter’s explosive possibility for freedom,” citing various “twitter storms that have helped shape biggish moments in history.” So, to him, it works as an activism “tool” of sorts, but not quite as a literary one. He is known to have written the very first Twitter poem, which he read at the event that day. He wrote one line a day; the poem is to be read one line a day, too. I quite liked the poem, but Okri thought that if he had written the lines in a different medium, it would probably have taken him years, and as result the poem would be more richly layered and thus a much better one.

So is imagination, as Okri contends, somewhat stifled by all these forms of media? Is imagination amplified when fewer reading devices and media outlets are used or available to us? I had a good laugh when writer Ben Schrank said that we had to remember to question how the interactive media opens up to opportunity—and when this may become useless. He asked us to take, for example, “a novel which may ‘breathe’ in the future.”

Well, yes, let’s imagine that with a serious face.

If there is anything I learned from the discussion that day, it’s that we are surely living in a time of dread and excitement when it comes to the future of reading, especially with the e-book market’s expansion, the availability of multiple reading devices that allow for different levels of interactivity, and sadly, the “violence” this all may inflict on traditional bookselling outlets as well.

I learned another valuable lesson that day as well: we are living in a time when you can still be, like Ben Okri, a romantic about books. After the discussion, I bought another copy of Okri’s The Famished Road and stood in line so that he could sign it--and he did, thoughtfully and graciously. And as I left the Instituto Cervantes that afternoon with the Kindle in my bag, it struck me that one day perhaps the very act of getting a book signed by an author--with ink on paper, that is--could become a magical thing of the past as well, just like the very act of reading a bound book. Didn't the scroll suffer a similar fate?

Rural Ohio

Last November, we drove to Yellow Springs, Ohio--and we stayed at an old farmhouse-turned-B&B for a night. Surrounded by cornfields and not much else, I stood in solidarity with the trees, as leafless (read: naked) and imperfect as they were in that early morning light.

The Long Way, or Writing Exercise*

I took the long way, as I often do. There was no particular reason for this decision, though it was the more scenic route along Henderson Drive. The earth was soggy from a heavy thunderstorm, and the white of frangipani petals caught my eye immediately. I stopped to pick up a few strewn petals and then dropped them playfully, as I quickened my pace. The sun, once hidden, now shone with daring splendor, and I looked up to it, squinting with mouth slightly ajar, as if to soak in its rays. The dull sting of loneliness abated and ambivalence took its place, crowding my heart with a strange kind of emptiness. I was not sad; I was not happy either.

Up ahead, just past the mango tree, the tarred road disappeared, and a row of tall Eucalyptus trees rose to my left, partially obscuring the rows of corn in a field. I remembered Babushka and her rows of wheat in Ukraine. Had they hired the Combine yet? Or the horse and buggy to carry the freshly-cut bales of hay? I rounded the bend in a thoughtful mood, quickly making a mental note of the essay that I had to submit for Mrs. Okonkwo’s English class tomorrow. It was unfinished.

A chirping red bird darted by, then flew up toward the glistening green hill on my right. Dark, porous-looking volcanic rocks lay scattered upon the hill, reminding me of past eruptions. I was startled by how quickly I came upon the Ajullos’ home, a beige colonial bungalow at the foot of the hill. It would be the first of many houses, all of them encircling the hill like irregular beads on an invisible neckless strap. Then I gasped, stopping. I had forgotten about the Lamads’ dog, Bingo--the crazy, old German Shepherd who never failed to come my way during walks, barking and foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. I hated and pitied him with the same intense passion.

Hesitation overwhelmed me first. I stood for what felt like a long while; my eyes moved down to my feet. The bright yellow straps of my old flip-flops caught my eyes, and lifted my spirits for a quick moment. Should I turn back? What about the first draft of the essay which my friend Olu had accidently put in her book bag? I needed it today. Yet I was ambivalent, infuriatingly so, as usual. I remembered the repercussions of not completing one’s homework—a red and sore right palm and the humiliation of corporal punishment.

Suddenly, a car horn sounded behind me. I lifted my head, which felt heavier now, and then made a quick dash to the side of the road. It was the lightness of my feet that surprised me the most, not the snapping sound that came from my footwear. The car passed by; I sighed in disbelief. Now I was essentially barefoot.

I counted three valid reasons to head back home: Bingo, ambivalence, only one slipper. I felt the dampness of the dark soil beneath my right foot, its sole more vulnerable now, and I understood that not all was right in my world. Someone else, I thought, would probably have turned around by now. This was the most sensible thing to do. Yet here I was, counting reasons, weighing a hypothetical encounter with an old, aggressive dog against a familiar feeling, and ignoring reality. Then I did it. I turned around and ran all the way back home, quickly and carelessly, as if demons were gnawing at my heels.


*I wrote this short piece in a workshop that I took over the summer at Sarah Lawrence College. Although the focus of the workshop was nonfiction, we were asked to write about a walk which could or could not have happened. So ... I embellished freely.

Bending the Arc of the Moral Universe

The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice. – Martin Luther King, Jr.


The 2009 PEN World Voices event on Ken Saro-Wiwa’s life and legacy opened with a reading from his play, “The Transistor Radio.” Candor, humor, and conscientiousness leaped from the pages—and along with them, a dark glimpse into the despair and desperation in the lives of his Nigerian characters. An unrelenting grind is revealed, one that is probably unfathomable to many of us. Imagine a day, or three, without enough food—or with just a cup of tea.

Almost fifteen years have passed since writer-activist Ken Saro-Wiwa was executed by the Nigerian military government over trumped-up murder charges. But not much has improved for those in the oil-rich Delta region of Nigeria, Saro-wiwa’s homeland. In fact, it has gotten bleaker.

As one of the most vocal critics of the actions of government and oil companies in the region, Saro-Wiwa was compelled as writer and activist to “speak for the little people,” said his son, Ken Saro-Wiwa, Jr., a panelist at the PEN event. Poised and articulate, Saro-Wiwa, Jr., spoke fondly of his father as a renaissance man, who “always carried a book and pipe…and within whose life ran a sense of injustice that often produced sadness.”

For Saro-Wiwa, this sense and this emotion collided powerfully within, resulting in a remarkable legacy that involved, as second panelist and writer Richard Patterson said, a passionate, nonviolent struggle against “a terrible reality of economy and indifference.”

During the event, a brief documentary by PEN spelled out what many of us already know about this reality: the environmental devastation wrought upon the Delta by reckless oil spills and flares, and the painfully inadequate infrastructures in the region, despite the large sums of money procured by the Nigerian government and foreign oil companies.

Sadly, this reality continues to grip the region, immorally perpetuated by those caught up in an unending cycle of corruption and greed. Patterson, whose novel Eclipse is loosely based on the life of Ken Saro-Wiwa, also marveled at the scant US response to this travesty, calling it, essentially, a “failure of empathy and imagination.”

But the arc of the moral universe, as we know it, might actually begin to bend toward justice. Next week, a court case opens in New York, finally bringing to the fore a lawsuit that has been lodged against Shell, Inc. for, among other allegations, its complicity in the silencing and untimely death of Ken Saro-Wiwa. We must await the outcome now, hoping of course that MLK, Jr. was indeed right about that moral trajectory.

And the Band Played On

During a recent visit to New Orleans, I attended the funeral of Antoinette K-Doe--she had passed away on February 24th, the first day of Mardi Gras this year. Owner of the popular Mother-in-Law restaurant in Treme, one of the oldest African American neighborhoods, Ms. K-Doe was a well-known and much-loved figure in her community. Inside her restaurant, she had erected a shrine for her late husband Ernie K-Doe, a musician of the hit song, “Mother-in-law,” who, as the story goes, she saved from a later sad, somewhat dejected life. Additionally, she took twenty-seven foster children under her care and was indeed a fixture on the Krewe de Vieux floats during Mardi Gras parades.

Although funerals usually offer us a good reason to pause, reflect on living, and give due respect to the departed, I have also found them to be uncomfortably solemn events with little or no room for levity. Not so at Antoinette K-Doe’s farewell. That warm, drizzling afternoon, standing with a dear friend in the street, as musicians played on trombones and people swayed to jazzy melodies, I found myself light-hearted and in the mood to dance. At a funeral, yes.

And I had never seen anything like it before.

About fifteen minutes after we got there, a horse-drawn hearse pulled up and waited outside the entrance of the small church. Wearing pink-feathered hats, three young women, dressed in black pencil skirts and high heels, wandered about the crowd. And it all grew especially interesting when a mannequin was carried out of the church—a life-size Ernie K-Doe, dressed to the nines in white and wearing a long wig! Hilarity. He was placed in an open carriage that had pulled up behind the hearse and fitted with a white top hat. Apparently, if I had seen one of the Krewe de Vieux floats during Mardi Gras, I would have understood more fully what I had just witnessed, as this Ernie K-Doe often accompanied Antoinette K-Doe on it.

And the band played on, while the crowd grew larger by the minute--and when the coffin was carried out of the church, the crowd became more chaotic and rather animated. People jumped about almost gleefully with umbrellas and danced even harder. A man with a brown, furry Mardi Gras suit danced the hardest, his headwear inches taller than everyone and bobbing up and down wildly yet rhythmically. A woman in a purple Babydoll costume appeared with the coffin, then led the procession while dancing in step with a few others.

We followed the funeral procession as it snaked its way noisily toward K-Doe’s restaurant. The opulent sounds from the trombones prevailed. People continued to dance and sing. I didn’t see one tear shed—however, I did notice some solemn faces. At the restaurant, the coffin was pulled out of the hearse and lifted three times to hearty cheers from the crowd. “Ernie K-Doe” got to go in first; then, Antoinette K-Doe was taken into her brightly-painted restaurant for the very last time. A well-dressed man then stood guard at the entrance, and the rest of us milled around outside, even as the musicians finally took a break.

Thirsty now, I went around to the other side of the restaurant to see if could buy a bottle of water and came upon a colorful, crowded garden, filled with flowers in purple and yellow bathtubs and a shopping cart parked at one end, decorated with Mardi Gras beads. A small dried-up Christmas tree stood atop the cart. I noticed a number of plant beds, displaying colorful flowers, many of which were not real--and underneath my feet, patches of green carpeting unfolded everywhere.

For a fleeting, disorienting moment, I had no idea where I was—and how I had found myself there. Like Alice, had I indeed fallen down a wondrous hole? And when I came back to my senses, I realized that I had forgotten yet again, as I would over and over that afternoon, about mortal endings, now obscured by a fervent celebration of a fascinating life. And that was precisely the point of all this merriment, I thought, as I caught a gentle smile from the woman in purple Babydoll costume and then slowly made my way back to my friend. Behind me, someone started up a soft tune on a trumpet--yet another reminder that day, of course, that life inevitably goes on.


[A new version of this piece will appear in the April issue of Wild River Review with additional photos. Please look out for it.]

Tea, Winter Friend

"Ecstasy is a glass full of tea and a piece of sugar in the mouth." -- Alexander Pushkin