mr. nation

Imagine yourself at a dinner party, where everybody speaks English, but many are more comfortable in another language. There are enough people in the room to allow for several conversations to happen simultaneously. If three native speakers of Hindi are engaged in a conversation, should they feel a social obligation to carry on their conversation in English? I'm not sure where I fall on this question. Certainly, this action precludes the possibility that anybody at the table who doesn't speak Hindi can enter the conversation. Practically speaking, is this different from carrying on a conversation about a topic that certain members of the party can't speak to? I think it clearly is-- the feeling of not being able to meaningfully contribute to a conversation is surely different, and less isolating, from the inability to contribute in any way at all. Does the situation change if the majority of people at the table are conversational in Hindi? The sense of alienation for those who do not understand Hindi is stronger, I think. Perhaps we now have a stronger obligation to them, to attempt to carry our conversation on in English. While in this scenario, some may feel less comfortable in English, none will feel truly excluded.

On the other hand, when we convert the conversation to English, it is very likely that the quality of discourse will degrade. The bounds of conversation, in terms of ideas, concepts, and argument, is always constrained by the linguistic abilities of the speakers. One chooses which ideas to express from the range of available ideas, and this range is probably both broader and deeper in one's native tongue. Furthermore, while we make the English speakers more comfortable by switching to English, we are inevitably making the Hindi speakers less comfortable. Given that there are enough people for multiple conversations to be happening, should we really insist that they all happen in the shared language? Is it worth trading the quality of dialogue for a more complete sense of linguistic inclusiveness?

To make matters worse, the dialogue may be crippled because certain ideas do not translate. This has always been a fascinating (and humbling) idea to me. Culture and language are so closely intertwined; anybody who speaks multiple languages and has experienced multiple cultures has surely experienced that there are terms and phrases for which no suitable translation exists. The subtle meanings, implications and subtext in a phrase may be dependent on a cultural understanding generally only held by speakers of the language. This is a fascinating, if unnerving idea. Many areas of knowledge and ways of understanding are inaccessible without learning the relevant language.

At times I take for granted that English is, in some sense, the closest thing to a global language. All around the world, people grow up with the understanding that to be successful in a global sense, learning English is a near-necessity (at least so far). My Hindi and Punjabi, while conversationally adequate, are by no means strong. I'd have trouble carrying on a conversation of any depth in these languages. Despite having studied French and Spanish through school, I can't say that I speak either language very much. I opted out of studying them in college, and told myself that this was the right decision, since "I'm no good at learning languages." When I think about it now, it seems sort of obnoxious; arrogant, even. An luxury afforded to me by the fact that I speak the language of the conquerors. I think about when my mother first moved to Saskatchewan, and she would answer my father's white friends' questions with the word "yes" and a smile, regardless of what the question happened to be. I think about the fact that she overcame this with grace and persistence, and became a fluent speaker of English. She never had the option to decide that she wasn't very good with languages.

I have a friendly banter with Ming, the man who runs my neighborhod laundromat. "Mr Nee-teen!", he'll exclaim, when I walk in every Saturday morning. He is most comfortable speaking Mandarin, but he's made a life for himself here. His happiness and energy in this city of foreign tongues is inspiring to me. Whenever he takes my laundry, he writes down my name on a ticket and hands it to me. When I was first coming in, I'd tell him my name, and he'd write down "Mr. Nitin". Soon, as we began to recognize and know each other, he would take to writing it down without asking. One day he mistakenly wrote "Mr. Natin", and began writing my name this way for a few months. Most recently, this has morphed into "Mr. Nation." I chuckled at the irony the first time I saw this; perhaps I ought to brush up on my foreign language skills.

morning birds

fort greene, 6:50 am.

a quartet for humanity

A few days ago, I had the privilege of bearing witness to a beautiful experience. The C train was stopped at Hoyt-Schermerhorn station; four older gentlemen had a quick discussion on the platform, and decided to board the train together before the doors of the train closed. One man held a small paper bag. They surveyed the car, smiles on their faces, until one said to the others "Let's tell them about it. Let's talk about Him." With this, they began to sing a harmonious quartet; they sang a Christian hymn, and engaged people gently. It was a welcome change to the crowded isolation and social sterility that so often characterizes the anonymity of riding on a train. A good many people dropped money into the small paper bag. At the next stop, a homeless woman stepped onto the train, and stood by the door, withdrawn, while the men continued to sing. The lead singer approached her quietly, reached into the bag, and handed her some bills. She accepted the money without a word, signing the cross on her torso in gratitude. She seemed obviously hard up, and the scene was heartwarming (I use this word with the full knowledge of the cliche it normally carries).

Irrespective of my views on the accuracy and validity of their literal message, I felt as though I was seeing something fundamentally good. The men had visible warmth in their hearts, and nobody on the train seemed bothered-- on the contrary, most people I saw were smiling at the scene. These externalities of benevolence are, in my mind, some of the strongest reasons to view organized religion and communities of faith as a good thing. Examples abound, whether they are soup kitchens, free schools for the destitute, or the men lightening up so many days with their subway song. Put simply, people who profess to be religious often do great things, and in many cases, will assert that religion motivates them to act in the ways that they do.

On the other hand, if our measure is to be a utilitarian one built on tangible outcomes, then reason demands that we examine the full range of consequences. Now the picture is more muddled. What so often brings us together perhaps more often divides us. Think of the way certain major religious groups have sought to suppress the teaching and discovery of new and relevant scientific knowledge on global warming and on evolution. Consider the way Hindu fundamentalism has been used to galvanize large segments of the Indian population into tacitly and actively supporting the alienation and displacement of so many Indian Muslims. And this is only a start to the list. It is hard to think of any major community of faith whose name has not served at one point or another as cover for systematic killing and displacement.

There are some clear problems with my reasoning above. First, it could be argued that in each of the examples above, the behaviour of some small subset of a group is being used to describe the group as a whole. I take exception with this characterization. Those who choose a community, and then resort to complacency and a failure to actively tackle wrong behavior from within said community bear some of the responsibility. Furthermore, the sorts of division and communalism frequently engendered by fervent political movements seem to affect more than an insignificant minority. Perhaps more persuasively, my reasoning glosses over the fact that historically, religious and political systems have been so closely intertwined. Thus, attributing the actions to religious rather than political motivation can be seen as an arbitrary decision. To this, I would respond that many consider themselves more beholden to their religious convictions than to their political convictions. The fact that systems of political power may exploit this is hardly a defense of the negative impacts of religious communities of belief.

Ultimately, however, these arguments of consequentialism and of political and religious power are rendered moot by the 'truth card.' These contingent arguments are irrelevant if a religious philosophy espouses absolute truth (a claim confidently and impossibly made by most all religious groups). I remember one day when we were rehearsing Bach's St. Matthew Passion, our choir director said "this music makes you want to believe." I've fallen into this sort of thinking myself. How can something so beautiful not be divinely inspired? This sort of reasoning is flawed, and sells humanity short. Isn't a better explanation that the majority of composers at this time were working for some sort of religious institution? Has the last century, with its proliferation of secular artists, failed to produce beauty? We need to recognize the potential and ability of humanity itself to inspire, independent of the need to believe.

On consequences, there is no clear answer. If the question comes down to truth, then we are left in an intractable situation, for no amount of reasoning will lead to concensus. And critically, vast numbers of people are claiming ownership on absolute truths that are, to be plain, contradictory. Do I believe in God? Probably-- but I doubt that anybody knows very much about him, least of all those who profess most loudly to.

grimaldi's

Grimaldi's is one of those legendary New York pizza places that you always hear about. One of the many establishments said to have the best pies in the city, the wait for a table is normally an hour or more. They don't sell slices (you have to order an entire pie), they won't take your credit card (cash only), and the menu is charmingly short. If you haven't come for the pizza or the calzone, you're in the wrong place.

I first heard about Grimaldi's when I was a summer intern living downtown Manhattan. This mysterious pizzeria in Brooklyn was said to be the perfect way to complement an afternoon walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. So one afternoon, I set off on a walk across the bridge, with the intention of going to Grimaldi's on the other side. Unfortunately, when we got off of the bridge in Brooklyn, we couldn't find Grimaldi's! Everybody had told us that it was "right on the other side of the bridge", but none of the people we now asked could tell us how to get there! Most claimed not to have even heard of Grimaldi's. In the end, we went back home without the pizza; it would have to stay a legend in our minds.

Today, about five years later, I finally made it to Grimaldi's. The pizza was mediocre at best. The sauce lacked depth, and the cheese to sauce ratio was too high; the crust was great, but the pizza generally lacked flavor. It tasted fairly bland. The experience was fun, but this pizza was not worth the wait. Lucali's will, for the moment, easily retain my #1 spot, followed closely by Lombardi's and John's.

It's odd, but I almost found it difficult to admit that the pizza wasn't great. In an attempt to counter the hype, I'd preemptively lowered my expectiations. I wanted Grimaldi's to have a fair chance, and I think it did. Nevertheless, there is no denying that the pizza disapointed. There is a sense in which I question my judgement, given how much my own conclusions differ from popularly held opinion. I remember that a few months ago when I saw The Class with a friend, I was underwhelmed. I thought the film was good, but not great, and I had a number of sound reasons and arguments for feeling the way I did. When I went home and saw that it had a staggering 98% on Rotten Tomatoes, I could almost feel my actual view on the movie changing. How could so many people be wrong? Such is the power of the crowd.

In both cases, though, I think my judgment was sound, contrary to mass public opinion. Certainly, in matters of taste, there doesn't always need to be an objective right answer. It also helped to have a friend present (in fact, the same friend in both cases!) to reaffirm that I wasn't crazy, and that every now and then, hype really is just hype.