Category Archives: Summer 2016 Issue VII: Transitions

Summer 2016 Issue VII: Transitions

TRANSITION, verb

April 15, 2016 tnehls

I remember the exact moment I realised that I wasn’t cisgender. It was on my way back home in Germany, a couple of weeks before I was going to leave for Smith. I was just getting off the train and as I climbed up the stairs from the platform, I thought, “I am not a woman.”

I wasn’t and still am not able to understand what exactly that means, and I have since realised that figuring out my gender identity is a process that is likely to be never-ending. This is often frustrating and scary, but ultimately I hope that I will be able to see it as freeing. The pressure to conform doesn’t stop with stepping outside of the gender binary. Even as I came to identify as trans, I was irritated at myself: how could I say I wasn’t one gender or another, when gender is a social construct? What would make the gender I identified with any more real than the one I was assigned at birth? I’ve never subscribed to gender roles anyways, so on what basis do I even define gender?

Coming to terms with questions like these is especially difficult in a society that generally doubts your gender identity even exists. I was fortunate to enter Smith and find a place where I could think about gender in a different way than I could have in Germany. It might seem ironic that I would distance myself from being female while at a women’s college, but it turns out that when you take gender out of the equation, there is more freedom to it.* Sure enough, Smith is far from representative of the rest of the United States (although I am not aware of any women’s colleges in Germany), but one part of the wider culture has been incredibly significant in my understanding of trans identity: the language.

While identifying as non-binary in Germany, the way I conceptualised it was to add a male alter ego to my established female identity. English, a language without grammatical gender that has the option of using they as a non-gendered singular pronoun (however frowned upon it might be stylistically, it is established), provided me with the resources to think and express myself outside of the gender binary. Our language shapes our thoughts and thus our worlds. A language without gendered pronouns, for example Turkish, would help us understand the world in yet another way.

Language is a fundamentally social phenomenon. It shapes our communities and they shape it. I understand now that while, yes, gender is a social construct, that doesn’t make us, as people living in society, free of it. As people who exist in relation to one another, the way we are perceived by others will always be a significant part of who we are. As an individual, I have no problem with my gender identity at this point; I just am who I am. It is when others perceive me in a certain way that does not conform to my self-image that the problems arise.

While transgender awareness is slowly growing when it comes to transgender women and men, most people are not aware that it is a spectrum, and even when non-binary is included, it is often as a third category in addition to the binary extremes. Defying gender roles and wanting to be recognised as non-binary/trans is a balancing act. Even though I know that neither activities, nor clothes, nor makeup, nor haircut have an inherent gender, presenting in a way that is socially construed as feminine will result in me being immediately read as female and erase my gender identity. It often feels that in order to disrupt this, I have to present in a way that is especially masculine, or even identify as a transman in order to not be assumed cis.

As long as we live in a society that upholds gender roles and the gender binary, not conforming to those will be a struggle. But even in this society we can find a community that supports us, in which we can discuss the issues and questions that arise out of this tension, and encourage each other to keep challenging the status quo.

Transition might be read as a noun, but for me it is a verb first and foremost. Life and all that comes with it is unfathomably complex, and there will always be more to discover and figure out. What stagnates will wither, and change is the only constant.

*I am aware that not everyone’s trans identity has been met with love and respect at Smith, but fortunately I have only come across encouragement.

TL Nehls is originally from Hamburg, Germany and has lived in Chile and Northern Ireland before coming to Northampton. Asking them about historical linguistics, memes, or local geology will likely result in a lenghty, albeit enthusiastic, discussion, so be prepared. When not sitting in front of mostly empty word documents, they can be found performing theatre or folk music, or both.

Summer 2016 Issue VII: Transitions

Living and Learning in the Heart of Africa

April 15, 2016 Janie Vanpee

On the top floor of a passing hotel in Mbarara, Uganda, you will find one last set of steps, about five of them in total, leading to a metal door with an unbolted lock. Crawl through this door to the roof – a small, square platform surrounded by tin, with billowing white sheets drying in the sunlight.(1)

Stand there, and your eyes will see for miles: the red-dirt streets of the town, men greeting each other from their doorsteps, women with their babies snuggled into their backs and their fruits balanced on their heads. See the stream of traffic making its way to and from the nearby Rwandan border: white van taxis, “boda boda” motorcycles and big trucks with wood sides and twenty people standing in their beds. See the rolling hills, greener than you have ever seen. Beyond these hills you will find the refugee camps, but for now just look, and watch as the clock hits seven and the sun slides behind the nearest hill, lands unnoticed in the first mist of night.

The sun always sets early on the equator.

I could not deny the poetry of that moment atop the Hotel Classic, halfway into my six-week journey through Uganda and Rwanda. I was there as a student in the School for International Training’s (SIT) summer 2009 program on Peace and Conflict Studies in the Lake Victoria Basin, studying both Northern Uganda’s twenty-year struggle against the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) and the 1994 Rwandan genocide. This was how it came to be that I spent my summer in a group of twenty-some undergraduate students from across the U.S, traveling through the heart of Africa.

In Uganda, I spent most of my time in Gulu, the heart of the Acholi subregion and epicenter of the Northern conflict. On most days, class consisted of two or three lectures from local professors and professionals. On other days, SIT arranged for small group visits to local NGO’s, internal displacement camps, and nearby resettled villages.

My Acholi host, Martin, was the Speaker for the District Council and a member of the opposition party. Martin was eager to discuss his first-hand experiences, such as when he traveled to participate in the Southern Sudan peace talks with the LRA, and he even brought me along to his meetings with various local figures. But Martin was not just a guide; he was my host-father, and his family never failed to remind me that I was their new daughter (the Acholi were extremely welcoming and took the term “host family” very seriously).

So I spent the evenings with my family, learning to cook dinner, wash the laundry, and negotiate the market with my host-mom, Sue (known affectionately as Mama Maureen), and playing with their breathtakingly adorable daughter, Becky, who turned three during my visit and loved nothing more than to dance all day. And finally there was Jillian, Martin’s 15-year-old niece and adopted daughter, who was a student in secondary school and responsible for most of the house work. It was Jillian who gave me my Acholi name, Aber, meaning beautiful.

Crossing the border into Rwanda, the atmosphere almost instantly changed. Flat, sprawling Uganda was replaced by Rwanda’s “land of a thousand hills,” and that was not the only difference. Whereas Uganda’s national government had seemed to give off a sense of distant uncertainty, the strong presence of Rwanda’s government was immediately evident. It was in this context that I spent two weeks in Rwanda’s capital city, Kigali, attending lectures on the genocide and post-conflict reconciliation.

Through my Rwandan homestay, I was able to participate in such activities as Umuganda, which requires every Rwandan to gather in their Oumadougou (neighborhood) for community work. I also went on excursions to the genocide memorials and to a “TIG camp” where convicted genocidaire were serving parts of their sentences by building houses for returning refugees.

While I truly wanted to believe that Rwanda was a “new nation,” a flawless example of post-genocide reconciliation, something about the model image was unnerving. There was an eerie similarity between the government line and the text of our lectures, and even my day-to-day conversations while in Rwanda were full of superfluous praises of the Kagame regime.

At Smith, my professors had discussed accounts of censorship and political persecution by the new Rwandan government. Even in neighboring Uganda, I was able to meet with a group of Rwandan refugees fleeing the post-genocide regime. Yet as long as I was within Rwanda’s borders, there was absolutely no critical mention of the subject.

As a consequence, I was forced to learn informally through my encounters, most of all from a young man of my age who had been orphaned in the genocide. Through a combination of his broken English and my broken French, he explained to me how he had gone from witnessing his mother’s death to eventually forgiving her killer. Forgiving does not necessarily equate to healing, however, and even still he struggles to put his life back together and find happiness without his family. Soft-spoken and unsure as the young man was, our conversations were among the most genuine of my entire trip.

I left for Africa as a student ready to learn, ended up finding more questions than answers, and returned to the States hoping to share my experiences. I became frustrated, though, when most people seemed disinterested in my studies. Rather, they wanted to know, “What did you do to help?” as though that had to be my role. Traveling to Africa was automatically equated to volunteering in Africa. That is when I realized that there are three prevailing images of the African traveler – the mission worker, the Safari tourist, and the expatriate – and I fit none of the above.

In the end, I could never limit myself to the stereotypical experiences of a tourist or expat. The most valuable and enjoyable moments of my travels were the ones spent with my host families and the other people that I met.

Africa is not a sight to be witnessed from a bubble but a vibrant culture to be discovered and lived, and it was only through these interactions that that little region in the heart of Africa wiggled its way into my heart.

So if you ever find yourself on that rooftop in Mbarara, take in the view, but don’t forget to climb down to where the people yell out Karibu! (Welcome!), and the red dust settles into your skin, impossible to ever wash out.

(1) Editors’ note: This essay is republished from its first appearance on Grécourt Gate in 2009 and expresses the author’s reflections of her stay in Uganda and Rwanda that summer.

Kaitlin Hodge, a 2012 alumna of Smith College, has long been passionate about pursuing a career on the African continent. As one of Smith’s first Global STRIDE Fellows, she spent the summer between her first and sophomore years studying abroad in Uganda and Rwanda and followed up on this experience by assisting Smith Professor Joanne Corbin with her research on experiences of resettlement in Northern Uganda. During her time at Smith, Kaitlin also co-founded SmithSTAND (a student anti-genocide coalition) and was awarded high honors for her thesis on the politics of classifying mass atrocities. Kaitlin also holds a Master’s degree from the London School of Economics and spent the last year working in Malawi as a Princeton in Africa fellow.

Summer 2016 Issue VII: Transitions

Connection and Disconnect in Translation

April 15, 2016 vgilliga

My sensei, which means teacher or mentor in Japanese, has known me since I was four years old. While he understands English, he always writes to me in Japanese, in his exceptional calligraphy, difficult for me to read because it is a style I am not familiar with. When I was younger I delayed returning his letters because I was insecure and shy about my language ability. As I grew older I found it even harder to express myself and my ideas because I was not in full control of the language. This motivated me to develop my Japanese language skills when I entered college and began my linguistic transition.

In the winter of 2012, my sensei and I went to Tokyo Station, after the completion of its 5-year renovation to restore it to pre-World War II condition. Going with my sensei held deep meaning for me, because I have always admired the rich history of the station, with its mix of Western architecture and Japanese railway design. With its red brick and circular dome, the building itself symbolized my cultural and linguistic experience learning English and Japanese. It was the West and the East, two opposing forces that would normally clash, coming together to create something unique and beautiful.

Although I grew up bilingual in America, and did not have the Japanese background the rest of my family had, our miscommunications were dismissed as cultural difference, and I felt my family often did not try to understand my ideas or me as an individual. “You’re American, you wouldn’t understand,” they would say, to end any conversation in which I struggled to follow or simply expressed disagreement. My elders would treat me as something foreign, despite the blood relation, and I wanted them to know who I was as a person, and to make a connection with me. Through my efforts to translate the complex thoughts I was having in English into Japanese, I came to understand that translation is not perfect. I realized that you cannot fully capture the meaning of a thought in the language in which it was not thought, and that oftentimes in instant translation, the challenge is to get as close as you can.

At the same time, I discovered aspects of my personality that could only be expressed in Japanese, and that words and concepts exist in the two languages that do not have equivalents in the other. I connected better with my family, but not in the way I originally thought I would. I know that there will always be a part of me that is foreign to them, as well as to others who identify solely as Japanese. And yet, I feel closer to them now, in a way that differs from the closeness I have with English speakers.

This combination of connection and disconnect is what fascinates me about translation. My racial and cultural background demanded linguistic and geographical transitions from a young age, but this personal linguistic transition lead me to realize my love for translation, a significant part of my identity. My hope is that through translation I can recreate the harmony of the Tokyo Station building that I visited with my sensei, and to act as a bridge between two cultures and languages.

Victoria Gilligan is a student of government and language, and is fascinated by the interplay between the two studies. Her academic interests include translation in all forms, but her projects have focused on the exploration of linguistic identity by biracial or bicultural people. Her nonacademic interests include rock climbing and all things outdoors. She is a 2016 expected graduate with a double major in Government and East Asian Languages and Literatures, and a Translation Studies Concentration.

Summer 2016 Issue VII: Transitions

Engaging with New Perspectives on Gender in Multilingual Space

April 15, 2016 dlensingsharp

During the fall semester of my year abroad in Hamburg, I took a class on the poetry of French Renaissance writer Louise Labé which involved readings in French and class time conducted in German. This made me nervous because I found it difficult to speak the two languages at once, but I hoped it would help me become more comfortable moving from one language to another. To be more confident switching between French and German, I would have to participate in class discussions in which both languages were spoken over the course of a single sentence. Though I had never taken a course conducted in two different foreign languages before, my experience in literature courses in French and German at Smith helped me to adapt to this new hybrid model.

lensing-sharp_2016-04-05-essay-image — Dompteuse, 1930. Hannah Höch. Photocollage.

As I navigated the course’s multiple languages, my command of German improved significantly more quickly, as it was the dominant language in the classroom. I gave an oral presentation on the introduction to Judith Butler’s Gender Trouble, which I first read in English, then referred to the German translation in order to convey the concepts to my classmates. This constituted what was essentially my first engagement with theory in a literature course, although some of the basic concepts in Gender Trouble were familiar to me thanks to the open discourses about gender and sexuality at Smith. However, I was fairly surprised when most of my classmates had difficulty understanding the concepts I was discussing, such as the difference between gender identity and biological sex.

Part of the problem seemed to lie in the language itself—any vocabulary used to describe gender was either basic or borrowed from English. In German, Geschlecht means either gender or sex, unless you extend it to Geschlechtsidentität, which specifies gender identity. In a presentation for which I had to distinguish explicitly between gender and sex, I was advised simply to use the English terms as I explained the theory to my classmates in German. Explaining the different components of phallogocentrism (Phallogozentrismus), or the male-centered quality of language, resulted in more confusion. Having attended Smith for two years made me forget that not all or even very many universities encourage conversations about these issues the way Smith does. It surprised me, too, because we often assume that Europeans are much more progressive than Americans with regard to social and political issues. One might think that Germans in particular would have a more open view of gender based on the fact that their language includes a third, neutral grammatical gender. In our class discussions, however, it became clear to me that their engagement with the material began and ended with the theoretical.

This presentation was important to me as a linguistic and intellectual exercise, but was also personally meaningful in a way that didn’t seem to resonate with my classmates. While issues of gender identity have played a significant role in my own inner life and the lives of many of my friends at Smith, the concepts we discussed in this course seemed limited to the abstract for my classmates, who may have only been taking the course to fulfill a major requirement. In comparing discussions I’ve had in German with discussions in English on gender identity, it seems to me that English is a more inherently flexible language, particularly with regard to lexical invention and introduction of new words into everyday speech. This quality has made it easier to facilitate conversations about unique identities, pronoun usage, and other subjects for which a new vocabulary simply must be created.

In the end, it made me more grateful to return to Smith where I would be among like-minded classmates, but it reminded me, too, that there is much work to be done in other less welcoming spaces when I leave. Language certainly shapes the way we view the world, but I realized that that view might not always be more expansive simply because the grammar is. If I want to engage in deeper discussions of gender and sexuality in new cultural and linguistic environments, I’ll need to make the effort to search for the communities where these concepts are treated on a discursive level closer to my own.

Dinah Lensing-Sharp is currently a senior at Smith, enjoying the last few weeks of college with their friends. They are finishing up an honors thesis in Comparative Literature entitled “Sensational Internationals: Gender, Sexuality, and Foreignness in Ruth Landshoff-Yorck’s Die Vielen und der Eine,” which entails a partial translation of the novel as well as an interpretation of its themes informed by critical literary and queer theory. In Fall 2016, Dinah will begin studying for a Ph.D. in Comparative Literature at the University of California, Berkeley.

Summer 2016 Issue VII: Transitions

American Studies Student Interview: Gaétane Krebs

April 14, 2016 mtooley

Gaétane Krebs interviewed by Maia Tooley

“You really feel you’re a part of something. You really feel like you’re important.”

This is how Gaétane Krebs replied when I asked how she felt about attending an American university. Raised in the French area around Geneva, Switzerland, Gaétane came to the American Studies Diploma program at Smith as the second participant from her family. Gaétane’s sister attended six years ago, and helped encourage her to spend a year in America.

Gaétane was drawn to Smith because of its extensive opportunities in the Asian art field. She pursued a bachelor’s degree in Chinese and Art History at the University of Geneva, and is currently completing her coursework towards a master’s degree. Impressed with the freedom the liberal arts curriculum at Smith offers students, Gaétane is taking courses in Chinese landscape painting and Art of Asia, as well as her American Studies class.

One thing Gaétane noted about Smith was that the professors are “really here for you; you have support.” In Geneva, she says, it’s harder to connect with the professors, and as a student, you are more independent, more on your own.

Gaétane had visited the US a few times as a child and teenager; however, she says that “you see things differently when you’re a bit grown-up. You’re more aware of the world. You pay more attention to details.” Some of these details she has noticed about Smith center around its community. People discuss race, gender, and LGBTQ+ issues openly, something that she says rarely happened back in Geneva. Students study subjects that they are passionate about, not subjects that they feel have a higher status. She sums up her appreciation for the atmosphere by saying, “I’m really happy that people can just be expressing themselves.”

Gaétane’s transition to life in the US has gone smoothly, as she doesn’t think the difference in American and European culture is as drastic as people perceive it to be. One expectation did prove true: the cars are bigger, the buildings are bigger, the streets are bigger. Gaétane was pleasantly surprised to find that in the US, “Everybody’s state of mind is very positive.”

Gaétane says she is very excited for her second semester at Smith, as there are still so many things she wants to explore, such as canoeing or kayaking on Paradise Pond, connecting with Chinese international students learning the French language, or beginning a study of the Italian language. Gaétane is also planning a collaboration with the Smith Art Museum to create an exhibit centered around twenty-first century collections, an opportunity she believes would be hard to find outside of Smith.

scma_webready-15 — The new Carol T. Christ Asian Art Gallery at the Smith College Museum of Art.

As our interview came to a close, Gaétane had some advice for students considering studying or traveling abroad: “Do it. It’s awesome to open your mind to something else. You [can be] so full of prejudice. Open yourself.”

In a follow up conversation with Gaétane, she reports that she did indeed start Italian though she was unable to continue because of conflicts, and that with the help Yao Wu, the curator of the Asian Art department, she’s been able to interview the subject of her thesis, Joan Lebold Cohen, one of the Museum’s donors of Asian art. She confirms enthusiastically that her year at Smith offered her opportunities that she would not have had through her home university in Geneva.

Global STRIDE fellow Maia Tooley is currently pursuing an engineering degree, and hopes to combine her passion for foreign languages with her desire to promote innovation abroad. Maia was honored to speak with Gaétane Krebs about her experiences living and studying abroad.

Summer 2016 Issue VII: Transitions

Spanish Flowers in German Soil

April 13, 2016 nmartinez

I tend to be a little nervous when I’m meeting a native Spanish speaker. I get flustered and stutter over my Spanish—even with the words I’ve said so many times that they’re second nature to me. Depending on the evening or my amount of carefree disregard, complete thoughts and sentences unfurl with the ease of my English fluency. It’s a feeling I want more of in my life, and theoretically I know how to achieve it. I need to speak more Spanish, listen, and engage with the language despite its difficulties. It’s about improvement as opposed to a flawless performance; I just need to start small and close to the earth. I want my language to flourish with the vibrancy of the rural Honduran countryside that my mother came from, and the musical energy of my father’s small town not too far from hers. I would tend to my Spanish like delicate seedlings in my greenhouse, awaiting the seasonal shifts of blooming fluency.

martinez_2016-04-05-essay-image I asked for a tutor in my Spanish literature course in Hamburg because I wanted to improve. It was frighteningly difficult and embarrassing to ask for help with Spanish; I didn’t want to reveal the gaps of language that were allowed to go unbridged in my upbringing. But I had spent too many years feeling embarrassed, and my German had a structure that my Spanish sorely lacked. I wanted them to be even.

I was to meet my tutor at the library; I didn’t know what she looked like. She was from Venezuela, a native speaker of Spanish, educated in the language and capable of cultivating articulate thoughts with a delicacy I could only imagine. I wondered how I would greet her. Would I approach her in English, for ease? In German, for practicality? Or in Spanish—for what, I couldn’t really say.

I don’t really remember how I picked her out among the other people at the library’s cafe; there was simply a moment of recognition for a mutual purpose. I stumbled into an energetic greeting in Spanish, and she stopped me. She asked me where I was from.

I told her that I was from the United States, but my family was Honduran. There was such kindness in her at my response; she heard the accent when I spoke. It was evident.

I eased very happily into my conversation with her then. Occasionally I felt silly and clumsy; I recalled that I didn’t know how to say whatever I wanted, and that I couldn’t arrange my sentences into neat rows like beautifully planted gardens. It’s a skill my mother has; her ease with Spanish came naturally to her because it was the native language she cared for and cultivated all her life. Spanish was my native language, too; it merely shared space with an invasive species I couldn’t tame.

My tutor helped me cut down the weeds and organize my thoughts. It was lovely to remember that Spanish was as rightfully mine as it was hers. It was the beginning of a place of confidence for me. I planted my Spanish flowers in German soil and watered them with German water. I never expected it would be just the thing I needed.

Nancy Martinez speaks at least three languages (the fourth is debatable): English, Spanish, German (and Italian). She studies literature in a desire to draw out the human experience in the structure of narratives, and couples that with her language studies to access the structures of thought in different literary traditions. She looks forward to translating her memories into different languages and perhaps working with the publication of scholarly texts after graduation.

Summer 2016 Issue VII: Transitions

Staring Down a Whole Library: How I Became Less Afraid of Learning Yiddish

April 13, 2016 Teddy Schneider

There is a photo in which I look absolutely terrified. This photo was taken at the National Yiddish Book Center, during my first week of Yiddish classes, in the middle of what the employees of the book center fondly call “the stacks.” Behind the camera, rows upon piles upon boxes of books written in Yiddish stare me down. In front of the camera, fear radiates from all of my pores.

Translators at the Yiddish Book Center, Amherst, MA.

The program that I participated in, the Steiner Summer Yiddish Program, brought together a group of nineteen students and gave us the materials to learn Yiddish at the National Yiddish Book Center. Our days were split between class, clubs, and activities, but for the first few weeks all I could do to stay afloat was to study long hours, often late into the night. I had long ago accepted that I was a slow language learner, and honestly, at that point, most of my classmates had reached the same conclusion. I could actually feel people scoot their chairs away from mine when it was time for group work. It was starting to become discouraging, and the fear that photo captured, of being unable to learn, remained tangible. The ultimate moment of rejection came when, as a member of Translation Club, I was asked to visually translate the text our group was working on. In other words, my club-mates would translate while I drew the pictures.

I was resentful, but who knew that the best way to make me do something is to tell me that I can’t do it at all? I started studying, even more intensely, with some vague intention of proving everybody wrong, and eventually moved up the ranks in the classroom. I found myself being able to help others, instead of always raising my hand for assistance. I consulted dictionaries, and sat among countless drafts of the translation. At the end of the seven weeks, I presented the translation that our club had put together as a group. It included my illustrations, but also my hard work translating a portion of the short story from English into Yiddish.

When I graduated from the program, I took the time to walk through the stacks once again. There are thousands of books there. Sholem Aleichem, Mendele the Book Peddler, S. An-ski, Peretz, Khava Rosenfarb, Israel Rabon, the list goes on. I wasn’t afraid of them anymore. I knew that with enough hours spent with my nose in the dictionary and a pen in my hand, I could eventually read any of them. And I would. The photo of me at the beginning of the program would contrast greatly against a picture you might take of me in the stacks today. I have learned that with enough hard work, a literature full of history, philosophy, political ideology, religion, and vibrant culture lays at my fingertips, and I have learned that Yiddish is not something to be afraid of. Not at all.

schneider_2016-03-28-author-image.png (966×700) Hannah Schneider is a Jewish Studies major at Smith College, where she concentrates in Yiddish translation. To date, she has translated the children’s story “A Memorial by the Stream,” by Moyshe Levin, and is in the process of working with professor Justin Cammy, and several other translators, on the first draft into English of Avrom Sutzkever’s memoir, “Vilna Ghetto.”

Summer 2016 Issue VII: Transitions

To be Seen

April 6, 2016 atoo

I think of my friend Iriza. She is half Burundian and half Rwandese and grew up in Italy but now lives in France, and she attended high school with me in Singapore. This is my scant attempt at scraping the top of her identity; she is a fine example of the pots we talk about, the ones in which all cultures melt.

I thought leaving for Singapore would be an easy process. I was going to get on a plane for the first time, so who could turn down that offer? Honestly, that is beside the point (Still, this was the first time I would board a plane — QR 535 to be exact). I was joining the United World College of South East Asia for the two-year International Baccalaureate program. There are certain stages in travel preparation where one moves from uneasy nerves, to excitement, then numbness kicks in and finally the nerves strike a blow again. I did not escape this metamorphic cycle, and as a self-acclaimed expert I can confidently speak on this topic. My nerves experienced an unsparing uprooting with each mention of “passport,” “visa,” “Asia,” and “travel well.” “Miss u, <3” messages from my friends were undoubtedly the worst. These texts left me with a sense of incompleteness, a state of “unbeing,” as if I was betraying them by leaving Kenya. Yet the adolescent and unnerving spelling of “u” remained uninspiring, so I did not cry. My stomach was not full of jittery butterflies; they had morphed into a swarm of sadistic bees that jabbed and poked at my insides, leaving me pained by the fact that I would be leaving my family behind in Kenya. But, true to the cycle theory, I returned to the excitement stage soon enough.

Singapore was humid. Singapore is humid. My face was constantly sticky, and soon I learned that my modest clothes covered too much skin to compete with the vicious heat. I got used to the concept of “Air Con” everywhere, and back sweat did not disgust me; it was an accepted way of life. I began to respect traffic lights, because those are merely decorative on the streets of Nairobi. I learned to call all the elders in the community “auntie” or “uncle,” and decorating my sentences with “lah” became the norm while I was out in the city. I ate way too much Laksa and later learned that’s where all the calories had been hidden. I drank Teh Tarik every Sunday after attending church service. I assimilated, yet with all this, I still stood out.

I often wondered how Iriza coped with having so many facets to her identity. And by identity, I mean basic descriptors. She was black, French, Rwandese, multilingual and so much more. And here I was, struggling with fitting into this one culture. I have always been just Kenyan, and that is all I had ever known. In Kenya, I disappeared in crowds, and looked like every other 19-year-old girl around the corner, give or take a few kilos. I grew up in a black world, and have never stood out by virtue of my color. Soon I found myself in unpleasant situations where my complexion was the topic of conversation for minutes. Minutes. My hair! Ah, how I learned that hair is truly political. It was as if I had signs jutting out of my head reading “Touch this,” “Free petting,” “Tug and see reaction.” Unperturbed, I read this as innocent curiosity from my non-African peers, but the questions concerning my hair care process, once from a bald, Japanese man, soon left me feeling beleaguered.

I could be seen. My dark skin, dreadlocked hair, wide hips, and foreign accent were visible. I felt especially out of place in crowds where I was the only black person. Little kids stole glances at me, yet their mothers did not reprimand them because they found themselves staring too. Outside schools, the black population in Singapore is very small. As a result, there were special moments when I would spot a black person on a train and feel a gush of familiarity that made me crave home, crave to be engulfed in a sea of likeness.

But I must admit, I grew to love the questions. Speaking about my hair, skin, and continent made me realize how special I am and I learned to appreciate the vital space I occupy in this world. I inspired a Swazi friend to get dreadlocks and taught my roommate from Timor-Leste how to undo braids (that is a whole other story). Life became a series of exchanges, rather than the monotony of fitting in. I do not want to fit in. I want to be uncomfortable. To be visible even when I do not want to stand out. To be driven to share myself because through me so many people can learn. I want to be a fruitful vessel. I grew fiercely patriotic during my time in Singapore since I learned to love all the glorious things that make Kenya so wonderfully unique. The same process happened internally, and I find special things within me always. To be seen is not so bad after all.

Anita Too is a first year student studying Comparative Literature and Italian. In “To be Seen,” she hopes to present a tale of visibility and invisibility.

Summer 2016 Issue VII: Transitions

Calling Home

April 6, 2016 iirele

“Idia, pele, how are you?” My mother says, and I want to tell her that I am tired, and stressed, and that my brain hurts, but I don’t.

“Hi Mommy. I’m fine. Are you busy?”

“No o. Ibo lo wa?” She says, becoming worried, because she senses the tension in my voice. It’s funny how she always seems to know how I am feeling without my having to say a word.

Calling home is what keeps me grounded in a world where I often feel like my feet have just hit the ground seconds before being uprooted once again. It is the pit stop of comfort that breaks up my constant state of cultural and linguistic transition. It is the recharge at the end of the week. A refreshing reminder that I am who I am, and we are who we are, and no explanation is needed.

My family and I have always straddled the ideological border between several cultures. My sisters and I joke that if you asked all of us where we are from, none of us would say the same place. Lagos, Calabar, Ibadan, Dublin, Paris, London, Columbus, Cambridge. These are just a few of the places that we have called home. Yoruba, Efik, French, English. These are just some of the languages that we speak. And we never decide to choose only one, because every single one of them contributes to who we are.

Our last name, Irele, means “we have arrived,” and I don’t think that there could be any other last name that fits us quite so accurately. When people ask us, “Where are you from?” We say, “Good question.” When people ask, “What is your mother tongue?” We say, “Whichever language she chooses to speak.”

Our tongues are fluid. They are not restricted by borders or labels. Our language is not a language, but a compilation of expressions and sayings that only we understand. A not-so-secret code that cannot be completely translated into anything.

I sometimes feel like I know exactly who I am. I switch codes as seamlessly as I slip my U.S. Passport into my purse and take out my Nigerian one at the airport border control. Other times, I feel lost. I feel like no matter how I choose to identify myself to people, I will never quite be telling the truth. Even a simple “I’m a dual citizen” does not seem to tell the whole story. During those times, those brief moments of exasperation and loneliness of the perpetual outsider, a call home is all I need to center my balance.

We sometimes choose to simplify ourselves for the sake of other people’s time and capacity to understand our seemingly complicated collective identity. But wherever we are in the world, all it takes is that familiar soothing voice, that familiar switch of tongues, and it is all clear. There is no word that describes our home, but in that moment, through those wires and cables and telephone channels, we feel it.

“Ça va?” says my Dad. “How is your research going? Ṣe ti finish awọn…chose la? The essay you were working on.”

“The paper is finished.” I tell him, “I handed it in yesterday.”

“Ku ṣe!” he says, and my entire heart fills with pride and relief, and motivation to do even better next time. These are feelings that a simple “good job” just cannot evoke.

I wonder if I will ever feel as though I can call one place my home. Whether I will ever be able to narrow down the options and choose a place where I feel the most like me. I am not sure that I will ever come to a conclusion, but I am sure that home will be wherever I hear my parents’ voices calling me, laughing with me, scolding me, congratulating me on the minor accomplishments of my often hectic life. ‘Kaabọ,’ they will say, ‘you are welcome.’ And just like that, I will be home.

Idia Irele is a senior at Smith College, double-majoring in Government and Spanish. A child of Nigerian expatriates and a citizen of the United States and Nigeria, she hopes to dedicate her life to the promotion of cross-cultural interactions as a pathway to peace. After graduation, she will begin this journey by teaching English in the small country of Andorra as a Fulbright scholar.

Summer 2016 Issue VII: Transitions

In the Guest House

March 21, 2016 aacosta

When you live in Florida, you don’t need to look very far to find Spanish speakers. For three years in high school, I attended the annual Florida State Spanish Conference (Conferencia) in Orlando, Florida and I was surrounded by the sights and sounds of Florida’s vibrant Latino culture. As a member of a 16-person competition team, I practiced impromptu speeches and rehearsed a play called “La Casa de Huéspedes” (“The Guest House”).

Angela Acosta (first row, second from left) and her Conferencia team

For four days, Spanish was the only language that I spoke and heard, and I found myself quite literally front and center of it all as narrator of the play. I encountered many unfamiliar words in the script and I practiced carefully pronouncing my lines with my teammates. During our practice sessions, my funny teammates transformed into a sassy lady knitting in an armchair and a sick elderly woman. Even though it was intimidating to introduce the play in front of a panel of judges, I knew that my teammates were right behind me ready to get into character at a moment’s notice.

While the Sunshine State may seem to be an extension of Latin America, growing up in Gainesville, Florida didn’t offer me many experiences to learn Spanish and connect with my Mexican roots until I tried out for Conferencia. I knew plenty of Spanish vocabulary prior to joining the team, but it all finally came together during those long hours practicing the speech topics. Instead of working on grammar exercises, I was able to tell people what I thought about my favorite books or my opinion on American fashion. When we weren’t practicing, we talked about a myriad of topics ranging from soccer teams to popular Latin songs. During those memorable spring days in Orlando, I immersed myself not in a country, but in a community brought together by our shared appreciation for the Spanish language. My heritage and culture came alive during our lively play practice sessions. The family that my teammates and teachers created is something that I still carry with me as a proud Latina finally able to speak Spanish fluently.

Fast forward to my first semester at Smith College when I attended my first Nosotr@s general body meeting. I discovered a supportive community of strong Latin@s who remind me of my beloved Conferencia teammates and I have immersed myself in everything that Nosotr@s has to offer. Thanks to Nosotr@s, I began to speak Spanish in and outside the classroom and learn more about the Latino community in New England. I took upon the challenge of planning the Seven Sisters Latin@ Conference as a way of connecting with Latinos engaged in the arts, activism, and everything in between. While the conference ultimately did not take place, it helped me become aware of the great work that Latinos are doing to celebrate their culture and solve issues facing the Latino community.

Until I joined the Conferencia team, I didn’t realize how far I could get learning Spanish as a non-native speaker. Thanks to my Conferencia teammates and friends in Nosotr@s, I discovered my passion for Spanish and, more specifically, Spanish literature. Now that I better understand the diverse experiences of Latinas and Spanish Americans, I feel more connected to the history and culture that created the literature that I admire. I now realize just how diverse our community is since it’s made up of monolingual Spanish and English speakers, bilingual Latinos, and speakers of indigenous languages. Speaking Spanish does not define being a Latina for me, but it has helped me find other people who share the same language and similar life experiences.

Even though I didn’t stay very long in the “guest house” at Conferencia, the memories I made with my teammates have left a lasting impression on my academic and personal journeys. I no longer feel an awkward distance towards Spanish because I can interact with other native speakers and learn expressions specific to certain countries. With a language that has more than 400 million speakers in 31 different countries, my stay in the “guest house” helped me discover who I am as one of those Spanish speakers.

Angela Acosta is a junior English and Spanish major pursing the Translation Studies Concentration. She is a Mellon Mays fellow working on a research project translating and analyzing poems from Vicente Aleixandre’s book Sombra del paraíso (Shadow of Paradise). You will likely find her making pottery in the ceramics studio or inline skating around the quad on a nice day.

Summer 2016 Issue VII: Transitions

From the Archives: Experiencing the Bolshevik Revolution

February 26, 2016 mhopwood

Madeleine Doty, 1915-1920 "At the time I was travelling and writing for New York Tribune and Good Housekeeping." On back of photo. — Madeleine Doty, 1915-1920
“At the time I was travelling and writing for New York Tribune and Good Housekeeping.” On back of photo.

In 1917, at the age of forty, Smith alumna Madeleine Z. Doty, ’00 traveled to Russia as a correspondent for the New York Tribune and Good Housekeeping. This was not Doty’s first venture abroad. She had already been in Germany the previous year in 1916, from where she had reported for the New York Tribune about the effects of the war on Germany’s poor. Now, she would turn her keen observations onto the upheavals in Russia and provide an eye witness account for the American public at home. IMG_1825 (1)

Rushing on the train through Siberia, she heard of the rapid changes in Petrograd, as she describes in the article, “Revolutionary Justice,” she later published in Atlantic: “The working class had risen. The extreme left of the Socialists, the Bolsheviks, had gained control…overturning the Provisional Government under Kerensky, which had not succeeded in providing what the working people wanted—peace, bread, and land (130).” During her six weeks in Petrograd, Doty would go on to observe first hand this tumultuous period in Russian history, interviewing deposed ministers of the previous government, imprisoned under dire conditions; witnessing chaotic trials of the Revolutionary Tribunal, which had replaced the judges and lawyers who had been abolished overnight; and befriending Maxim Gorky, who criticized and condemned the Bolsheviks, but also tried to help.

Upon her arrival in the midst of winter, Doty suffered from sickness and poverty in unfamiliar surroundings. Holed up in a hotel as the streets filled with more and more revolutionary tension, she observed the increasingly “wild disturbances” and tried to figure out how to navigate social clashes. With a revolution underway, Doty did not have access to medical care, and when she finally did, the doctor did not have medication as the chemists were on strike. The revolution affected all aspects of daily life, including hers.

In the detailed and very personal account of her experiences , she recalls her initial difficulties and fears: “I lay and shivered, and waited for street fighting to begin. When the machine guns opened fire, what should I do? If the soldiers entered to search or loot, would they spare me? How was I to explain that I was an American, and a worker, not a capitalist?” ( 130).

The question of survival in a world that was changing daily became an urgent reality. Each day brought new risks as the world outside became more and more chaotic: “Everywhere there was movement and action, but without violence. People stopped to argue. Voices were high, and arms moved widely. It was a people intensely alive and intensely intelligent. Everyone had an opinion” (129). Relying increasingly on the housemaid for help and friendship, Doty eventually grew more at ease. In time, her sickness lifted and she began to appreciate the liveliness of her surroundings. “Often I gazed from my window, and always I saw a great surging mass of people; and the more I looked the better I liked the people. They were so alive and eager” (130). Her friendship with the maid helped her develop a sense of camaraderie with the Russian people. Each day she learned more about the tensions that were occurring all around her and became more comfortable in this new setting. “Often I was on the street until midnight, but no one molested me; I had only to smile and say ‘Amerikanski, Bolshevik. Tavarish [comarade],’ to have a hundred hands stretched out in aid. I got caught in great crowds and was unafraid” (131). It was in these moments that Doty gained a new understanding of both the Bolshevik Revolution and its supporters.

The celebration of “International Worker’s Day,” May 1st, 1917.

She began to interpret more accurately the people’s reactions. Their anger was not wild and unpredictable. They did not just lash out indiscriminately at anyone. Rather, the Bolsheviks targeted their anger at specific people, the real threat to their livelihood, in order to make their point. “One night Jack Reed was held up and robbed,” Doty relates of her fellow journalist and socialist activist in her article, “But he knew a few Russian words and explained that he was an American and a Socialist. Whereupon his possessions were promptly returned, his hand cordially shaken, and he went off rejoicing” (131). As this anecdote suggests, the Bolshevik revolution was not one of unfocused blind hatred, but rather a calculated uprising that would lead to the Communist ideal of social equality the Russian people so desired. “Life was a continual battle, as it always has been, between the people who have, and the people who have not” (130).

Aside from documenting her experiences in writing, Doty also brought back postcards of the social movements taking place in Russia at the time.

One such image shows workers at a rally holding a banner that reads “Да здравствует советъ рабочихъ и солдатскихъ депутатовъ,” or “Long live the Soviet of the Workers’ and Soldiers’ deputies,” which was the full name of the Petrograd Soviet, created in March 1917 as an alternative to the Provisional Government led by Alexander Kerensky. They fought for power up until the Bolshevik Revolution when the Provisional Government dissolved.

After having seen firsthand such turmoil and unrest, Doty made pacifism, diplomacy, governmental work, and international education her life’s enterprise. From 1925-1939, Doty held a prominent position in the peace movement as the International Secretary for the Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom (WILPF). She also worked for the League of Nations as editor of Pax International. After the collapse of the League of Nations, Doty focused on propagating pacifism through education. In hopes of creating a more peaceful world, she founded the first JYA Geneva program for the University of Delaware in 1938. In a 1960 letter to a friend, Doty explains, “In 1936-37, I visited college after college in the U.S. urging them to establish a year of international studies in Geneva. At that time, the U. S. was isolationist and most universities saw no value in such a year. But at last President Hullihen of the University of Delaware saw the point. It was not necessary to believe in the League of Nations but at least students should know about it and about international affairs.”

University of Delaware Junior Year, 1938-39. Madeleine Doty is standing in back. Doty Papers. Series III. Photographs — University of Delaware Junior Year, 1938-39. Madeleine Doty is standing in back.
Doty Papers. Series III. Photographs

The Second World War interrupted the program, one of the first in international education in Geneva, but Doty was not discouraged. After the war, during which she earned a Doctorate in International Relations at the University of Geneva, she approached Smith College. As she continues to explain in the same 1960 letter to her friend, “President Davis became deeply interested and agreed that Smith College would undertake to establish a year of International studies in Geneva.” Doty went on to organize and run a JYA program for Smith College in Geneva from 1946 until 1949, when she retired at the age of 70.

Smith College Geneva JYA Program, 1946-47 Doty Papers. Series III Photographs — Smith College Geneva JYA Program, 1946-47
Doty Papers. Series III Photographs

Thus, Doty was able to draw upon her diverse international experiences to help Smith students effectively engage in and learn from communities around the world.

Madeleine Doty on balcony of her apartment in Geneva where she lectured at the University from 1955 to 1959

Though she went through many transitions throughout her life, Doty never wavered from her ideal of promoting international peace and equality, especially through education. The many Smith students who enroll in the Smith program in Geneva every year continue to benefit from her dedication to integrating an international perspective in education.

References

Madeleine Zabriskie Doty Papers, Sophia Smith Collection, Smith College, Northampton, Mass. Finding aid and collection related correspondence, 1963-1972. Box 1, Folder 1.

Madeleine Zabriskie Doty Papers, Sophia Smith Collection, Smith College, Northampton, Mass. “Revolutionary Justice” Article, July 1918. Box 4, Folder 38.

Madeleine Zabriskie Doty Papers, Sophia Smith Collection, Smith College, Northampton, Mass. Doctoral thesis, “The Central Organization for a Durable Peace (1915-1919),” University of Geneva,1945. Box 4, Folder 47.

Class of 1900, Sophia Smith Collection, Smith College, Northampton, Mass. Doty, Madeleine Z. Letter to Betty Whitney, March 8, 1960.

Photographs

Madeleine Zabriskie Doty Papers, Sophia Smith Collection, Smith College, Northampton, Mass. Photographs of Travels through Germany and Russia, 1915-1918. Box 3, Folder 31; Folders 25, 27, 33, and 34; and Box 1, Folder 3.

Thanks to Emily Paruolo for translating the Russian and adding some historical context.

Samantha Bergman is an East Asian Studies and Anthropology double major with a passion for languages and a strong belief in the importance of developing cultural literacy. As a Global STRIDE Scholar, she studied Chinese intensively in Hefei, China. She looks forward to further developing her understanding of Asia while studying abroad in Vietnam and China next year. Ultimately, she aspires to facilitate successful cross-cultural interactions as a Foreign Service Officer.

Marisa Hopwood, ’18, is an English Language and Literature major. She enjoys studying 16th century literature, especially that of Shakespeare, and is fascinated with the way the world presents itself through literature. She is inspired by people and nature and hopes that through travel, she will gain a better understanding of the world she lives in, in order to write about it well. She plans to study abroad in London junior year and ultimately, pursue a career in the publishing industry after graduation.

Summer 2016 Issue VII: Transitions

To All That’s New…

February 25, 2016 mmarambe

It has been only five months since I began this brand new chapter of life in college, in a new home, in a new town, in a new country, continent and hemisphere. In that (relatively) short time I have discovered that human nature, unlike food, remains unchanged across continents. I have discovered that eternal sunshine and seasonal weather changes both have their own versions of bitter-sweet. And I have discovered that culture is the single most colorful global variable.

Ayubowan to you then, from a small yet breathtaking island in the Indian ocean where sunshine is everlasting and culture is rich in customs and traditions, one of which you find yourself wondering about as you stare at the intriguing phenomenon in this image. This is a moment I have been part of every April back home in Sri Lanka, and every single time it has been just as magical, just as symbolic.

marambe_2016-02-14-essay-image What you witness in this photograph is a pot of milk boiling over on a hearth (kiri ithireema)- one of several auspicious rituals celebrating the dawn of a new astrological year. Following time intensive preparation, the Sinhalese New Year (Aluth Avurudda) is typically celebrated by carrying out an array of very specific rituals at the exact time determined by astrologers, of which the kiri ithireema is the first to be carried out after the New Year dawns. The pot of milk is placed on the hearth at the auspicious time, and followed by a smoke-shrouded, patient wait which is then rewarded when the rising milk finally spills over the rim, taking the beautiful guise of a milk fountain. But it isn’t just visual. As milk flows over the rims of pots in a number of houses in the neighbourhood, a continuous thunder-like crackle resonates across the island as every household lights firecrackers (not fireworks — those are reserved for the new calendar year) to usher in a brand new astrological year. Even as a native I will never cease to be amazed by how intricately symbolic each ritual is. In this particular event, which is initiated facing an auspicious direction, the white milk is symbolic of purity, and as it spills over the rims in multiple directions, it signifies good fortune for the household members. There is no decoration, no music, and no drinks, yet the atmosphere is somehow heart-warmingly festive, and the celebrators are blissful.

I captured this moment last April, the last Sinhalese New year I would be celebrating with my family for the next four years. Reflecting now, I realize that it wasn’t merely the rituals themselves or their symbolic subtext that made these occasions so magical. As indigenous practices carried out in the households of today, they do in fact have an air of mystery, authenticity, and timelessness that generate surreal vibes. The real magic lies within the presence of an entire family, however big or small, gathered expectantly in the same room, sharing a significant moment together.

If words, or even pictures, could do this occasion justice, we wouldn’t go to the lengths of lighting firewood to experience it. As I have come to learn through Christmas and New Year’s Eve here in Northampton, the world is a cultural kaleidoscope and this photograph represents only one of its multi-dimensional facets. The richness and depth in this occasion alone, however, are unmistakable, a fact that conjures a vague, large-scale image of the intricate world we live in, and a revelation of the levels of our individual exposures to it.

Mandira Marambe is a Sri Lankan student who is currently a first year at Smith. While her academic interests lie primarily in the STEM fields, she enjoys reading and writing during her free time. She hopes to expand her perspective as well as her horizons during her four years in college.