The very first thing I did when I came to New York City four years ago to become a professional actor was change my name. I didn’t want people to peg me as a certain ethnicity because I was afraid of being seen as only a “terrorist” actor. And having been spoiled with the opportunity to play some very choice roles in Florida, I couldn’t see myself taking a step back. Within the first 6 months I learned two things:

1. Colorblind casting is a joke.
2. I was a privileged actor in Florida which somehow was more accepting of actors of color playing white roles.

I also learned that there was such a thing as an Arab-American/Middle Eastern Acting community. Something VERY foreign to me as I had been (self)identifying with Caucasian communities for the first 16 years I lived in the U.S. To be able to rediscover my ethnic identity and to be able to share it with people of the same ilk – to be able to talk in the same language others found abrasive and eat the same foods others found”gross” – was so liberating and joyous.

But the more I became entrenched in the community and in the acting business I realized just how difficult it is to have a career and/or to “make it” as an ethnic actor (anything other than black of Latino – not that they don’t have their own share of casting problems, but as a whole they have jumped over the hurdle my community faces).

In the first two years I was met with the confused stares of casting directors when I would show up to musical and play auditions that were looking for “any race.” Invariably, I was always asked where I was from (which I learned to ignore and say “Florida” which was true). On one occasion, I was told, “I’m not sure what we would do with you.” And on another I was less than overjoyed to overhear, “God, it’s like Slumdog Millionaire out there.”

You know, it’s not my problem if you don’t know “what to do” with me just because I am an actor of color. How about judging me based on my talent and ability to take direction?

I know many of the casting directors in NYC. Some of them I am really friendly with. Some of them I would sooner set on fire. But regardless of how I feel about them, I often wonder what they think about the situation. I have known a small handful who have consistently called me in for roles that were CLEARLY described as Caucasian – and on some occasions I have booked those roles and have been so thankful for the opportunity and for the open-mindedness of the casting director to take a chance. But for the rest, it’s just so much easier to cast white and create a whiteout in the roster.

And the answer is simple really. It’s more than a lack of imagination – it’s the assumption that audiences feel more comfortable and can identify and connect better with Caucasian actors because the majority of entertainment consumers are white living in a majority white country. So who do we blame? Audiences or the folks behind the creative tables?

There are so few meaningful characters of color that aren’t reduced down to the basest stereotype, and I get that that stems from a social agenda and undercurrent of anti-Arab (or what have you) sentiment. And I know this is just the first step in progressing and creating more acceptance of our images so that we CAN play the more progressive roles. After all, it wasn’t that long ago that black actors only played slaves and housemaids (and God forbid if one of THOSE movies gets made nowadays). Latinos no longer just play gang members and drug runners (though there are more than enough of those roles). And, yes, I have even seem some Middle Eastern roles that had some meat and depth to them.

But invariably those roles are all deeply connected to their ethnicity. As if you couldn’t play a Middle Eastern without the character dealing with some issue of that ethnicity. Why not an Iranian architect who is just that an nothing more? An architect who happens to be Iranian and not running from the Shah or connected to Ahmadinejad.

And, by the way, the same holds true for theatre which is supposed to be the last bastion of openness and exploration and frontier-breaking. I swear, if I have to see another play that is there to create or assuage white guilt for some war or refugee I will barf on myself. We have so many more stories than that and are capable of playing more than those roles. My peers are some of the most amazing actors, but they rarely seem to be allowed to show that.

Even as a playwright, I have been told that I would be more easily produced and accepted if I changed roles to Caucasian or wrote mostly for Caucasian characters. The gall that audiences are only accepting of or receptive to those kinds of plays is gross. I get giving in to the sensationalism of a national emotion. Americans were angry post-9/11 so all the Middle Eastern characters were schemers and terrorists and people watched for a feeling of revenge they could not exert in real life. It’s morbid and unfair but psychologically logical. We’re not in those days. We shouldn’t be. And if we keep pushing those kinds of roles then the national consciousness is never going to change.

Why should we be afraid to write plays and movies about the Palestinian-Israeli conflict that is pro-Palestinian?

Why can’t we write about the Armenian Genocide?

Why can’t we write about a family living in Ireland who just happen to be Indian?

Recently, a new group popped up on Facebook that some friends of mine are involved in: AAPAC (Asian American Performers Action Committee). The frustration Asian American actors feel not being represented fairly on the stage is completely legitimate. How did we go from 2 decades worth of Asian-American characters in movies, TV, plays and musicals, to almost none? Is it because there is no longer the backdrop of war?  The “Japs” and the “Chinks” and the “Commies” are no longer the enemy so why bother putting them on the screen or on the stage to suffer for the enjoyment of the injured national identity, right?

The change has to happen as soon as the word hits the page. It has to happen with a writer doesn’t back down to a producer. It has to happen when a producer realizes that audiences are not idiots and they should take the risk and believe in people wanting good stories not good guys. It has to happen with casting directors who fight to make people think of different options and directors who can see something beyond the ethnic association of skin color. And it has to happen every time we enter a room and bring the confidence of our talent with ego-stance that it doesn’t matter what ethnicity I am, I’m damned good and you should cast me.

And for those who think this is crap, take a moment to carefully read through the statistics below. They are accurate, shocking, sad, but unsurprising.

If any of this stuff interests you, you should check out the following:

• Aladdin, Al-Qaeda, and Arabs in U.S. film and TV
• Colorblind Casting or Color-Consciousness?
• And this response to “Don’t Tell Anyone Your Real Name, or You’ll Never Work Again”

Ethnic breakdown of casting in New York City Theatre*
( 2006-07 to 2010-11 Seasons)

Caucasian: 80%
African American: 13%
Hispanic American: 3.6%
Asian American: 2.3%
Middle Eastern/ Arab American: 0.7%
Native American: 0.1%

Non-Traditional Casting by Ethnicity

46% of the roles played by actors of color were roles that did not specify race (non-traditionally cast).  Tthis number, however, was still only 9% of total roles available.  African Americans were far more likely than any other minority group to be cast in a role which did not specify race.  Breakdown by ethnicity as a proportion of all roles which were non-traditionally cast:

African American: 62.8%
Hispanic American: 20.7%
Asian American: 15%
Middle Eastern/ Arab American: 0.6%
Native American: 0.07%

Broadway

When looking at Broadway as a separate industry, the representation of Asian Americans dropped significantly to 1.5 %:

Caucasian: 82%
African American: 12%
Hispanic American: 4 %
Asian American: 1.5%
Middle Eastern/Arab American: 0.25%
Native American: 0.17%

Ethnic breakdown of Casting at the Largest Non-Profit New York  Theatre Companies
2006-07 to 2010-11 seasons:

ATLANTIC THEATRE CO
Caucasian: 95%
African American: 3.5%
Hispanic American: 1%
Asian American: 0.5%

ROUNDABOUT THEATER COMPANY:
Caucasian: 90%
African American: 8%
Hispanic American: 1 %
Asian American: 1 %

PLAYWRIGHTS HORIZONS:
Caucasian: 86%
African American: 12.4%
Hispanic American: 1.1%
Asian American: 0.6%

THEATRE FOR A NEW AUDIENCE:
Caucasian: 83%
African American: 14%
Hispanic American: 2 %
Asian American : 1 %

VINEYARD THEATRE COMPANY:
Caucasian: 74%
African American: 21%
Hispanic American: 2.5%
Asian American: 2.5%

LINCOLN CENTER THEATRE:
Caucasian: 76%
African American: 17.5%
Hispanic American: 4 %
Asian American: 2.5%

MCC THEATER:
Caucasian: 84.5%
African American: 5.8%
Hispanic American: 3.8%
Asian American: 3.8%
Arab American: 1.9 %

NEW YORK THEATRE WORKSHOP:
Caucasian: 73%
African American 12 %
Hispanic: 3%
Asian American: 4%
Arab American: 8%

CLASSIC STAGE COMPANY
Caucasian:  85.5 %
African American: 6.5%
Hispanic American: 3%
Asian American: 4%
Arab American: 1.0%

PUBLIC THEATRE:
Caucasian: 64%
African American: 21%
Hispanic American: 5.6%
Asian American: 6.5%
Arab American: 3 %

SECOND STAGE THEATER:
Caucasian: 80%
African American: 8.7%
Hispanic American: 4 %
Asian American: 6.4%
Arab American: 1 %

SIGNATURE THEATRE:
Caucasian: 47.5%
African American: 44.9%
Hispanic American: 2.4%
Asian American: 5.5%

THE NEW GROUP
Caucasian: 88%
African American: 2%
Hispanic American: 2%
Asian American: 7%
Arab American: 1%

MANHATTAN THEATRE CLUB
Caucasian: 86.5%
African American: 11 %
Hispanic American: 1.0 %
Asian American: 1.0%
Arab American: 0.5%

*includes new shows that opened on Broadway during this period (with the exception of “Soul of Shaolin”, a special event imported directly from China), subsequent replacement casts, and the seasons of the fourteen largest non-profit theatre companies. Does not include shows which opened on Broadway prior to this period but may still be running or Commercial Off Broadway shows.  Special Note: Ethnic classification was not self-identified though significant effort was made to research interviews and bios which might indicate ethnic self-identification. Asian American actors include those of East Asian, South Asian (India and Pakistan) and South East Asian origin. 

I know I’ve only been in the playwriting game for a hot minute, but having been a writer for a very long time there are some issues that span across most all the writing disciplines. What started this particular rhetorical rant is a blog post by playwright Mat Smart. Admittedly, I have never read any of his play. In fact, I didn’t even know who he was until someone pointed out the blog post. I’ve never heard his name before. But I read his post and reacted with a reaction that was part guffaw and part nausea.

Mat just falls into the broad category of white writers who have all the force of the patriarchy behind them. It’s easy for them to bitch and moan about the deterioration of their field by weaker or less inspired/talented writers, but they do so from a comfortable and uninformed height. His post just smacks of condescension and I wonder if he has even read ANY work from emerging playwrights. I am a little offended, as a writer, an actor, and an audience member, that he has a problem with plays that are not typical narratives. Essentially, he’s just hoping for whitewashed theatre that is antiquated and doesn’t raise the bar or stakes. And I wish I could say he was in the minority here, but the typical fare on the American stage (both on and off Broadway) just supports what he is pining for.

But that is what the economics of theatre supports – there is no support for emerging playwrights. There is no effort to revitalize the form and to keep it going by infusing new ideas and movements. For God’s sake, you have organizations giving $30-$60k to playwrights like John Guare and Tony Kushner in an effort to support playwrights and keep the American theatre going. Um…they don’t need the money. Playwrights of their caliber don’t need the support to keep them going. Their coffers are more than comfortably full and they will continue getting produced long after they are dead thereby keeping their estates stocked for all time. WHERE is the support for emerging playwrights? Most of the fellowships, competitions, and what not that I have seen always end up going to playwrights who don’t really need the help because they have already rounded the emerging corner. I am sure the pool is difficult to wade through because every day someone else thinks they are are a playwright and want to write, and how do you ferret out the promising ones from the hacks. And really, being a hack doesn’t mean you won’t get far: look at some plays being produced and books being published – talent is not a pre-requisite it would seem.

And maybe it’s all a part of a very narrow view and perspective of those who control the gateways. I’m a playwright of color who chooses to write about issues of color, occasionally couching them in a white world/perspective. But people still have no clue what to do with that – the get confused if they can’t envision a star in a production or the play doesn’t fulfill some NatGeo need that will create or assuage white guilt. There is very little forward momentum to expand and truly reflect the modern world in the American theatre. True, there are some small organizations who have sprung up precisely to support artists of color, but unless they get major support and exposure what will be the point? It’s all fine and dandy to be producing work in some dive in the lower east side, but that doesn’t push the movement or the call to action. It’s all about precedence and all it takes is one damn good work to push the envelope and make people go: Oh! Yeah – totally – this makes sense and should be done more often.

Or maybe David Ives was right…

I guess it was only a matter of time before I weighed in on this issue. The whole LIFO policy (Last In First Out) is as mundane and unnecessary as tenuring in universities. I’ve taught at community colleges, universities, private universities, and even high schools and I can tell you that in all those circumstances, 90% of the time the teachers that need to get the fuck out are the old war horses still trudging along using up valuable oxygen. That may seem harsh, but if the purpose of educating is to, well, EDUCATE, and to keep up with current methodologies and pedagogy WHILE going with the modern flow of society (because don’t kid yourself, teaching is as much about knowledge you can impart as it is about how well you can connect with your students) then the majority of the teachers who were first in need to be first out.  Just that simple.

I don’t believe in seniority or tenure because it encourages laziness. Post-secondary professors feel almost invincible because they basically can’t be fired for much. I understand the reasoning behind it but I don’t think it’s necessary anymore. Believe me, many of my undergrad and grad profs, though they were fun people, should not have been teaching anymore. Except for my religious studies professor who has an ancient elfin man who, it was rumored, wrote gay novels. I believe this to be true only because he never stopped talking about the young men he met while teaching in Morocco – and only to me in our office hour meetings. But the rest were still teaching from yellowed notes and outdated research. They have just fallen into this repetitive cycle. They refused to keep up with the times. My first semester in grad school was also my first time teaching a college class and my mentor raked me over the coals for breaking the class into small groups at one point in the session because it encouraged “social butterflyism and no real work being done), when in fact, if done properly, leads to great dialogue and knowledge sharing. Another told me to stop being funny because it wasn’t my job to entertain them. What is teaching if not performance?

I think seniority works ONLY if you have a pool of teachers all operating at the same level with near close “marks” (however you define that). Length of time should not dictate your employment stability. I get annoyed that I am pushed down the class allotment ladder every semester when I know I am a better professor than many of my peers who have NO idea how to connect and educated (at least in the current environ I teach in). All this being said, I do understand that for many educators, especially pre-post-secondary, have their hands tied with bullshit state-run claptraps such as the standardized test which is used to not only given teacher bonuses but to determine funding for schools. Those tests are pathetic – I know because I had to “teach-to-test” when I had my brief high school stint. I was told to abandon the curriculum and focus on preparing them to pass the test. So it became a process of force feeding information which became useless after the test. And by the end of the semester they had learned nothing. Ironically, I agree with these kinds of tests as the exist in the U.K. because the process and parameters are different.

If students and parents love a teacher and think they are strong educators then why resort to a policy that gets rid of them in favor of some embittered one who occasionally pops in a video to quell the angry teenage masses? How can we say we value education so much in this country when we clearly have a history of abusing it, i.e., No Child Left Behind? And how can we claim to have the best practices and processes when other “lesser” countries are clearly beating us to a pulp when it comes to academic standards and performance? Is NO ONE paying attention here?

By the way, this woman is a waste of space. And does anyone else think she looks like the bastard love child of Voldemort and Dolores Umbridge. I mean seriously. Someone fire this woman.

I am feeling inspired by an episode of MTV’s True Life that is playing in the background as I grade. It profiles a family in Louisiana – mostly the brood and their crazy antics. And, strange though this may be, I want to be a part of that family. To be a part of a Louisiana, or some other small Southern town, community.

I know.  I know….

But it’s true. I have always had a fascination with small Southern towns, New England towns, and UK shires (no, not the Tolkien kind…though those would be OK as well). I think it’s a quality of quaintness, simplicity, and a just-living-life-ethos that I love about them. I am well aware I would stick out like Kunta Kinte at a 1950s Klan rally. I am also well aware that I probably would not be taken to kindly as just one of the kinfolk. But I don’t care. I think we have been swallowed up by the light-speed pace of modernity that is heavily influenced by capitalism, commodities, and affluence. I think back to the “simple” life and wonder why it is so derided. In said show, a girlfriend pesters her beau to get a better job and how wonderful it would be if he got a job at Ace Hardware – and at first I guffawed.  Then I caught myself and realized: God, how amazing is that? That the apex of employment concern is a chain hardware store. It’s an honest living. It’s something to do to help you just live life free of any other societal pressures.

It’s the same thing for all three of them: These small communities where people know one another (and their business, I know), love their environment, their communities, and are concerned with paying bills, working, and enjoying life (and their neighbor’s business). And what is wrong with that? We often poke fun at these communities, considering them backwards and less fortunate, and I guess by modern societal standards that is true. But it’s also utter bullshit to think they are not living a good life or are living horrible lives compared to those of city folk with their iPhones and iPads.

I often think of just running off and finding a home in one of these communities and just worrying about living life and not trying to achieve the 101 goals and expectations to achieve a lifestyle reinforced in the media. Maybe I am deluding myself that it would be “easier” – each clearly has their own set of complications and roadblocks. But a simpler life is a thing of beauty.

JJ Greive, Home Inspections of Puget Sound 206-295-4330

My roommate, still job hunting two months into our move, was finally blessed with an interview and spent most of the day preening and polishing.  However, after two hours of ablutions he realized that he was incorrect about the interview time.  It was now 2:30, his appointment was at 4.  We live on 147^th and the interview was on Wall Street.  He had 30 minutes to get down and catch the train, no doubt on another erratic train schedule (they never run on time when you have to get somewhere quickly).  Running around in his boxers and white undershirt, water flinging of his still-wet head as he rounded the corners, he screamed for me to help him iron his clothes which sat in a wrinkled heap on his bedroom floor.

When a hirsute gay black man with all the flair of a gaggle of drag queens and suburbanite housewives shrieks a demand, you do the bidding.

The problem is that we only have one ironing board and his suggestion to use the floor bought out a barrage of horrified WASP-y remarks from me about ruining the cheap varnish which had already begun to blister and crack throughout the apartment.  I opted to use the other end of the ironing board (we did, for some reason, have two irons).  There we were:  a Negro and an Armenian sharing ironing duties, divided only by a lone can of spray starch.  I felt the urge to sing a spiritual or don a sweaty handkerchief.

“God.  Can you please turn on a light in here?  I feel like we are in some Asian sweatshop being made to suffer for our newfound independence.”

And that was our undoing.  As soon as the light switch flipped to on, everything died.  It was now 2:45 and the post-shower dew was being replaced by nervous beads of sweat on his forehead.

“Shit!  Fuck!  Great!”  New York eloquence at its finest.

Not a problem, I thought, flip the appropriate circuit breaker and we are back in business.  But we were in for a slight surprise as we opened the circuit box inappropriately located at the top of a wall opposite the front door just out of arm’s reach.  What we faced were not the traditional black switches that could be pushed up and down or left and right thereby resetting the flow of power to our dead outlets.  There, in two columns of four, were colored circles with tiny little windows in the middle of each.  We looked at each other confused.  What fresh New York hell was this?

Turns out, our pre-war apartment was still saddled with the pre-war fuse box which used screw-in fuses.  They screw in like light bulbs and have metal threads on the bottom. When a fuse blows an internal metal strip breaks; this break can be seen through the wee peeping tom window.  But, we knew none of this at the time.

So these different colored knobs with various amp markings meant nothing to us.  And what the hell did “Slow-Blow” mean?  I just kept picturing embarrassed men post 5-second lovemaking.  We gathered that one of the fuses had blown, but not knowing how to check for it lead to a game of mix-and-match.  We were not even sure how many fuses had blown.  We had lost power in both bedrooms, in the bathroom, and to the kitchen fridge.  What kind of Frankenstein-ish circuit were these four things connected to?

We proceeded to unscrew each fuse, praying there was not a predestined way to do so without being electrocuted.  The last one proved to be difficult as it would not budge.  Neither of us wanted to turn too violently lest the fuse crack and spew forth a barrage of sparks.  I ushered my roommate to move the iron board to the living room to finish up while I manned the box, completely unsure of what to do next.

I braved a set of pliers and managed to wrest the little red bugger free only to realize that I had also managed to pull out the screw base.  I whispered a novena, or at least my interpretation of one, and took the base off.  I was about an inch away from the box before I realized that screwing the metal base back into a live circuit was probably not in my best interest.  I was working against time and necessity.

2:52 p.m.

I went for it, plying it back into place and playing switcheroo with the remaining red, blue and white fuses.  Nothing worked.  Nothing was flipping on.  A call to the super was useless as he was an hour away doing everything except working on problems in the building, like, oh, say, my possessed radiator.  At one point I screwed in a fuse so tight I heard a sharp crack and yanked my hand away, jumping back a little with my eyes wrenched shut.  I slowly opened my eyes and ungritted my teeth.  I walked back to the wall and funereally closed the door on the box.

3:02 p.m.

My roommate is out the door, sans resume, which is sitting in the dead computer, and I pace the house.  When the super finally does arrive, half an hour later than expected, I am put to shame as he switches out the fuse in one guess and brings life back to our hideous wired progenies under 10 seconds.  He shows me the blue fuse with the broken metal strip and utters something in a form of broken English I have yet to decipher.  But I can tell from the “You bothered me for this shit?” tone in his voice that I am going to be yet another dinner table anecdote of the clueless neophyte in 5A.  I smile.  Usher him out, reminding him about the radiator, and sheepishly walk back to my room where I type.  I type in shame.

40 states are coping with budget shortfalls totaling $140 billion, which will threaten America’s 14,000 school districts for the next five years, one analyst said Thursday. Courtesy of CNN.com

I feel like we keep reviving these dead horses into heaving and gasping pointless burdens.

It is no surprise that something like this would rile me up – I’m an educator. It’s my bread and butter. I’ve taught college/university classes since I was a grad school in 2002. I love it and I have my days when I abhor it. There are moments I want to set the self-entitled lazy students on fire. There are days they inspire me to never give up.

I came to highly value education once I got to college. The school I went to back in Kuwait and the high school I attended in Florida were damned good schools (though the latter has horribly slipped into a quagmire of student-centeredness). I was just a shitty student – truly. I cared more about hanging out with my friends and running around the theatre like a fool – surprisingly I only skipped school ONCE in my entire high school career.

But my high school teachers were awesome educators who cared and had their shit together. So did my college profs. Until I told all of them I wanted to be a teacher – they laughed or told me to pick another career quickly. I thought they were just joshing me.

Silly me…

I discovered VERY quickly that being an educator is more than just being able to relate information to brick walls in fluorescent hovels. Aside from the general lackadaisical you-owe-me attitudes of students, who see education as a product thanks to the continued corporatization of the university system and the ever present commodity fetishism of a tech-zombie consumer culture, one has to travel the dangerous gauntlet of education politics which includes everything from appeasing parents and administration to making sure your students pass these (ridiculous) state-designed competency tests (which most school board members would flunk). This doesn’t happen as much in college but manifests itself in worse ways. I split my time between live courses and online education – the latter is a soul sucker but a means of making money. Because you are disembodied voice the students tend to think you’re nothing more than a glorified retail clerk (one student took issue with my correcting they way he addressed me: he chose to use my first name, I preferred my title and last time – he refused to “cater to [my] ego”). In both realms I have to deal with this nasty and morally disgusting practice where if a student complains enough then they get their way because tuition dollars are at risk. And with funding continually being cut it won’t be long before the inmates are fully running the asylum. Don’t believe me? Take a gander”

1) I have had several students who plagiarized essays, in some case the ENTIRE thing, and even with proof in my hand I was asked to change the grade, allow a revision, or had their final course grades changed behind my back.

2) One particular trog of a department head agreed with a student who berated me for not simply giving him the answers to all his questions even though all the information he needed was in the syllabus. As he said, “I don’t pay you to tell me to where to find the info, I pay you to just tell me everything I need.” Note: You don’t pay me you bottomfeeder.

3) “Do your best to help students through all their difficult situations.” Maybe that works in high school (although even when I taught high school for a VERY short stint, I treated those kids like adults accountable for everything. If you pander to them, they smell the blood and run with it.) but in a college that should have NO place. I am not your therapist or your parent – I can empathize and sympathize but at the end of the day you need to do the work and earn your degree.

I could go on and on – but those pro-student attitudes were filtered up from high schools where parents started running the show. Under-performing students just get processed through because we don’t want to “discourage” people. Look, if you’re a lazy bastard with zero brain capability then you don’t need to be in school. The only thing you need to learn is that when the bell goes “Ding!” you shake out and season the fries – harsh, but true. We need to get rid of this babying attitude towards education. It’s a privilege that should be earned and not shoved down throats.

But what is filtering down from colleges thanks to all these budget cuts is the corporatization of high schools (Kathy Black is the first sign of this apocalypse – mark my words). In Brooklyn, a technical high school is being shut down due to poor performances and transformed into a 6-year A.A. degree terminating technical school run by IBM. All the students and teachers get the boot. Now while a part of me agrees with this, because frankly your first two years of college are a rehash of four years of high school, a part of me sees this as somewhat dangerous. Or maybe I am being a luddite and need to step into the light of modern education as being something more transformative and useful. I fear that may result in the complete death of the liberal arts and arts programs, which have become increasingly seen as “not useful.” There are things to be learned backstage in the roiling world of pubescent theatres that one cannot learn ANYWHERE else.  Believe me…

But aside from pedagogical concerns and preferred methodologies WHY is there no money for schools? HOW is it possible that we keep raising taxes, keep beautifying pointless public structures (i.e., MTA train stations – I need something pretty to look at and be in while I am waiting for a train?), and keep wasting money on way-too-high salaries of idiots in positions of power? I will freely admit that I don’t get all the ins and outs of education economics, but it seems to me, that if we can freely partition money to making prisoners have better lives with their TV, education programs, therapists, life coaching and job interview training then why not move that money to students? Or better yet, tell your children to commit crimes because they’ll be able to get a proper education from the slammer. (And WHY are we concerned about the conditions of living of prisoners?)

I will freely admit and agree that the education system in the U.S. sucks – and I am a product of one of the worst ones (Florida). Everyone is trapped in this teaching-to-test mentality with teacher-from-the-box classes. We complain that other “backwards” countries keep surpassing us – well – DUH! They VALUE education – not to say they don’t have their fair share of problems. But the expectations are high and there is personal accountability.

And at the end of day, despite all my frustrations, I know that I look forward to getting into a classroom, making my students laugh and enjoy learning, and having them leave my class as better people and students than when they came in. At the end of the day, as underpaid as I am, I like doing what I do. I just wish I was allowed to do it without the ridiculous restrictions and expectations that have nothing to do with education.

Natives of this concrete-washed paradise will often warn newcomers about the crime, the subway schedules, and the pervading smell of summer urine.  But the one thing that gets conveniently left out is a wintry harbinger of aural pollution.  The radiator.  I had the unfortunate luck of moving to the city in the dead of winter.  I rationalized that it would be safer because what criminal would want to rob a moving truck while a zero degree wind chill careened down the avenue.  So my torrid affair with the radiator began on my very first night in the city.

Growing up, I was spoiled by central heat and air.  The joys of moving a little lever left or right to adjust the temperature was now replaced by a metal container that mocked me with drips and hisses.  My experience with a radiator was limited to a standing pipe that ran the length of a wall at a friend’s apartment – she had kindly offered me her extra bed while I hunted for a place of my own. Until that point the only thing I knew about radiators was stored in the back of my head as the scene in Beaches where Bette Midler and Barbara Hershey are bundled up singing Christmas carols as they wait for the heat to be turned on in response to the gentle prodding of Midler slamming a frying pan against the radiator.

Radiators are part of the inescapable charm of NY living.  Unless you are willing, let alone able, to spend six to seven figures, chances are great that the little lever will be M.I.A.    So it is no surprise that I came to share a living space with two floor radiators and three standing pipes – the former split among the two bedrooms and the latter placed in the living room, the bathroom, and the kitchen.

The standing pipes proved to be no annoyance at all.  They did not pop and hiss, but they did present other hurdles.  The living room pipe was a decorating road block as nothing could be placed directly against it for obvious flammable reasons.  But that also eliminated all seating possibilities unless you wanted to suffer burns from the accidental straying of an arm or leg draped over the couch.

The bathroom pipe jutted up against the outside back of the bathtub, and as I quickly learned the first night, a vinyl shower curtain does not make a good partner.  This meant making sure there was at least a half foot of space between the pipe and the curtain at all times.  It did, however, keep the towels nice and warm.

The kitchen pipe was positively useless as it never worked.  This was a minor annoyance until the one night it did kick in while I was preparing dinner using three burners.  Even in the dead of winter, with the windows wide open, I felt like the roasting chicken in the oven and I had much in common.  I have found that I do not mind that pipe being dead.

The radiators, however, were the albatrosses.  My complete ignorance shined through during the first week when I could not figure out how to operate it.  The single valve seemed easy enough – right to close, left to open.  But right to close only led to a condition known as “water hammer” wherein the radiator becomes possessed and violently shakes in harmony with a noise akin to a sledgehammer meeting the pipes in a passionate kiss.  I was afraid for my life envisioning the pipes bursting through the wooden floor or the radiator exploding, spraying shrapnel in every direction, as I slept.  Turning left sometimes produced the same results as all the held back pressure was released in one cacophonous rush.  I would have to patiently wait until the noise subsided only to be introduced to the rattling of the valve which needed to be jiggled to soothe it.

By the second night I took to wearing ear plugs to drown out the noise as it would sometimes begin its John Cage-esque symphony in the middle of the night.  But the noise was not the only problem.  The heat generated by radiators is immense.  I guess I should have taken it as a bad sign that the floorboards underneath and around the radiator were considerably darker than the rest of the floor.  The scorch marks should have warned me not to get near the behemoth, but every once in a while I would foolishly attempt to turn right, knowing full well it would not work, only to be met with a burned hand (because the valve was also cast iron it was not spared from the heating process).

There was no way to avoid the heat, so I slept with my bedroom window wide open.  I didn’t care that the fire escape was just outside leaving me prone to being attacked and raped by an intruder.  At least I would stay cool.  In fact, most of the windows in the apartment remained open throughout the day allowing cross-ventilation to normalize the stifling temperature.  This does present a slight problem when rain or snow partner with wind.  One morning I woke up to find my curtains had been sucked out of the window and soaked halfway up.  The radiator dried them to a starched crispness in 10 minutes.

It took a month before a friendly neighbor, in mocking shock, told me that radiators, no matter the type, should shut off when you turn right.  I consider myself rather well-educated and refused to be bested by a century-and-a-half’s old invention.  Research showed me that there are two basic kinds of old-school NY radiators:  hot water and steam.  Hot-water radiators are made of cast-iron with two pipes that come out of the floor into the base.  One allows hot water which rises to the top via a pressure pump.  As it cools on the way down it is forced through the second pipe.  Steam radiators use, not surprisingly, steam which requires no mechanism to push it along as it operates under its own volatile pressure.  It is this second variety that most often leads to the hissing release of pressure via a blowhole on one end as well as the orchestra bangs as the steam looks for release like a horny pre-pubescent in the back of his parent’s car.

We were blessed with the second variety.

It was not until a raging leak from my roommate’s radiator solidly proved my neighbor’s tip.  His radiator received a new valve with a rubber dial and copper pipe joint.  He was rescued from hissing, water torture, and steamy dehydration.  I was jealous.  I concocted a flimsy lie that would easily pass by our super who had marginal control over the English language.  I claimed that the clanking noise bothered our downstairs neighbor and that I had been burned repeatedly by the valve.  Help did not arrive until four days after the increasingly frantic calls when the super came to my rescue.  But his laziness, the birthright of any New York super, reigned supreme.  I was not gifted with a copper joint and a heat-proof valve.  I was left with only a rubber valve which did nothing to cease the ebb and flow of steam into the pipes.  In fact, the heat managed to weaken and make it so pliable that “turn right to close” became “turn right and can’t stop.” It just spun around the screw in its weakened condition.  I could swear the radiator was laughing at me.

Despite its “charm,” it is also an eyesore regardless of the rather pitiful silver painted disguise the radiator wears.  It seems pointless to try and gussy up something so aesthetically flat with something as absurd as silver spray paint (although there is a company that designs contemporary and designer radiators).  The slip cover disintegrates after a month of direct heat as the paint begins to chip off.  Like the trunk of a freshly cut tree you can guess the age by the many layers of paint that are revealed.

There is an odd pride that swells in your chest when you realize that the radiator you have been saddled with is the same one installed when the building was a newborn.  You feel like you own a piece of history that you can show off to your friends and relatives.  Forget about Kandinsky and Pollock, search for an original SanGalli and put an art lamp above it.  Regale your peers with stories of old New York replete with images of tenement immigrants huddling around the very same radiator that is in your bedroom.

I would trade all of that to get one good night’s sleep without ear plugs or the threat of death from an open window.  I would call the super back, but I am sure I would only get a new screw this time.  Besides, I feel belittled when I register my out-of-town neophyte complaints and he just looks at me like I am insane.  It is the same look he gave me when I called him the second day after I moved in to let him know the heating elements were missing from the oven.  Those in the know are guffawing, those unaware should know that stoves are gas-operated in New York; this includes the oven which requires no coils.

How the hell was I supposed to know?  I can imagine being the gringo anecdote of the evening shared over a plate of puerco asado y arroz amarillo.

So I am consigned to the unhappy lot of sleepless winter nights as I bed with my ear plugs, the comforter over my head, and a spare pillow pinioned on top.  My roommate found me like that one morning and thought I was dead when I would not respond to his “Wake up!”  That is the consequence you pay when you move to a pre-war building in a city like New York.

There is a poetic charm about something as trivially important as a radiator.  After a while you start to learn its habits and predict its moods like a long-time lover.  You recognize the difference between danger and warmth.  Appreciate it when you are so cold your testicles have become ovaries, and chuckle at every “coo” and “goo” it spits out when you’re near.  In a psychologically unsound way, it becomes a member of the family.  The relative that just won’t leave.

Even as I sit here writing this, I am humming along to the diatonic scales played out by the silver water hammer with a syncopated hissing counterpoint.  I may not be able to tune it out, but I will sing a duet and wait for spring to be fully sprung.

I like sports.

Mostly the European kind. I was a sports kid: basketball, soccer, tennis, basketball, badminton.

And the Olympics, of course. A sports glutton’s wet dream.

American sports, I never understood. But that makes sense as I did not grow up in America. Never quite understood the obsession with American football and baseball (although I AM a massive MMA fan). And I seriously doubt any other country has the same kind of rabid and morbid obsession with sports. It brings out that biting sense of competition where we gain superiority by lording it over AstroTurf weaklings. We become violently overprotective about being the best in any kind of sport that exists in the world even if it is something as mundane as curling (though I will freely admit that I can never tear my eyes from the TV when this event is on).

HOWEVER…what I find interesting is a rampant ethnocentrism that still exists in American sports based on those good ol’ racist chestnuts  (and newsflash: we’re actually a more racist society today than any other time). As little as 10 years ago American sports were dominated by mostly white and black faces. Slowly but surely and inevitably we began to see more Latin faces. And then Asian faces crept in. This year I am astounded and ecstatic to see Arab and Persian faces. I live for those moments because they are an incredible signifier that the American identity truly is changing. BUT some, no, many people don’t like that. Especially not in their sports. The reality is, most Americans watch the Olympics and automatically put the athletes into enemy camps. The Russians tend to have this mutant stamina and endurance. We’re forever trying to outwit those crafty Chinese (or, really, any Asian since they all get lumped together). And will we EVER run faster than those damned Ethiopians and Somalians? So when we see those genetically enemy camp faces we get a wee riled. I’ve overheard and read conversations where people vehemently and honestly express their dissatisfaction at seeing non-American faces.  Well what might that be you ask? Who knows…I am gonna go with the traditional blond hair and blue eyes with the occasional brunette creeping in.  Essentially, a white-washed line-up in sports where there has been little ethnic diversity (figure skating, swimming, diving, and so on).

Now here’s the kicker: All these “foreigners” invading the sports club are still…wait for it…AMERICANS. Born and bred. So I’m not getting it. We still get this Melting Pot nonsense crammed down our throats (which is utter nonsense as we are FAR from that. I suggest a nice mixed salad – dressing on the side), but the truth is there are still divisions based on skin color and ethnic features. We’re a country built on immigrants yet somehow we’ve come to adopt and espouse to this generic appearance which is rather European. We’re the country that everyone comes to with their crap lives because we tell everyone that we are accepting of all. So what’s the big deal with changing it up in sports? Yeah, there are some anthropological genetic differences that make one race better suited to a sport than another (that may smack of racism but it doesn’t – it’s scientifically proven with African-American flat feet, Asian lean, short bodies, and so on).

Is it really that weird to expect that more and more sports are going to resemble a Pantone color wheel as we “progress” through the decades? I mean, come on! A Persian male figure skater and a Saudi Arabian female skater.  That’s amazing! It should be! At the end of the day are we instilling pride in a national sports team or in a racially homogeneous sports team? Much like everything else that is not electronic based, it will take time for us to update our brain softwares to make sense of these shifting and changing racial algorithms, but we’re only delaying the inevitable if we resist something so obvious and basic. I’m not particularly naive in thinking that racism will NEVER exist – that is one box not even Pandora could close if she wanted to. But at the end of the day, it’s a bunch of people in polyster, lycra or neoprene buying vats of Icy-Hot and kicking around balls, beating them with sticks, or contorting their bodies in ways they should never be.

I know that journalistic standards are based on the old credo “If it bleeds, it leads.” It’s something I learned when I was in college as a journalism minor, and something that was pounded into my head for the two short years I worked as a journalist. I get it, I do. I don’t like it, but I get it. I also get that in this media-overload age you need to find a way to gain readership, especially online where your profits are driven my advertising and click-through. I get it, I do. But I don’t like it. The fact that amateur bloggers and armchair critics can spread breaking news via Facebook and Twitter sooner than major news outlets with thousands upon thousands of more dollars in resources is interesting, intriguing and humorous. If an event or topic is no longer “sexy” or “bleeding” then there is no reason to keep it relegated to anything other than a sidebar. We are in a SoundByte era ball-gagged with commodity fetishism. So I guess it is not altogether surprising that the current front page of CNN.com is this:

At least Egypt is the first item in the sidebar. AND it’s bolded. Now I would expect better of CNN. Even MSNBC has the same kind of frontpage, but they have a picture of Egypt in the sidebar. Not surprisingly this is not the case across the world as evidence by one of the better, if not the best and most unbiased news source, BBCNews.com:

I hear your argument: But the Grammys are a big deal in America. It is not a British or other foreign soil event. Well, now, I don’t see why that should matter. Why can’t our news outlets be more like foreign presses? Is it come kind of assumed pandering for American readers? Do they not think we can handle real news-all news-unopinionated news all the time? Or is this truly what we like and what we want all the time? Look, news is news and it IS subjective as to what is important from one person to the next. But global changing events, those that have the power to re-shape the world, a country, a people should always be more important than anything else. Shouldn’t it? Am I too naive to think that? But WAIT – there is another twist. See this?

FOX NEWS, which you would NEVER think as siding with anything that is not American through-and-through actually still cares about Egypt and a people they usually get wrong and demonize. I was floored. FLOORED. I guess American news has always been this strange hybrid of sensationalism and facts bordering on tabloids whereas in other places, such as the UK, there is one channel for tabloid-esque news and one for straight up news. At least we have people around the world who turn their cameras around and capture events, people, and voices in real-time as they happen and as they are meant to be without editing and airbrushing. For all the crap that Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube gets sometimes (some of which I agree with) they are putting news back into the realm of being just that: The News.

I can think of no better catalyst to return me to blogging after more than a year of being gone.

And so this is how the world awakes – or at the very least should. I will freely admit that I did not follow the people’s revolution in Egypt with the same hearty and rapt attention as others. After a while, you get used to hearing about these revolutions starting and whimpering out in no time once the government reinforces its iron will on the people. But some time after the third day I started to realize there was going to be no silencing of the masses. Problems in Egypt are frankly as old as oft-cliched time, but the modern socio-political issues have always been a curious thing. These are people who have been oppressed for nigh on 50 years (some would argue less, others more) due to one dictator followed by another. The shouts for freedom and equality are not something born out of Tahrir – they have been around for a while. The digital age and social media revolution only helped bring the issues to the forefront of people’s minds when combined with the physical real power of people in the streets. You can only go so far asking for change in a tweet or a FB post, but when you back it up with images of people from a wide strata of age and class – aha – then it becomes a lethal force for change. I admire what the Egyptian people did – their resolve, their passion, their anger. I doubt any community in the U.S. could last as long as they did marching all day and night in the streets and gathering more and more forces (granted America is the larger land mass – still…).

What fascinated and angered me was the response on this side of the ocean to the revolution – not the positive, supportive ones, but the shock and awe kind born out of, no doubt, a realization that countries in the Middle East don’t need help to get things set in motion. The fact of the matter is that you can espouse democracy and throw it around like the hottest buzz word but if you can’t even make it work in your own country and subsequently two other Middle Eastern countries, then you pretty much have no right to be using any other country as a guinea pig. Yes, political backing and support of less-than-ideal regimes in the interest of upholding national security and gaining footholds is nothing new (lest we forget the still ongoing denial of the Armenian Genocide), but it surprises me that it is still used as an excuse by a country that is supposed to be a superpower. We are, sad say to say, nothing more than post-modern colonialist thugs trying to plant flags wherever we see fit (Why one empire can’t seem to learn from the previous one’s mistakes is beyond me – it clearly hasn’t worked for the last 4 major ones, so why would it now).

I have digressed.

So, yes, Brownies CAN be civilized. Modern societies practice this ridiculous form of ethnocentrism based on technology. I mean, clearly if your people are not walking around with iPods then you are backwater slugs. Lest we forget that we owe the Middle East much in terms of math, science, medicine, and art (though I will say I find it odd that with all the contributions made that they have not been able to match the empires in modernization and teched out living). They are not a bunch of Bedouins living out in the desert and riding camels. Nothing wrong with a simple life, I say. It don’t make you simple. So I really do think that the Egyptian Revolution is going to open that door into changing public awareness and opinion, and as that infectious spirit spreads to neighboring Arab countries and, hopefully, around the world, I hope the door gets blasted off its hinges. We have been mired far too long in the belief that anyone with olive skin and a five-o-clock-shadow is given to fits of religious extremism and anti-American sentiment. We sit much too comfortably in believing “they” are limited to driving cabs, running delis, or preparing your Halal cart food. I am proud of all the Arab and Middle Eastern (yes, there is a difference) people I have known, know, and will come to know, INCLUDING those who may just enjoy being out in the desert with their goats. You can’t be a melting pot when you process all the foods into one ingredient. I like my fondue with multiple cheeses.

And, yeah, we got a long way to go from a tiny crack in the door, but when you see any possibility of light then that’s it mate. I can only hope that that same light is spread to as many Americans as possible to show them not only the error of their ethnocentric ways, but also to make them realize that they too can get in the streets, and raise their voices, and demand change. It happens in more places than online. It happens for longer than an angry dinner conversation where we compete to see who is smartest. And it certainly is more powerful than a bunch near-death old white men sitting in wooded chambers deciding how OUR lives should be lived.

I say infect me with this revolution and let true changes begin.