Hurricane Yahya Hassan
They say that the total matter of the universe is composed of about 85% dark matter- and yet scientists still do not know what dark matter is. Or if it exists. The words on a page compose about 1% of the page, the white, well umh...yeah, the 99%. I am in the midst of having a very profound dialogue with the universe. I'm not sure why I continue to be surprised at the accuracy of her actions, the precision of her language. It's always been like that during the times that I care to pay attention.
I had a meeting on Monday with one of my clients. I always enjoy meeting with her --both her energy and work is amazing. We met for lunch at the Black Diamond, The Danish Royal Library. It's a spectacular building - its facade resembling a polished precious stone, jutting out to the sky. It's primarily made of glass and faces one of Copenhagen's many canals, and one can see the city water bus go by on its scheduled route.
The meeting was invigorating and inspiring, and as we drank the last drops of our coffee, there suddenly was a series of bangs. You could hear the sucking noise of wind as it forced itself through small tunnels and there was no mistaking it: we were in the midst of a storm.
Now, if I had checked the weather forecast, I would have known. But I didn't. Besides, I didn't realise that a hurricane had been predicted, so I hugged my client good-bye and decided to remain at the library. It's one of those buildings I don't visit enough. It soon became clear, however, that I would be going nowhere for quite some time.
The wind was really strong. I attempted to go out into it, but twice got toppled by it.
The library suddenly took on the feel of an airport terminal when a flight has been delayed. It became apparent that those who remained chose to do so, and we developed a kind of camaraderie built around that premise.
As I was sitting in the cafe, drinking another coffee, accepting the fact that mother nature had other plans for me other than those I had made, a young boy walks up to me. "Excuse me, did you used to work at X?" Now X is a school where I worked about 8 years ago. I had worked there for 4 years and enjoyed a good relationship with the kids, parents and my colleagues. It turns out that his friend, who is on his way to see the poet Yahya Hassan was an old student of mine. Better yet is the fact that this student who was now on his way has a sister, with whom I had particularly bonded with through knitting.
While working at this school I had a knitting club where many of the school's 3rd-5th graders came. Most were girls, but there were a few boys. I love knitting. I had always wanted to know how to knit since I was a child, a dream that finally came true when I was pregnant with my son and my then Danish mother-in-law taught me. Since then, I have knitted countless of things and taught others as well. It's been an amazing adventure and I have met lots of beautiful souls in this process. I used to let my students knit and crochet while I read out loud, and always felt a deep satisfaction in witnessing their enthusiasm and passion about learning a skill that they could use.
Anyway, I ended up talking a bit with these two young gentlemen, both 18. They tell me more about this poet who is supposed to be performing that night. He is also 18, of Palestinian descent and has a book of poetry, with his name being the title of this collection.
Now I understood why mother nature insisted I stay put. One of the intentions I have always had since working with kids was getting them involved in the process of articulating their experiences as a tool in which to navigate life. I know that once any child, or human for that matter, experiences being engaged in a mutually beneficial experience where his or her existence is part of a transformation of change, well, that child or person experiences a higher quality of life. I have always wanted to create such spaces for a diverse group of people. An oasis of creation of sorts, where theater truly becomes the most honest of mediums and poetry the chosen language of communication in a dialogue amongst ourselves. We have to wrestle the arts back from privilege, and demand the time and space to develop our character and thus our relationships with ourselves and each other. This should not be the privilege of a few.
I've written about my former student D before. He too is from Palestine and also 18. D and I made a pact from the beginning that he would undertake writing as part of his medium and I have made a commitment to do what I can to support this endeavor.
I've always been fascinated by D's story - as I am about any human story. His is a story of immigration, of so-called statelessness, of growing up in one of Denmark's notorious ghettoes, of riding two worlds, two nationalities - what are his options? I insist that there must be many options and there must be many ways in which a human being can define his or herself constructively within the framework of our society. There are many kids here who do not see themselves represented in a positive way in the media. The message is subtle, but it is there and it does nothing but create resentment and anger.
From the moment D expressed to me his desire to write, I have always maintained that he takes his time with it. Writing is a responsibility and it is no small thing to commit one's words and thoughts on paper. It is one thing to succumb to sensationalism, another to truly create a piece of art that builds a bridge towards the creation of a new society.
That evening, I saw Yahya Hassan read his work. The young man is powerful. He conjures up the spirits from the blood spilled upon our earth in the name of a man-made construction that seems to divide than unite. He reads his work like a religious elder, murmuring incantations. possibly from the ancestors. But that's the thing - he isn't an elder. Yet. He's just a kid. And this kid is getting death threats. Why? Because he's being honest. And let's all be honest: the world doesn't like to hear when 18 year olds are honest. Why? Well, cause, umh, they take the word literally. They still have this naive feeling that they actually have the right, to umh, well, their truth! And well, how dear they! They're only 18!
There's a reason I don't rush people to write. There's a reason. There's a reason why learning to even one's temper- and when I use temper I mean it in the way that describes a state of being. As a child of immigrants myself, and as a child who has been quite outspoken about my criticisms of my parents, I know where Yahya is coming from. But as an adult, I can safely say that after being on this planet as I have, I have had the experience of actually looking back on certain beliefs I've had and have had to cringe. Seriously. That is called growing up.
Yesterday I met up with D. He's down. He just lost one of his best friends. A nice kid, he tells me, not into any trouble. Was on his way home from school. Got stabbed to death. In the happiest city in the world. Then he tells me that the only two friends he's got have both gone in completely different directions. One has gone to extremism, the other to crime. "Why does it seem that there are only two choices for us?" He asks me.
Yahya Hassan's book, Yahya Hassan is written in all capitalized letters. The kid is shouting throughout the entire book. From beginning to end. Everyone gets it. He holds nothing back. I think a lot of young kids feel the way he feels.
What is the world to do with such a poet? What is the world to do with a such a child? Are we to cannibalize him in the name of the pathological gods that many seem to worship, or are we to embrace him and give him space to grow? Are we as adults, going to refrain from taking his words, out of context, and inciting violence, all in the name of sales, profit and politics? And where is Palestine in all of this? What is being designed here? Is this the creation of a life, or the undoing of one?
I ask that he soon receives the guidance he deserves. He is a courageous soul, and one I hope, that can't resist the light.
farvel,
the lab
I had a meeting on Monday with one of my clients. I always enjoy meeting with her --both her energy and work is amazing. We met for lunch at the Black Diamond, The Danish Royal Library. It's a spectacular building - its facade resembling a polished precious stone, jutting out to the sky. It's primarily made of glass and faces one of Copenhagen's many canals, and one can see the city water bus go by on its scheduled route.The meeting was invigorating and inspiring, and as we drank the last drops of our coffee, there suddenly was a series of bangs. You could hear the sucking noise of wind as it forced itself through small tunnels and there was no mistaking it: we were in the midst of a storm.
Now, if I had checked the weather forecast, I would have known. But I didn't. Besides, I didn't realise that a hurricane had been predicted, so I hugged my client good-bye and decided to remain at the library. It's one of those buildings I don't visit enough. It soon became clear, however, that I would be going nowhere for quite some time.
The wind was really strong. I attempted to go out into it, but twice got toppled by it.
The library suddenly took on the feel of an airport terminal when a flight has been delayed. It became apparent that those who remained chose to do so, and we developed a kind of camaraderie built around that premise.
As I was sitting in the cafe, drinking another coffee, accepting the fact that mother nature had other plans for me other than those I had made, a young boy walks up to me. "Excuse me, did you used to work at X?" Now X is a school where I worked about 8 years ago. I had worked there for 4 years and enjoyed a good relationship with the kids, parents and my colleagues. It turns out that his friend, who is on his way to see the poet Yahya Hassan was an old student of mine. Better yet is the fact that this student who was now on his way has a sister, with whom I had particularly bonded with through knitting.
While working at this school I had a knitting club where many of the school's 3rd-5th graders came. Most were girls, but there were a few boys. I love knitting. I had always wanted to know how to knit since I was a child, a dream that finally came true when I was pregnant with my son and my then Danish mother-in-law taught me. Since then, I have knitted countless of things and taught others as well. It's been an amazing adventure and I have met lots of beautiful souls in this process. I used to let my students knit and crochet while I read out loud, and always felt a deep satisfaction in witnessing their enthusiasm and passion about learning a skill that they could use.
Anyway, I ended up talking a bit with these two young gentlemen, both 18. They tell me more about this poet who is supposed to be performing that night. He is also 18, of Palestinian descent and has a book of poetry, with his name being the title of this collection.
Now I understood why mother nature insisted I stay put. One of the intentions I have always had since working with kids was getting them involved in the process of articulating their experiences as a tool in which to navigate life. I know that once any child, or human for that matter, experiences being engaged in a mutually beneficial experience where his or her existence is part of a transformation of change, well, that child or person experiences a higher quality of life. I have always wanted to create such spaces for a diverse group of people. An oasis of creation of sorts, where theater truly becomes the most honest of mediums and poetry the chosen language of communication in a dialogue amongst ourselves. We have to wrestle the arts back from privilege, and demand the time and space to develop our character and thus our relationships with ourselves and each other. This should not be the privilege of a few.
I've written about my former student D before. He too is from Palestine and also 18. D and I made a pact from the beginning that he would undertake writing as part of his medium and I have made a commitment to do what I can to support this endeavor.
I've always been fascinated by D's story - as I am about any human story. His is a story of immigration, of so-called statelessness, of growing up in one of Denmark's notorious ghettoes, of riding two worlds, two nationalities - what are his options? I insist that there must be many options and there must be many ways in which a human being can define his or herself constructively within the framework of our society. There are many kids here who do not see themselves represented in a positive way in the media. The message is subtle, but it is there and it does nothing but create resentment and anger.
From the moment D expressed to me his desire to write, I have always maintained that he takes his time with it. Writing is a responsibility and it is no small thing to commit one's words and thoughts on paper. It is one thing to succumb to sensationalism, another to truly create a piece of art that builds a bridge towards the creation of a new society.
That evening, I saw Yahya Hassan read his work. The young man is powerful. He conjures up the spirits from the blood spilled upon our earth in the name of a man-made construction that seems to divide than unite. He reads his work like a religious elder, murmuring incantations. possibly from the ancestors. But that's the thing - he isn't an elder. Yet. He's just a kid. And this kid is getting death threats. Why? Because he's being honest. And let's all be honest: the world doesn't like to hear when 18 year olds are honest. Why? Well, cause, umh, they take the word literally. They still have this naive feeling that they actually have the right, to umh, well, their truth! And well, how dear they! They're only 18!
There's a reason I don't rush people to write. There's a reason. There's a reason why learning to even one's temper- and when I use temper I mean it in the way that describes a state of being. As a child of immigrants myself, and as a child who has been quite outspoken about my criticisms of my parents, I know where Yahya is coming from. But as an adult, I can safely say that after being on this planet as I have, I have had the experience of actually looking back on certain beliefs I've had and have had to cringe. Seriously. That is called growing up.
Yesterday I met up with D. He's down. He just lost one of his best friends. A nice kid, he tells me, not into any trouble. Was on his way home from school. Got stabbed to death. In the happiest city in the world. Then he tells me that the only two friends he's got have both gone in completely different directions. One has gone to extremism, the other to crime. "Why does it seem that there are only two choices for us?" He asks me.
Yahya Hassan's book, Yahya Hassan is written in all capitalized letters. The kid is shouting throughout the entire book. From beginning to end. Everyone gets it. He holds nothing back. I think a lot of young kids feel the way he feels.
What is the world to do with such a poet? What is the world to do with a such a child? Are we to cannibalize him in the name of the pathological gods that many seem to worship, or are we to embrace him and give him space to grow? Are we as adults, going to refrain from taking his words, out of context, and inciting violence, all in the name of sales, profit and politics? And where is Palestine in all of this? What is being designed here? Is this the creation of a life, or the undoing of one?
I ask that he soon receives the guidance he deserves. He is a courageous soul, and one I hope, that can't resist the light.
farvel,
the lab
