Bury Me Standing by Isabel Fonseca

Let’s just say that I am on the other side of the fence. The side that actually lived most of her life the Gypsy phenomenon (I will not call it problem). The reaction, a sincere one, at seeing the Gypsy packed train station in Bucharest, aggressively looking for targets, after one year spent outside Romania, in a safe country, was like an abrupt wake-up call. I sent a message to my dear friend simply saying: My kids will not grow up here. It is not a preconceived opinion, is past experience, is being street smart. Been there, been robbed, been approached by Gypsy packs of women or men. I know when I have to cross the street.

This is not say that I am ignorant with respect to the Gypsy culture or to the historic facts that contributed to impeding the evolution of their group in a manner that would mould into the host culture, yet not projecting itself as dangerous to its values. Yet, Isabel Fonseca’s tourist in Europe book, while charming, well written and informative on many levels, does take a strong stand against all European nations for failing to integrate the Gypsy group and, in quite a naive manner, strips the Gypsies of any wrongdoing by always attaching a reason behind the actions they are blamed for. Stealing and laziness translate into entrepreneurship, while the filth, the slums, are countered by the simple statement that in their culture one should not touch the dirt of other people.

I wouldn’t recommend the book to someone who has never lived long enough within European borders, as the image they are prone to build is exclusively against all European nations.

Stripped of its accusatory tone, the book unveils an interesting journey.

Reading Americans Talk About Love.

Readings June 30

Green Card Cinderellas – educated, billingual Japanese middle class women, who’s identity and self esteem are shattered once they fullfil their dream, the acquisition of a white husband. From Journal of  Identity and Migration Identity Study, via BookForum.

Will Frears post on on England’s Loss Germany left me nodding in aprroval. Via The Paris Review blog.

Readings June 19

Jose Saramago has passed away. The 1998 Paris Review interview here.

On a different note, admitting that it is just a miss-match between the two of us, I’ve decided to leave Small Wars lecture unfinished.

The Romanian by Bruce Benderson

‘The Romanian’ idles now by my side with crumpled pages, not long after reading Bruce Benderson’s interview in The Rumpus. Must be the longing for connection with a space I know too well, the space of a post communist Romania whose youth are struggling to come to terms with the endless material possibilities that the western world lavishes on its people, but which are out of reach for easterners.

My state evolved during the lecture from being unimpressed, or better said, slightly edgy regarding the author’s [what it seemed at that stage] exclusive contact with the underground Romania, to being bemused and feeling superior towards the American’s naiveté who lacks the basics notions of street smartness and who gullible engages in potentially dangerous situations, even bursting at one point ‘he’s so lucky. Romulus could have robbed him so many times’, traversing sadness towards the most likely sorrowful end the story will unroll, finally settling in genuine joy when faced with the improbable, yet real finale of this modern day, gay Lolita novel.

An appealing reading.

***

The nerve.com article that drove the adventure.

Dropped Three Trapped Tigers , reading The Black Book of Communism and Small Wars.

The Loss of Sadness by Allan V. Horwitz and Jerome C. Wakefield

The belief that one should always be happy, smile and act social is against human nature, unbalanced and extremely idiotic.

Five years ago, during a visit to my physician as a result of persistent heartburn and general weakness, he started reading a questionnaire from his computer screen and I was prescribed antidepressants in the same session. After one ‘Do you find joy in your everyday life?’ reduced set of elementary type of questions.

‘Even I am on antidepressants!’, he proudly confessed and believed, for reasons that fail me even to this day that his persona should be regarded as a success to be followed. ‘Many of my patients take antidepressants and they are happy’, he seconded. Of course, ”I haven’t had sex in more than a month’, he epically concluded. The religiosity of his discourse discouraged me. Music trends, religious faiths or the modern Prozac vogue, I’m hardly material for a follower.

I visited two other specialists and both recognized a depressive pattern with effects on the physical self. The last one advised placebo.

Sadness subsided naturally, without any drugs. Not fast and not entirely. Reminiscent of a different dimension of life, most of the time strenuous, yet sometimes rewarding.

A few well pointed questions would have uncovered the true colors of my mood change. A cocktail of situations summarized in imposed interaction with a new culture, limited opportunities for social touch due to lack of variety, a draw-back in the professional life and, most importantly all on top of unshared love interest, had naturally led me towards dissatisfaction with the existence I was leading at that time.

There was more than one root cause for my prolonged despondency, and none of the medical stuff was interested to learn about any of them. Yet, a physician was allowed to prescribe anti-depressants, medicines well-known for developing lasting dependency and for inducing numerous side-effects.

‘The Loss of Sadness’ came to cement my already strong beliefs.

Yes, there exist real cases of depressive disorder caused by chemical imbalances that lack a natural cause, and they could be addressed by medication if the specialists agree.

But about prescribing serotonin busters to someone who is experiencing a melancholic period caused by losses in its life, robs that person of a magnificent solitary state that one can experience during that time. It also leads to stigmatization and numbness. The belief that one should always be happy, smile and act social is against human nature, unbalanced and extremely idiotic.

***

The cover reminds me of Norman Manea’s novel  ‘The Hooligan’s Return‘, briefly reviewed here.  The banner Depression is a flaw in chemistry, not in character stands for an interdiction of sadness in the US paradise, in Manea’s book.

You can go through a preview on Google Books.

Waiting for: Three Trapped Tigers , reading The Black Book of Communism and Understanding Close-up Photography.

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