Aleph 14

The Aleph: a journal of global perspectives

The

The Hobart and William Smith Colleges and Union College Partnership for Global Education

Aleph

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a journal of global perspectives

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Alhambra Melody, Granada, Spain [Ellis Linsmith]

the

Aleph

a journal of global perspectives

Volume XIV, 2019

The Aleph: a journal of global perspectives Volume XIV, 2019 Thomas D’Agostino, Editor-in-Chief Jennifer O’Neil, Artistic Director ISSN 1937-0474 Printed by Canfield & Tack in Rochester, NY Stories in The Aleph are set in Gentium, designed by Victor Gaultney and adopted by SIL International, an organization working to document thousands of dying ethnic languages, many of which are written in modified Latin scripts. Most digital fonts do not include these extended alphabets and therefore millions of people are shut out of the publishing community. Gentium is an attempt to meet this challenge. The name is Latin for belonging to the nations. © 2019 Hobart and William Smith Colleges and Union College Partnership for Global Education Thomas D’Agostino, Executive Director Trinity Hall, 3rd Floor Hobart and William Smith Colleges Geneva, New York 14456 (315) 781-3307 Cover Photo Credits: Front Cover: Royal Baths of the Alcazár, Seville, Spain [Nagina Ahmadi], Indigo-stained Fingers, Sa Pa, Vietnam [Madison MacDowell] Inside Front Cover: Lake Baikal, Russia [Addison Brearton] Inside Back Cover: Clownfish, Queensland, Australia [Margot van den Broek ] Back Cover: Blue-footed Booby, Isla de la Plata National Park, Ecuador [Soren Anders-Macleod], ‘Bandierai’ Competition, Florence, Italy [Victor Fabio]

About The Aleph The Aleph: a journal of global perspectives, first published in 2002, is a joint project of the Hobart and William Smith Colleges and Union College Partnership for Global Education. The journal, intended to reflect the wealth of international experience among students at our respective institutions, takes its name from the 1945 short story “The Aleph” by Argentine writer Jorge Luis Borges. In the story, the narrator (a writer) comes upon “a small iridescent sphere of almost unbearable brilliance” in which “without admixture or confusion, all the places of the world, seen from every angle, coexist.” Through this encounter with the Aleph, he is able to see all things from all perspectives—yet he despairs of the daunting task of trying to understand and convey his experience to his readers.

Our students face much the same challenge when they return from abroad: after crossing borders and cultures, navigating societies different from their own in which they are exposed to new values and perspectives, how can they make sense of it all? How can they adequately convey the significance of the experience to those who did not share it?

The Aleph: a journal of global perspectives was created to address this dilemma. It provides a space for reflection, analysis, and dialogue that benefits contributors and readers alike. The pieces, both written and visual, offer insight into what captivates, challenges, and inspires our students—and through these words and images we learn about the people and places they encounter, we see how they change along the way, and we are exposed to “all the places of the world, seen from every angle.”

Table of Contents Lessons (6) Teianna Chenkovich on South Africa’s National Arts Festival, Addison Brearton climbs and learns languages in Maastricht, Jenna Salisbury reflects on hospitality in China, Mikayla McLean contemplates self-image and stereotypes in Senegal

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Engagement (36) Jordan Loretz plays the zither in China, Sarah Underwood takes Irish fiddle lessons, Erika Ireland explores “The Nutcracker” in France and Denmark, Ren Workman studies the đàn bầu in Vietnam

Verse and Vision I (60) For Galway by Kelly Kenlon

Crossings (68) Elise Wyatt visits a class in Denmark, Sarah Kloos finds luck in Vietnam, William Samayoa’s goodbye to Norwich, Jeff Dingler writes about a trip gone awry

Verse and Vision II (118) Tig Choili by Sarah Underwood

From My Journal (124) Sophia Melvin on her Danish host family, Mikayla McLean discovers it’s not so bad in London

Der Aleph in Deutschland (151) Noelle Nichols explores the market and Ben Alexopoulos studies the trees in Freiburg, Emmet Hassett on the history of the Bremer Elefant, Katie Allen reflects on a memorial in Berlin

Students Jumping for Joy in Vietnam [Danielle Moyer]

Lessons I

South Africa’s 2016 National Arts Festival: Embodied Performances of Temporal and Spatial Significance The National Arts Festival is a ten-day event hosted at Rhodes University and attended by individuals from across South Africa, and even further abroad (like in my case). The program for the festival is a few hundred pages long and features artists from many disciplines. The depth and breadth of the celebration are overwhelming, and it was a feat of self-restraint to design a manageable schedule. In two days I attended eight performances that provided a dynamic capstone for my experience studying in South Africa. They reflected a history of oppression and the current questions faced by the people of South Africa. In particular, three shows come together to illustrate a temporal history of the contentious spatial positioning of bodies. These performances sought to comment on the contentious history of spaces and ownership in South Africa by displaying embodied actions and emotions in performance.

An Unsettled Past Black South Africans were dislocated from their land as it was reallocated to colonial farmers. Then, during apartheid they were forcibly moved from their homes into large townships, where many black South Africans still live. Generations later many black South Africans don’t own property and are barred from accessing higher education and achieving economic stability because of unequal systems of power. Living in a township and gaining enough social and economic power to purchase land is nearly impossible.

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They were torn from their land and stripped of all rights of ownership. Now, an unequal society that puts limitations on elevating economic and social standing continues to regulate that property. This has occurred even after it was promised that reforms put in place post-apartheid would allow freedom and mobility. It’s political, it’s social, it’s systematic, and it’s a powerfully emotional embodied experience that is felt by black communities.

In “Connection to Home,” choreographed by Mandla ‘Sunnyboy’ Ntuli, a black woman sat in a corner arranging black and white painted rocks on top of a small pile of sand. She would place them, become discontent, and then rearrange them at her will. The woman later stood and manipulated the bodies of two black men. Through the piece, control and ownership over black bodies were called into question through the movement and words spoken by the cast.

It was performed to a live jazz score, with the three musicians seated throughout the small, informal, and intimate theatre, almost as if they were audience members themselves (I sat right next to the saxophonist). The atmosphere reflected a feeling of loss and mourning - the people’s loss of cultural identity, power, and agency. It made me think of the development of jazz in America and its roots in slavery, and how it was appropriated and transformed by white artists. This was cemented when one of the performers began rapping with the jazz music, discussing the politics of appropriation, misuse of black identities, and their various cultures and spaces.

The music both conceptually and literally described stolen identities.

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Grahamstown, South Africa [Miranda Smith] The Uncertain Present The frustration and agitation expressed in the kinds of movements the choreographer employed for “Connection to Home” were also reflected in “Home (choreographed by Nomcebisi Moyikwa and presented by the Intlangano Project).” Both pieces played with ideas of confinement and agitation, but “Home” especially depicted how that creates unrest. Using the body to show unbalance and nervousness provided the piece with an aura of uncertainty.

Before I came to South Africa, I had read the book Nervous Conditions by Tsitsi Dangarembga that discussed the liminal and precarious position of people in colonial Zimbabwe. Dangarembga’s semiautobiographical text is a statement on identity and belonging in colonial Africa and reflects on black youth navigating between the different cultural identities expected of them by families and colonialists. Having an identity that is not fully accepted within the colonialist institution or a traditional family structure, the black youth are left in a position of cultural insecurity that the author describes as “nervousness”.

I felt like this performance was describing the same feelings of pressure and uncertainty by physically employing movements that expressed off-balance and shaky energy. At one poignant moment, all the cast was confined to a box made of white tape on the stage. The longer they stood in confinement the more pronounced their writhing, bouncing, and shaking became - the physical confinement making their bodies uncertain and nervous.

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And a Hopeful Future The classical Russian ballet “Firebird” was remixed

by Janni Younge and Jay Pather to create a new composition that worked the original narrative into a South African context, adding puppetry, video projections, and a lot of fanfare. The visual “busyness” overshadowed the simple complexities of using western mythology and imbuing it with black South African cultural experiences. It was the due justice in an art world that supports the merciless appropriation of black culture.

Today’s Catch, Senegal [Elizabeth Oliver] Dancing in Mumbai, India [Katherine Moeller]

They used the complete original “Firebird” score but the styles varied between Zulu, Ballet, and Modern dance. In the program, the choreographer wrote that they had wanted to depict what South Africa could be, with many histories and peoples coming together with peace and respect - an idealistic but nonetheless beautiful picture many South Africans share.

The National Arts Festival is an imperfect example of what it looks like when people create a space with a cooperative and enlightening spirit, willing to both share and listen. This was my experience of being enrolled at Rhodes University for a semester and watching my peers battle for education and the possibility of economic stability, not only for themselves but also with the hope they might be the change-makers and leaders to a better future. Thank you, my wonderful friends, for showing me not only how complex and unfair the world is but also how much hope there is for love, peace, and respect.

- Teianna Chenkovich

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Kruger National Park, South Africa [Samantha Ruthazer]

Lessons II

Understanding Culture Through Language I have always been wildly fascinated by foreign languages.

At a young age, I remember trying to count or sing songs in as many languages as I could. Since then, I have been lucky enough to formally study Italian, Russian, and German for several years while concurrently listening to my dad study Japanese, my sister study Spanish and many friends speaking Cantonese. During my commutes or in moments of downtime, I find myself translating songs, creating conversations in my head, or writing poetry utilizing the foreign languages with which I am familiar.

Though I am not yet fluent in another language, my linguistic studies and my semester abroad have led me to realize that a significant amount of my understanding of other cultures results from learning the native tongue.

Prior to studying in Maastricht, in the Netherlands, I was told that I should not stress about learning Dutch; the classes were instructed in English and the local community spoke remarkable English — I would be fine. However, I still grappled with guilt when cashiers spoke to me in Dutch and I was unable to respond accordingly. I spent the first few weeks of my semester studying common phrases, analyzing street signs and advertisements, and eavesdropping on conversations around me in order to comprehend and appreciate the culture of my new home, an international congregation of students. Though my group of friends was small, they spoke a variety of languages including French, Spanish, Turkish, Italian, Taiwanese, German,

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Norwegian, and Croatian. Furthermore, most students I encountered at the University of Maastricht were at least bilingual. My interactions with multiple languages proved to be intellectually stimulating and presented me with opportunities to increase my access to diverse individuals and information.

City Hall, Maastricht, the Netherlands [Dianna Paige] Canal in Amsterdam, the Netherlands [Samantha Kruzshak]

Through a climbing association that I became affiliated with during those short months in Maastricht, I met an incredible friend, Oliver, who was a source of inspiration and guidance for me. The very first night that I met him, we talked for hours before discovering that we lived only two minutes from each other. Later, at the intersection where we would part, we idled on our bikes for another hour or so, continuing to talk in the quiet of the night. Along with the great stories and life philosophies that he shared with me, he also offered opportunities for me to climb and encouraged me to speak in German (or any foreign language, for that matter). He always made an effort to speak to others in their own native language, demonstrating the advantages of speaking multiple languages.

On a weekend trip to the renowned boulders of Fontainebleau in France, Oliver and I, with a few other friends, were surrounded by climbers of all levels from all over the world. I was so inspired by Oliver’s ability to easily communicate with French, German, Dutch, and English-speaking climbers.

He was contemplative and helpful, providing beta and encouragement, yet still lighthearted, offering jokes and understanding. While relaxing over lunch, Oliver noticed a familiar woman. Upon making eye contact, they embraced and immediately remembered each other from several years prior while climbing in Thailand. They were able to speak both Dutch and French, allowing them to become fast friends.

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This ability to converse with others through many different languages allows individuals to build mutual respect for one another and yields a shared personal experience.

We are incredibly fortunate to understand English as a first language. As one of the most widely spoken languages in the world, fluency in English provides access to a myriad of people. However, even in regions where English is prevalent, we should not be ignorant of the local culture and the significant role language plays in it. In our travels, we should be seeking an understanding of the traditions and values of a community.

In the three weeks after my semester abroad, I travelled along the Trans-Siberian Railway with a good friend. Even after studying Russian in high school, I knew very little and my friend knew none at all. We were challenged daily to effectively communicate with others, but one particular experience still resonates with me. On a 30-hour train ride from Omsk to Krasnoyarsk, we met a sculptor from a town on Lake Baikal. Although he spoke little to no English, we had an amazingly profound conversation about humanity as a whole, Siberian politics, and Russian art and literature. There is so much to say and so much to learn in even the simplest

Mirror Lake, New Zealand [Lyndsey Ackerman]

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Lessons III of words. I learned so much from this man about the beauty of human engagement.

Chinese Hospitality

So, it is true - I did not need to speak Dutch to navigate life in the Netherlands. Nor do I need to continue studying other languages while I am here in the United States. But, honest devotion to learning another language is an investment in the lives of others and has contributed to an accumulation of cultural understanding for myself.

Decorum, like most things, is a subjective term usually defined by the shared mindset of a group of people. It differs from culture to culture, which is what makes observing the differences in manners and proper customs so fascinating. It also prompts the question - what is civility?

- Addison Brearton

Climbing Association Trip [Addison Brearton]

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Slurping, burping, talking with a mouth stuffed with food; these things would certainly not be regarded as “civil,” at least by American standards. However, in China, such behavior is overlooked and ordinary.

“Excuse me” is not a phrase commonly used by the Chinese.

The narrow streets and roads often don’t allow much elbow room, so budging your way to the places you want to be is the norm, and usually necessary to avoid being stuck behind crowds of people. I myself got a taste of this while on a bus to Chang Le. The amount of people far exceeded the number of seats so it was incredibly cramped. We were stuffed like sardines in a canister, shoulder to shoulder. This, however, did not stop the driver from picking up even more people. It got so crowded that passengers were blocking both doors of the bus. Yet, this didn’t stop some people from shoving and squeezing their way to the back of the bus. Cars, motorcycles, and rickshaws weave in and out, even sharing the sidewalks with pedestrians.

Lanes, road signs, and other road markings are taken more as suggestions than actual law. Motorcyclists will often beep their horns and cut off large buses while cars and open-backed caravans attempt to squeeze down one-way streets, usually obstructing oncoming traffic in the process.

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Then there are the vendors, business owners, and other peddlers hawking their wares to passers-by, many standing outside their places of business and beckoning and yelling to those walking by their storefronts. To many foreigners, this method of peddling is perceived as being a bit aggressive, even rude, but in China it is a common strategy that, to their credit, works. Americans may also notice a lack of small talk being exchanged because, in China, it is not normal to simply hold conversations with strangers. Grocers, public servants, and store clerks don’t often make attempts at light conversation unless it is to assist or serve.

Statues in Sa Pa, Vietnam [Sylvie Kalikoff] Street in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam [Ryan Montbleau]

Finally, there’s the subject of Chinese hospitality.

Showing off and saving face extends to all aspects of Chinese living, especially when it involves guests.

My first time being invited into another home was in an apartment in Chang Le. The woman was an acquaintance of my friend Jenny’s grandmother and the minute we walked into her apartment we were doted on like royalty. At one point, when I was on my way to the bathroom, the woman even took off her own shoes and put them on my feet as a gesture of welcome. After serving us plates piled with fresh fruit, she took us on a tour of the city’s parks, paying for all the taxi rides and meals. Most of the visit involved Jenny’s grandmother arguing with the woman over taking care of the public transportation fares and restaurant expenses. These arguments eventually ended in Jenny’s grandmother politely accepting the woman’s generosity.

In China, putting on such displays of cordiality and generosity towards guests is a good reflection on the host/hostess. Such hospitality “fights” are a kind of long-winded show to see who can outdo the other in politeness.

- Jenna Salisbury

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Camden Town, London, England [Alyssa Bonesteel]

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Lessons IV

You Can’t Wear That, Are You Hungry?

We were docked in Dakar for nearly six hours, waiting for the host families to join us onboard for a get-toknow-you lunch. We were dressed head-to-toe in long and baggy attire, as we were told it was modest and culturally expected that we, especially the women, be covered up. Senegal is a Muslim-majority country and we tried our best to be considerate and respectful of how Muslim dress differs from our own.

This dock was unlike any other. We hadn’t arrived at a beautiful island with a nice breeze and ocean mist. We arrived in Senegal in September, with the beating sun and the dry heat. There were old, useless, beat-up vehicles everywhere, and more fences and gates between our ship and the streets of Dakar than I can count on both of my hands. Most of our hosts couldn’t get into the dock because the authorities were very strict. Nobody was allowed in or out of the gate without a passport, which most of our hosts did not have. We had to meet them at a gas station a few blocks from the last gate of the port. On our walk over, we were greeted by many men who claimed to work for the docks and wanted to be our tour guides.

Though persistent, the men backed off once we reached our destination and realized that we were meeting Senegalese hosts.

All 46 of us students and about eight of the teachers, along with our hosts and the random customers made for a very cramped gas station/sandwich shop.

We waiting anxiously for our names to be called to pair up with our hosts for the duration of our stay in Senegal. Stella and I knew we were together because

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we picked each other as homestay mates, but we had no control over who our host family would be.

“Are you Stella?” A small, beautiful girl and her tall and equally beautiful friend approached us.

“And you are Mikayla, yes?”

“Hi, yes, that’s us! Are we with you?”

“My name is Anta. You will be staying with me. Where are you from? Are you hungry? I am hungry. Let us order food.”

Anta was shorter than Stella but taller than me. She had beautiful skin, even though she claimed to suffer from acne. She spoke English conversationally, but French was her first language. Luckily, Stella was fluent in French and I had six years of French class in an inner-city public school system to help me out, so we used both a mix of French and English to communicate for the length of our stay. She understood most of what we said, and we understood most of what she said. We switched back and forth between languages like we were playing a game of hot-potato with words. Anta was wearing a seethrough shirt and booty shorts. We felt highly overdressed.

“What do you girls want to do tonight? We can go dancing. There is a club in town. We will go. You can’t wear that, did you bring anything sexy? No!? We will go shopping, you will look sexy. We will meet with your friends and go drinking, we will be sexy.”

After we talked about the previous sail and our plans for the evening, we began our journey to Anta’s house. Living on a ship, we were very anxious to see a journal of global perspectives

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where we would be spending the next few nights.

In past years of the program, some students stayed with very wealthy families with their own rooms, air conditioning, and a working toilet. Other students experienced pooping in a dirt hole and sleeping with little siblings and aunts of their hosts. I was prepared to take on any living situation, but Anta considered herself to be wealthy, with a beautiful home just a short walk from the beach.

“I have a big, big bed. You can shower if you need to.

Are you hungry? My parents are so excited to meet you. I have a niece who lives in the U.S and is visiting for a few months, she is very excited to meet you both.”

View to the Sea, Mallorca, Spain [Megan Richard]

Anta hailed down a taxi, and one immediately stopped for her. She began what seemed to be an intense argument with the driver which lasted upwards of five minutes. Anta spoke only in French to him, and way too quickly for me to understand any specifics of what she said. Finally, she slammed the door and began to walk away when he called her back over and she agreed to get in. Confused, Stella and I followed her into the taxi. We took off down the dirt road, surrounded by street vendors tapping on the car and whistling at us to buy something: underwear, an umbrella, a bottle of soap, a bag of water.

We drove for about fifteen minutes down back alleys and winding dirt paths, all lined with stray dogs and half-naked children, to a house that was less glamorous than she previously described, but far more posh than most of the houses we passed on the way. After we were allowed through the gate, we were greeted by a woman in a white tank top whom I assumed to be Anta’s family member, but later learned was the family’s maid. We made our way up to Anta’s room and realized that one thing she did not oversell was the size of her bed. It was bigger than any king bed I’d ever seen but disappointingly hard as a rock.

However, there was a working toilet and running water, so we considered ourselves lucky. We were very pleased with our accommodations.

After we settled in, we met Anta’s parents, who spoke absolutely no English, and Anta’s niece, who spoke it perfectly. Anta’s parents were older than mine, likely early-to-mid sixties. They walked slowly and had a calming essence about them. Anta later explained that they were very strict growing up, but have backed off now that she is older and in college. It was hard for me to understand Anta’s parents because I’ve only ever heard of strict Muslim parents that don’t

Anta’s26bigThe bedAleph [Mikayla McLean]

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let their children do anything alone. Anta was older, but she was still a young Muslim woman. I had to challenge what I’ve been taught about Muslim culture, and I was learning very quickly what was real and what wasn’t, in relation to Senegal and Anta’s family.

Anta explained to Stella and me that her parents encouraged her to participate in hosting American students so that she could learn from us, which I found very surprising. I didn’t even consider that we could be teaching Anta about our culture just as much as she was teaching us about hers. Anta’s parents want her to move to the U.S. in the future to continue schooling and to find a successful life for herself.

It became clear why her parents were encouraging her to be independent and westernized; they were preparing her for a lifestyle change.

Anta, Stella, and I went back out to go shopping for our night of clubbing. We travelled into town via taxi and Anta negotiated with the driver the same way she did before, always refusing to be ripped off just because she was with Americans (although Stella is Canadian). We paid for the taxi this time, and every time after that. We arrived at a store that sold everything we would need for a night out: heels, dresses, skirts, bralettes, stockings, and shorts. The selection was wide and Stella was having a hard time choosing between a blue or pink dress. Meanwhile, I was having a hard time finding something that fit me right. I complained that my boobs were too big and my hips were too wide. I looked too pale in red and too washed out in blue. Anta told me that I looked beautiful in everything that I tried on, and I had a very hard time believing her.

She then said something that put everything into perspective: “I wish I were fat like you.”

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Immediately, I thought the worst. How could she say that? Why would she be so rude? Before I could be any more offended, she continued her thought.

“I want to have hips and boobs. I am too thin for boys to like me. They think I am poor and that I cannot give them children. I want to gain forty pounds, and then I will be beautiful like you.”

I would be considered more beautiful if I lost forty pounds in my culture, and she would be considered more beautiful if she gained it in hers. I suggested going to the beach because I wanted my skin to be dark and tan, and she hid from the sun to keep her skin as light as possible. Not only does she hide from the sun, but she also hinted that her skin cream was finally working. I thought she was referring to a moisturizer, but the reality was much worse. According to author Anne Look, “A quarter of Senegalese women use skin-lightening products regularly. The products, even those claiming to have so-called “natural” components, can contain mercury, hydroquinone or caustic agents like sodium hydroxide. These are dangerous ingredients that can cause cancer and are potentially disfiguring.”

Not only were there different expectations about the color of our skin, but different beauty standards shined through in other ways as well. I wanted to cut my hair because the heat makes it ratty and fluffy, while Anta fluffed her hair before our night out because that made it look longer and fuller. There was such a different standard of beauty in Senegal that I hadn’t noticed until Anta opened my eyes to it. I spent the entire taxi ride home staring at the strangers on the roads. Many of the women in Senegal wore

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home, so the meal was split between Stella, Anta, and me. We followed Anta upstairs with the food and she placed it in the middle of the floor between her bedroom and the bathroom. Stella and I both went with it. We sat down and watched as Anta began to pick chicken off of the bone with only her right hand and put it on the edge of the singular plate that we all shared. I was told this would happen by our program director. Every time we went to a new country, they would brief us on the norms and customs of that country’s culture. A lot of African cultures don’t use their left hand when eating, greeting, or anything really. This is because it is not only seen as disrespectful, but it is also often the hand designated to wipe after using the bathroom. It was difficult to adjust to not using my left hand, but you catch on sooner than you might think, considering you get really confused and disgusted looks if you don’t.

Anta with Stella and Me [Mikayla McLean] beautiful traditional dresses in vibrant colors and styles. Along with the attire, the women were also just beautiful in general. Most had flawless skin, small waists, and seemed to barely break a sweat in the beating hot sun. The men were also generally very tall and muscular. The people were beautiful inside and out; it made me sad that Anta didn’t see that about herself.

When we got back to her house, Anta asked her maid to prepare us dinner. We had a traditionally cooked meal that I can’t remember the name of, but it consisted of chicken and rice. Anta’s parents weren’t

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Anta’s placing of the food directly in front of me is also a cultural norm. It was her way of both offering me food as her guest but also saying she cared and wanted to make sure I felt full. While it was weird to have someone pick chicken off of a bone for me, it was also a welcoming gesture that made me really appreciate both Anta and her culture.

After dinner, we got dressed up in our new “sexy” clothes and took yet another taxi to the main strip in Dakar for young party-goers. According to Anta, the club we went to was the best in all of Senegal. This made me both excited and extremely nervous. When we arrived, we ran into more than half of the students from the ship and their hosts, which was comforting and annoying, considering I was always around those people. We grabbed ice cream from a shop next door to the club before making our way inside and to the dance floor. We danced for hours to Shakira, Beyoncé, a journal of global perspectives

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and Rihanna, until we made our way back to Anta’s house just in time to watch the sunrise. We took turns showering off the night, all sharing one towel and one bed which I am still convinced was made of stone.

Our days in Senegal flew by. We met many interesting and fun people I am still in contact with today, including Anta. Anta wants to visit the U.S someday.

She would like to visit her boyfriend who is from Senegal but lives in New York City and she hopes to study fashion. First, she has to get picked in the lottery to apply for a visa. Until then, she practices her English and goes to the beach. I hope to one day host Anta, so I can give her a small fraction of what she gave me: perspective.

It can be easy to overgeneralize a place you’ve never been to or people you’ve never met. I went to Senegal thinking one way but left thinking another, both about myself and Senegal. I didn’t know that Muslim woman could dress as freely as they’d like, or that being big and curvy was the ideal look. I left Senegal with a new appreciation for the diverse culture it had to offer, as well as self-confidence in the clothing I chose to wear and in the way my body looked wearing it. I was stuck in a world of stereotypes and misinformation but was lucky enough to be a part of a classic tale that everything is not what it seems.

Dancing with Anta, Dakar, Senegal [Mikayla McLean] A Man Reads the Quran at Sunset [Elizabeth Oliver]

- Mikayla McLean

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Dartmoor National Park, Ivybridge, Devon, England [Alex Kerai] 34 The Aleph

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Engagement I

Learning to Play the Koto, Japan’s National Instrument [Maxwell Fisher]

Getting to the Zither “付老师。。。等一下！” (“Teacher Fu…wait up!”), I called out to my program coordinator as we rode our bicycles through the busy city streets of Nanjing. We were en route to my first Chinese zither lesson—an activity made possible thanks to a grant I received.

The zither, or 古筝 (gu zheng; pronounced goo-JUNG) as it is called in Mandarin Chinese, is a five-foot long traditional Chinese string instrument. It is essentially a harp laid on its side with twenty strings, supported by two wooden stands. I chose to study this particular instrument after meeting a Chinese international student named Hermione (her English name) in the music department of HWS. I stumbled upon her practicing the zither and wondered if I could one day learn to play it as well.

Now, here I was in China, frantically pedaling behind Teacher Fu on a borrowed bike through an unfamiliar neighborhood to follow in Hermione’s footsteps. This preliminary lesson was to be held at a private studio about ten minutes by car from the university where I studied. Teacher Fu had offered to bring me and suggested we go by bike. I agreed without knowing that the journey was mostly uphill on one of the hotter days of the year.

Twenty-five minutes later, we arrived at the apartment building, drenched in sweat, and took the elevator to the thirteenth floor. I met the owner of the studio as well as my personal instructor, 熊老师 (Xiong Laoshi—the surname, Xiong, meaning bear).

Despite her name, Teacher Xiong was a petite, patient woman, only a few years older than me. She spoke some English, but for the sake of language practice, I requested that we communicate in Mandarin Chinese.

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After all, I was on an intensive Chinese language program. Teacher Xiong equipped me with plectrum, or plastic picks that I would tape to my fingers at the start of every lessons to pluck the strings, as well as the lesson book I would use over the next two months. After paying for my materials and agreeing on a lesson schedule, I said goodbye and biked back to the university with Teacher Fu, excited to return the following week for my first real lesson.

I found myself biking back several days later, this time making the uphill journey on my own. I managed to find the apartment building with minimal detours and was only a few minutes late. I apologized to Teacher Xiong for my tardiness and we quickly got to work.

First, she demonstrated how to tape the plectrum to the thumb, index, and middle fingers of my right hand. Next, she explained the anatomy of the zither and taught me the names of each part and how to tune the strings. We then worked on basic plucking techniques and warm-up exercises to perform at the beginning of each lesson, and finally, she assigned a simple song for me to prepare for the next week.

Unlike the standard, Western musical notation I’ve grown accustomed to as a saxophone player, singer, and music major, the lesson book contained cipher notation—a system which assigns a number, 1-5, to each note of the pentatonic (five note) scale produced by the zither. Dots above or below the note indicate the specific octave, and lines beneath the number represent the rhythm. Various symbols above the number delineate which fingers should be used to pluck the string and how to ornament the notes.

I left the studio that day with an overwhelming sense of joy, as well as a renewed confidence in myself after weeks of culture shock and strenuous coursework.

Surprisingly enough, learning a new instrument in a new language and using a new musical notation made 38 The Aleph

me feel right at home. I was proud of my ability to traverse the city on my own – however, my joy would be short-lived.

Starting the following week, I was forced to reschedule my lessons to the same day a course I was taking at the university. This scheduling change meant that I had to race back from my zither lesson to be on time for this early evening class—one I would need in order to complete the program and eventually graduate. On my return journey that week, I pedaled furiously in the “bike” lane (which, ironically, is filled with motorized scooters), amidst hundreds of beeping motorists. As my heart rate rose, so did the tension I was putting on the bike chain, and all of the sudden—CRACK!—the chain snapped, the pedals went limp, and I coasted for a moment before nearly being trampled by the herd of oncoming scooters. Next came the walk of shame as I dismounted and trudged the rest of the way alongside a busted, borrowed 10-speed. I arrived late to class and later informed my friend that I’d broken his chain.

With biking no longer an option, I explored several other modes of transportation over the next few weeks. I tried walking, but found that it was impossible to arrive on time. I hailed several taxis to and from my lessons, and although this was the most time-efficient method, I realized I was spending a considerable amount of money with each ride.

In order to save money, I tried taking the bus, but soon discovered that it was just as slow as walking. I attended my weekly lessons but was often late, which forced me to stay longer and arrive late to class.

This cycle of tardiness continued until my final lesson, after which I said goodbye to Teacher Xiong and thanked her for everything she had taught me.

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exam of the class I had been racing to each week, and once again, I found myself in a mad dash back to campus. There were no taxis in sight and I didn’t have time to wait for the bus. So, I resorted to sprinting.

Time was dwindling away as my final exam started and I was still 15 minutes from the university. After being late to nearly every class, I became wellacquainted with the policy on tardiness: fifteen minutes after the class starts, the door locks. This meant I would miss class, get a zero on the final exam and likely fail the class, which I needed to graduate.

As the severity of my situation began to sink in, my dead sprint slowed to a jog, and then a walk. It seemed as though my fate was sealed when suddenly a man on a moped pulled up next to me and asked me where I was going. I’d been warned against taking rides from unmarked taxis, not to mention random men on mopeds. I instinctively shook my head ‘no’ and continued walking. He was persistent, however, and pulled up alongside me again. Although it went against my better judgment, I knew that I was only five minutes from campus by moped and time was ticking away. So, I hopped on the back. “到上海路北 京西路。。。学校的旁边” (To Shanghai, West Beijing Road…next to the school), I said to the driver. To my surprise, he understood me immediately and we were on our way.

Market in Andasibe, Madagascar [Yuan Gao] Toji Temple, Kyoto, Japan [Maxwell Fisher]

Over the next five minutes, I told him about the test I was late for and the zither lessons I had taken. He told me about his kids in what was part of a long monologue in a thick, Nanjing accent, the majority of which I couldn’t understand. Just a few weeks earlier I was walking alongside a chainless bicycle, defeated.

Now here I was, cruising on the back of a stranger’s scooter, chattin’ it up, and before I knew it we were at the university. I dismounted the scooter and asked him how much I owed him. At this point in the story, 40 The Aleph

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I wish I could say he responded “No problem, junior,” or “This one’s on me—good luck on your test!” But reality set in when he asked for 100 yuan—probably three times what it would’ve normally cost in a taxi.

I tried to haggle the price down, but stopped when I considered he had actually helped me out of a jam.

Plus, it was only about 15 U.S. dollars and I had places to be. I begrudgingly handed over the money, and with a smile on his face, this Good Samaritan was off to dupe his next victim.

What did I learn from all of this? Yes, my zither lessons were life-changing, but perhaps the most valuable lessons learned came on the way to and from the music studio rather than in the studio itself. Teacher Xiong helped me improve as a musician and student of Mandarin Chinese because I practiced speaking with her in a relaxed, lowstakes environment. On the way to my lessons, however, I was forced to use these language skills in an authentic context. I learned the ins and outs of public transportation in a densely populated city, and although I was late to my lessons and classes, this was the most memorable part of my time abroad. It’s better to be busy than bored, and exploration opens doors to opportunity. Sometimes, opportunity will present itself in the unlikeliest of places, such as the back of a stranger’s moped. In those instances, don’t be afraid to say “yes.” You might just find that the age-old saying is true: it’s not about the destination, but the journey that takes you there. In the end, my zither lessons gave me an excuse to explore, the confidence to travel alone, and an experience I won’t soon forget.

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Streets of Buenos Aires, Argentina [Irving Cortes-Martinez] 44 The Aleph

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Engagement II

A Fiddle for a Foreigner As I left to go abroad to Galway, Ireland, I was scared because I was leaving behind what I knew. Once I got there, I ended up feeling very much at home because I found my love of music was shared with everyone I met. Through a grant I received from The Center for Global Education I was able to take this passion to the next level. I was able to buy a fiddle and take lessons every other week from a woman in town, which was a completely new experience for me. I had never played the fiddle before. I have always been a singer and played guitar since I was young, so I was looking forward to participating in the music of another culture. I also wanted to do something that would be a challenge for me, so learning to play the fiddle allowed these things to happen.

Music has always been a part of my life and I learned so much from being in a culture that supports it as much as I do. After arriving in Ireland, I thought it was cool that I was going to learn to play the fiddle. Once I began speaking to Irish students and local people about my plans, they often laughed and seemed unimpressed because it is so common for people to take fiddle lessons. They also do it beginning at a very young age, so the fact that I was a 20-year-old American girl attempting to play seemed comical to them. It did not faze me too much though, because I had low expectations for myself, knowing that it was such a difficult instrument.

her and other Irish students about my fiddle lessons was a great conversation starter because we could connect about music. Almost everyone I met was a musician or played some kind of instrument as a child. A roommate of two of the students in my program was a very skilled fiddle player so we had a long conversation about the instrument that I will never forget. She educated me on the importance of music to families and mentioned she was going to be playing with several family members that weekend at her cousin’s wedding. It was wonderful to hear her perspective about the role of music in her life and culture. I was also happy to hear that she knew who my fiddle teacher was and knew she was good. It was a relief to know that I was learning from a great player.

Shop Street, Galway, Ireland [Ariella Honig]

Once I started my lessons, though, I was very proud of myself for the progress that I made. After my first lesson, I could play “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” albeit poorly, but I was still excited. My Irish roommate even said that was impressive. Talking to 46 The Aleph

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My time in Galway was too short, but I improved tremendously as a fiddle player and musician. I took seven lessons and learned how to play one or two songs per lesson, while learning technique. By the time I was done with my lessons, my teacher told me I was proficient and I was thrilled to hear that. It was exciting to learn a new instrument, but I also learned to play in a very different way than I was used to. In my previous musical experience, after I had learned technique, I would read sheet music to play a song.

Instead, I learned to play through the traditional method which is by ear. My teacher would play a segment of a song and I would have to repeat it back to her. I had done this occasionally in my singing career, but I usually had sheet music to refer back to.

It was a great challenge for me as a musician because I had to train my ear and get over my fear of making mistakes because that is how you learn.

The experience of learning to play in this new method helped me gain confidence and see the value of different ways of learning. Of course, as a future teacher, this expanded my horizons to think about alternative ways of teaching. I also thought a lot about how I need to create a space for my students that encourages them to make mistakes. If my fiddle teacher hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t have made so much progress.

was about the arts of Ireland. Naturally, music was a central topic. For my final paper, I researched the relationship between “Trad music (traditional Irish music)” in America and Ireland, with a focus on the fiddle. In this course, I learned so much about the Irish American influence on fiddle music in Ireland.

While abroad, I gained musical skills as well as a cultural awareness of what music means for the people of Ireland. It also gave me a way to connect with the people in Galway that I met throughout my time there. I felt the musician in me had a renewed sense of purpose. I am so grateful for my time in Galway and the fiddle lessons that opened doors I never imagined and impacted me moving forward as a person as well as a musician.

- Sarah Underwood Street Musicians in Rennes, France [Jordan Pulling]

I was able to see wonderful musicians play together in what the Irish call “sessions,” which is when musicians get together and play songs in a group.

My lessons gave me insight into what it takes to play the fiddle and how it is played communally. So, when I went to sessions I felt like I could appreciate the experience more. I also applied my new interest in the fiddle to my academics at NUIG. I enrolled in a course called Indigenous Arts Exploration, which 48 The Aleph

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Biking in Amsterdam, the Netherlands [Bizzer Gahagan]

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Engagement III

Le Casse Noisette vs Nøddeknækkeren: A Look into The Nutcracker in France and Denmark Through a grant from The Center for Global Education, I was able to explore the similarities and differences between “The Nutcracker” ballet in Rennes, France where I spent the Fall 2017 semester and in Copenhagen, Denmark. Ballet, and specifically “The Nutcracker,” has been my passion since I began taking classes and performing at the age of five.

Rennes, France [Astrid Vargas] The Château de Brissac, Loire Valley, France [Niame Traore]

In Rennes, I attended a performance of “The Nutcracker” by the Saint Petersburg Ballet with the expectation that it would be a very average performance. I knew that the company was small, without many professional dancers, and was not very well-known despite its affiliation with Saint Petersburg, one of the ballet capitals of the world.

In some ways, my prediction was right. The show was the strangest production of “The Nutcracker” I have ever seen. Music was added in two different places which made me cringe. The score is well-known and can be heard in stores and even in commercials during the Christmas season. To me, it is sacrilege to alter that score. The company even decided to add an additional intermission between the party scene (where Clara, the main character, receives the Nutcracker as a Christmas present from her Godfather) and the battle scene (where the Nutcracker comes to life and battles the Rat Queen). This did not make any sense to me as the battle scene is a continuation of the party scene – they are not two separate entities.

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In contrast, The Royal Danish Ballet’s performance of “The Nutcracker” brought me to tears. The orchestra was flawless and the dancers were clearly all professionals. Even the younger children were very well- trained; I wondered if they were on the professional track. The dancing and the venue made the performance surreal. I very rarely get to see classical ballet performed in such a beautiful space, with gold gilded walls and ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and red velvet seats and curtains. I was disappointed that they did not use paper snow during the snow scene and projected a moving picture instead, but was pleasantly surprised by the number of men who performed with the company.

Going to the ballet in Rennes did not seem to be as big of a deal as it was in Copenhagen. While the audience in Rennes consisted mainly of families with young children, there was a much more diverse audience in Copenhagen including entire families and older couples. The Liberty Theater in Rennes is used for

many other events so there were no decorations or any sign that the ballet was taking place. With its black curtains, seats, and ceiling, the theatre is suited for a variety of shows – but not necessarily a classical ballet. It did not have a very professional or “royal” feel.

In Copenhagen, although I was surprised that there was no promotional poster outside of the theater, there was a Christmas tree made out of pointe shoes and an employee of the theatre gave a talk before the performance. Everyone at the theater was dressed very nicely and the venue was carefully designed with chandeliers, gold gilding, blue and yellow paint, and red curtains. In Rennes, the theatre and the performance itself were only very average and did not compare to my experience in Copenhagen, where The Royal Danish Ballet is clearly dedicated to the art and technique of classical ballet.

- Erika Ireland

Czech National Theatre, Prague, Czech Republic [John Kodera]

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Engagement IV

Music & Smiles: The Shared Languages of the World Walking through the streets, I see smiling faces. So many sounds fill my ears. Motorbikes beeping, chatter amongst friends, stepping in puddles, and music of all sorts. From traditional Vietnamese music to Despacito (especially Despacito), music is everywhere in the streets, homes, and cafés of Saigon.

Music brings people together from all walks of life, and is a form through which people communicate when common language is not an option. That, and a big smile.

I have now been taking a Vietnamese language course for around two weeks, and though I do not know much, I definitely feel more confident going out on my own and speaking with local people. Today, my teacher brought our class to the university nearby so that we could speak with students and practice our Vietnamese. The young woman that I met is studying English at her university, so it worked out nicely that we could practice together! We also spoke about music, and connected with both of our favorite genres being indie.

Playing the đàn bầu in the Mekong Delta, Vietnam [Ren Workman] My Music Teacher [Ren Workman]

I find that when language is a barrier to a situation, whether it be in a restaurant or communicating with someone on the street, smiles always help. If you are not sure whether you are correct, you can always just smile and nod. Smiles, along with music, have become my secret weapons through which I navigate Vietnam.

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Part of my experience here in Saigon has been studying đàn bầu at Phuong Bao Music. I have taken four lessons with my instructor, who is a professional musician. Since I do not know much Vietnamese, and she has limited English, we enjoy each other’s company and communicate mostly through playing music together.

When I play a wrong note, she very clearly says “không (no),” or if I do something correct, she says “đúng rồi! (correct!)” However, when it comes to explaining how to do new things, she sits in the chair, plays the instrument with ease, and always smiles at me with encouragement. I sit in the chair and surely do things incorrectly the first time. But she continuously pushes me forward by singing the tune while I play.

Sometimes, she will play đàn tranh while I play đàn bầu, and we sit there with big grins enjoying the harmonies we create.

I find that many people whose first language is English have difficulty trying to communicate in any other language, myself included. Learning another language is difficult, but going at it with a combination of humility and confidence can help so much. And when all else fails, just smile...and maybe play a little tune.

- Ren Workman

This past weekend, we took a trip to the Mekong Delta. It was filled with new experiences, delicious food, and wise people. My favorite part of the whole weekend, however, was when local musicians visited our homestay to perform for us. Our guide explained to us before each song what we could expect the next one to be about. Though the performance was not in English, we could feel the passion of the music.

Finally, last night I had the incredible opportunity to perform with my good friend, Stephen, at a charity event hosted by Vietnamese Language Studies (our language school). The event raised money for a MidAutumn Charity Trip for underprivileged children. At this event, people came together for a good cause through music. People sang in English, Vietnamese, and Korean. In this atmosphere, music was the glue that brought us all together. Endless smiles, laughs, and joys were shared.

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Verse & Vision I

For Galway We sat in the café that doubled as a pub A pub with coal in the fireplace And men and women drinking quietly with That same liquid dripping off their lips and I laughed and sighed and rolled my eyes Those nights full of empty glasses Words sung at the top of lungs The walk on the broken sidewalk the next morning Next to the moving river and broken weeds In the field where we would recognize Then dirt that rests upon my broken soles the Grass that falls into my jacket pocket The music from the violin of that girl on the street that covers My ears in sweet melody And I will miss that too and I will miss you

Coffee to Start the Day [Kayli Ennis] Landscape in Connemara, Ireland [Abigail Hollander]

They said the grass was greener on the other side And quickly gasp over the scarce spotty rainbow, but here I Sigh at the rain then look out from my little room to see those colors in The sky everyday, almost everyday After the hail Then the rain, and the waves crashing over the rocks On the beach and the music And the music and the smiles With the Guinness in your teeth And the water and the wind With the boats rocking between it Still stuck on their moorings I will miss you and I will miss you 60 The Aleph

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I want to cover myself in the colored houses And the bread and butter that tastes a bit better And the dancers that jump on the stage And the music that floods the ears of the bartender The cobblestone never felt so fresh on my feet And the Claddagh was filled with waterfalls Little secrets and places to hide That old record store with instruments and books Every street was like a song; colorful and melody covered And the only way to walk was to sing Now I wear you around my finger Hands holding a heart Heart holding a crown A silver ring that shines under the spots of sun Afternoon Tea at Cupán Tae in Galway, Ireland [Molly Englert] Swans on Galway Bay [Maire Keane]

That they said didn’t exist But even here I sighNothing will be good enough to say in a poem I could say the streets were breathing But this won’t tell you how alive Here’s to the simple try, Arms open wide: I love you and I love you - Kelly Kenlon

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Conversation, Grazalema, Spain [Lauren Downes]

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Girraween National Park, Australia [Katherine Christopher] Bottom: New Zealand Countryside [Rebecca Via]

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Field in Northwest Vietnam [Allison Borek]

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Crossings I

American Fluff and My Danish Host Siblings [Alyssa Kelly]

I Have a Question for the Special Guest from America Studying abroad, everyone warned me, would present extreme highs and lows. The highs make the journey more than worthwhile, but the lows are often overlooked and rarely reported. The fear of missing out occasionally haunted my mind as I wondered what excitement I was missing back home in America.

These emotions are the truth of travel - days can be lonely and homesickness presents itself even in times of novel exploration. I did not, however, realize how happy I have been until I was asked to reflect on the opposite sentiment.

My ears were filled with piercing shouts and the banging of chairs echoing throughout this tiny crowded room decorated with alphabet poems and animal rhymes. I reminded myself to feel less like a scary foreigner. The cheery young, blonde Danish teacher translated silly question after question that the third graders inquired about American culture, covering topics that ranged from Donald Trump to the “whip and nae-nae.” I surprisingly responded with laughter and ease regardless of the fact that I could not communicate directly with the nine yearolds, as I was invited as a special guest to visit my host sister’s classroom as a way of presenting English language and culture from the US. Having recognized my discomfort with entering situations in which I am unprepared, I had practiced conventional and simple answers to summarize my home country.

I was immediately thrown into the shark tank from the instant I arrived, greeted by 20 enthusiastic children bouncing off the walls, playfully hitting me

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with toy swords, and tossing paper airplanes into my lap. I finally felt that I had been accepted by the kids when I receive a marriage proposal from the class clown. The classroom brought back fond memories of my own educational upbringing with posters of the alphabet proudly hung across the sunny orange walls and vowel charts deliberately tacked to the back of each child’s tiny plastic chair. I couldn’t help but notice the absence of rubrics and red pen-marked grades on returned assignments - details I strongly associate with the American schooling system. When the teacher called on a young boy named Benjamin, the mood in the classroom shifted and her face darkened in response to his high-pitched innocent voice. Whispered giggles were replaced by an eerie hush that seemed to captivate every student’s attention.

“He has somewhat of a serious question for you, Elise,” the teacher informed me. I smiled, ready to again answer that I do not have a husband, a house, nor a pet fish (“like Nemo”). I was shocked by the question that followed.

“What is the saddest thing that has ever happened in your life?”

With rows of curious nine-year old eyes staring into mine, I struggled to keep emotions from dancing across my face. Immediately my heart sank as I recalled my grandfather’s funeral, a recent painful breakup, and numerous other private tragedies that I have faced. Sneaking a quick glance at Benjamin, I was slightly frustrated that this blue-eyed, blondehaired child would ask such a personal question in the cheerful and easygoing classroom environment, until I realized that for a third grader this was an incredibly insightful and mature inquiry.

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Benjamin’s small eyebrows raised slightly as if challenging me for an answer; an action displaying the Danish principle of equality in embracing honest interactions across positions of authority. Educators in the school prefer their first name without any form of prefix hinting at hierarchy, a concept foreign to an American like myself who has always referred to teachers as “Mr.,” “Mrs.,” or even “Professor.” In addition to minimized formalities between students and teachers, the Danish educational system places an overarching focus on the importance of teaching for the sake of lifelong learning, not simply for the temporary knowledge necessary to pass a test in the course. This principle dates back to the ideas of 17th century Danish philosopher Gruntvig, and these influences are clear in the Lyngby Elementary School.

The students in the classroom had shown up for an English language lesson and arrived eager to meet the “exotic” American host sister of their classmate, but they had evolved their thought processes with the natural flow of opportunity. Curiosity stemmed not from cramming information that may be represented on the next examination, but instead from the fascination of learning that can be applied across cultures and among people.

“Well, as you all know, I am studying abroad in Denmark…” I stalled my answer to Benjamin’s question, frantically searching for a way to spin my response in an honest yet positive direction. “It is hard to be away from home. I miss my family and friends every day.” I discovered that as I continued, I experienced a revelation in reflecting on my current mindset.

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Crossings II Traveling to Denmark is a great opportunity and has taught me about myself in many ways already.” As I rambled on, unaware that the children most likely did not understand the majority of what I was saying, I recognized how truly fortunate I was to be standing in that obscure Danish classroom.

Studying abroad is hard. No one said moving across the world would be a flawless transition, but maybe we should encourage more visits to schools in order to gain a true grasp on our emotions. I was unaware of my own happiness in its entirety until the moment I was asked to count my sorrows instead of my blessings. Children’s author A.A. Milne once said, “How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” In traveling abroad, I recommend acknowledging what is left behind in order to embrace the future in its entirety as it comes. Winnie the Pooh, and Danish third graders, certainly know how to put it best.

- Elise Wyatt Boat off the Cornish Coast of England [Alex Kerai]

Just a Little Bit of Luck In Vietnam, it is considered good luck to have a cockroach fly towards you and many people are rewarded with money when that happens. My buddy, Tram, received 100,000 dong from her aunt when she became the insect’s target, but I wasn’t sure I wanted that experience. Even for the extra spending money.

And that’s just a myth, right? Cockroaches can’t cause good luck. Well, after my adventures last Sunday, I might have to change my mind.

Following a full week of classes and constant movement, we finally had a free day. Our ears were spared the subtle tune of “Here Comes the Sun” that usually blasts through my phone at 7:20am. Instead, we were greeted with silence. After a few hours of extra sleep, Danielle and I strolled down Alley 18 to find some breakfast Phở Gà (Vietnamese soup). I take mine sweetened with lime and a daring drip of chili. From our metal stools in the foyer of the cook’s family home, we could feel the gentle morning breeze wafting through the alley, a welcome change from the still humidity that hung in the air the week before.

The caged songbirds sang across the alley, mixing with the chatter of two older men concocting their own bowls of Phở on the front stoop. The voice of the MMA announcer rang from the TV playing in the family’s living room, clashing with a Spanish opera sounding overhead. A sensory explosion.

After a quick cà phê sữa đá to boost my step, we hailed a taxi to Pham Van Hai Market. We planned to meet Chon, the translator from the restaurant we visited the other day. She wore the most beautiful áo dài (traditional Vietnamese dress), white with bright flowers that perfectly complemented her porcelain

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face. She was simply stunning. We knew she would be the best person to help us shop for our own áo dài’s.

Floating Market in the Mekong Delta, Vietnam [Sarah Kloos] Buddhist Monks in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam [Ren Workman]

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When we arrived, I could see her bright smile and waving hands running to greet us through a sea of parked motorbikes. Weaving through market stalls, she directed us to a small shop no bigger than my bedroom at the guest house. The walls were plastered from ceiling to floor with blazing colors and patterns, completely overpowering the seven tall, white American girls standing wide-eyed in the center.

It was captivating. As each of us chose fabric and changed in the back, language flew from Chon to the workers in rapid fire. The blue and peach áo dài I tried on first made me “look too old” according to Chon and the audience of women that had appeared to see the show. I felt beautiful in it, but I guess that wasn’t the point. On to the next one. I settled for a white áo dài with red flowers that made the women cheer.

Their only suggestion: “must wear push up bra. More!

More!” Brutally honest.

While we waited for Danielle to get her áo dài tailored, which took 20 minutes and was included in the cost, Chon walked us down a few stalls to get some market treats. Sitting cramped together on blue plastic stools in the middle of a monsoon, one of the girls said “this is so Nam right now.” I had to agree. We passed plates of ice-covered flan and sipped tentatively from market “cocktails” that remained full after a complete pass. Mrs. Gia stationed herself in the middle of the crowd, eating all of the leftovers that we couldn’t stomach. Market-goers stared at the foreign group.

The fact that we were American students became even more obvious when cockroaches began to seep from the bubbling drains. One flew onto my hand and I almost punched Jaqueline in the face trying to get it off. As more bugs crawled from the drain, the girls scattered. We stuck out like a spotlight in a deserted forest. a journal of global perspectives

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Once the rain began to slow, Chon hailed a taxi for Danielle and me. We planned to meet Chuong Dang, owner of The Fish Sauce, who had graciously invited us for a private cooking lesson at 3:00pm. I am extremely grateful that he cut out four hours of his day to teach us the southern style of Bun Bo, share the meal we created in his restaurant with a few honored guests, and offer his words of wisdom. All without cost. He was even opening a new restaurant the next week! His generosity and pure interest in teaching made the experience that much more beautiful. This was no session on Hell’s Kitchen. He spoke gently, laughed when necessary and stepped back to allow the junior cooks to test the fire. Literally. When frying up some beef and lemongrass, I almost lost the hair on my arms. My eyebrows rose in surprise while Chuong gave me a questioning look. I grinned widely in response, assuring him that I was in control of the pan. Huge flames? No problem.

Two students, one master chef, one co-owner, and two honored guests sat majestically under the stars for hours tasting the best meal I have eaten in Saigon.

And the best part: we prepared all of the food just moments before. Chuong even brought out some of his key lime cheesecake and poured green tea for the table. I cannot wait to bring my dad and David back to The Fish Sauce in December to meet the chef that welcomed me into his home and opened his heart.

As Americans, the very thought of cockroaches makes us squirm. I would never willingly approach one, but a small piece of me is grateful for the flying insect that granted me its luck in the market. Days like these unlocked the cage surrounding me, allowing the life, love, and spirit of Saigon to soften my heart. My eyes are open and searching for more luck to fly my way.

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Crossings III

Anywhere Three months may seem like a long time, but the day I woke up to leave Norwich, England I felt like I had just left the States yesterday. By no means did I do it all, but I would say I got a lot done. The most important thing I did in my time abroad was learn to love Norwich.

I texted my mom the night before: “I am so sad to go.

But I feel done. I am happy with what I got done while I was here.” That is the most important point. I was here.

I went from Los Angeles, CA to Geneva, NY 3 years ago on a whim. Before attending Hobart and William Smith Colleges I had never left my home state. Yet, the same magic that happened at HWS happened at the University of East Anglia - I called Norwich home.

Every day was something new, and it was exciting.

The people I met here were the greatest part of this experience, hands down. I met new friends and I feel like I formed lifelong friendships. I joked that I came here to be an American Icon. I think I sure did come close.

I really did try to enjoy my night but I could not manage a smile as the friends I had made approached me to say their goodbyes. Granted, nearly everyone at the LCR was pissed but it was this aura of adolescence, grime, and camaraderie that made UEA such a special place to me. I will forever laugh at the screams of “spilling as licking”, “tossing VKs”, and of course, “Oi Oi!” The Brits I met here were the defining factor in making my semester at UEA one of the greatest times of my life. My flatmates, in particular, always made me feel at home and so important to them.

It was endearing, and honestly heartbreaking, as I had to start saying goodbye to them in the last few weeks. My floor was my home, and my friends here became family. From peers, to club members, to

Dean Village, Edinburgh, Scotland [Colin Spencer]

The night before I flew out I went to the LCR, UEA’s on-campus club, for the end-of-term Christmas party.

While dozens of “freshers” were celebrating the end of their first term at uni, my heart was breaking. I remember crying in the club as “No Place I’d Rather Be” by Clean Bandit pulsed throughout the room. It was a reminder that the most invigorating 3 months of my life were ending in less than an hour.

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View of Bath, England [Sean G. Burke] strangers I met on the street, each person enriched my experience. Whether it was me trying to copy a British accent (and failing), saying “Oh my Gad!” or learning how to properly queue for the bus, there are so many things from being here that I will take back with me. I cannot be more thankful for having been part of some of these people’s first-ever semester in college.

I could spend all day writing down a list of the people who made my time here amazing, but that wouldn’t do justice to the depth and effect they really had on me. Although I’m a junior in college, I still grew so much alongside the freshers I met. I was there for many of their firsts, just like they witnessed many of my firsts in a new national context. To say I’ll miss them is an understatement - I loved my friends here so much.

I hate saying goodbye, but I vow that this is only a “see you later” to Norwich and the gems I’m leaving behind.

- William Samayoa

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Crossings IV

Going to the Beach I thought it was just going to be a nice trip to the beach. Really, it’s all Josie’s fault; I never would’ve taken this day-drunk vacation if she hadn’t run out on me with that Neanderlithic yoga instructor (damn you, Josie, you never even liked yoga). But there I was walking the boardwalk of the Lost Flamingo Hotel—a heat-bleached resort catered to the needs of “retired singles that mingle”—the sun irradiating the white sand, all those rippling blades of heat, my flip flops turning to plastic goo. I’d left Orlando (that swamp of neon-colored garbage) and headed to the less populated beaches of north Florida where the waters are just as blue but more transparent, like a sheet of teal glass. I had been hoping to meet someone in their forties or, maybe, fifties to help me bury the youthful but sad-eyed visage of Josie Hurtzinwitz. Three weeks she’d been gone and here I was on the burning sand.

Through my sunglasses, I peered at the two dozen or so retirees sizzling like pink hot dogs. Their purple and gray hair, poodlish and chemicaled, dredged up memories of my mother, the late Doris Schliskey.

Doris, tough old girl (really unbearably stubborn and right about everything), was only one of two members to escape with her family’s name from Poland. Like an illicit package, she had been smuggled out in 1938, sent to the address of an old family friend in Liverpool where, if need be, Doris could pass as the genuine English article. Her brother Josef, however, had not been so fortunately blessed.

With wiry hair and almost black eyes, he was the other survivor of the Schliskey name. I remember Uncle Josef as a tall, funny man who, no matter how much weight he gained, always had a skeleton’s gaze. Josef who said nothing about the War, and Doris who, year 84 The Aleph

after year, told us in that low Polish murmur, “Don’t tell nobody you’re Jewish. This is why we don’t go to synagogue.”

Thank god I never had kids (another thing Josie had “evolved” her thinking on). In desperation, I charted a direct course to the water. I couldn’t fry all day without at least taking a dip in the lukewarm Gulf, maybe even swim a few laps to show the old ladies I still had the stuff. But once I got waist deep, a large fish floated by with a huge raw bite taken out of its midsection, perfectly semicircular as if the chomp through flesh and bone had been effortless. Stamp of prey, I thought to myself. Suddenly, the water felt much deeper and darker. I was back on the beach without even having gotten my chest hairs wet. The ocean was dead to me, perhaps permanently, and amongst the women there were no real prospects.

I scooped up my belongings (Coke and Crown Royal and some Robert Heinlein, mostly for effect) and hot-potatoed across the scalding beach toward the confetti of concrete buildings and billboards eating its way into the sand.

Back at the Lost Flamingo I watched some pay-perview wrestling followed by some pay-per-view porn.

Somewhere around the orgy scene and the fourth whiskey and Coke, I realized I had made a mistake. If I were a younger man, I would chase after each woman who left a yawning blue day in my door. I would go out with a bang—a row of over-electrified marquee lights, festooning the name of some spectacular final show!… Instead, I chose to pack my bags. Josie always had the knack for planning vacations.

On my way out of town, the traffic was stalled for miles. From the other cars came fanning and perspiring whispers of an over-turned 18-wheeler. a journal of global perspectives

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I killed the motor and looked out my window. To the south, across the other lane, was the Gulf of Mexico, a silvery endlessness, writhing, wrathful, all-forgiving and all-ignorant. And to the north lay the massive maw of the grand American continent, waiting to swallow my bones into corn. How many years left, I thought, fifteen…twenty? That’s when I felt my passenger door swing open and slam shut with such force that I nearly banged my head against the ceiling of my Mercedes. I looked to my new passenger, half expecting to be mugged or threatened, or both, and saw an Asian girl, scrawny and scavenger-eyed, gazing in my side mirror. Her whole body trembled; she had no shoes, baggy sweatpants, and a gray t-shirt many sizes too big with a fresh red spatter around the neckline.

“Uhh, now Miss,” she turned toward me for the first time, “I don’t know what you’re think—” “Please,” she said between pants, “please help.”

“Help you? What do you want me to do?”

“Drive ot’er way.” And she pointed toward the empty stretch of highway blowing behind us.

“Look look, slow down. What happened? Did you have a fight with your boyfriend or—”

“Please—please!” She kneaded her hands, nearly shoving them in my face and crying, “Drive off now.

He find me!” The reality of the situation reeked in her breath and weeks-old clothes, the giant t-shirt with the picture of some movie star pirate covering what was clearly the body of a young woman. And those eyes, too young to be so heavy, they slowly swung around, as if following the shadow of an eclipsing 86 The Aleph

hawk. I looked ahead to a stocky, shaven-headed man limping down the highway and peering in the cars stuck in traffic. He walked with the truculent step of authority; only he didn’t look like any police officer I’d seen before. He had on a dark, featureless uniform, but there was no badge, no belt.

“You were in that accident up there, weren’t you?” She slowly nodded her head. “And you know that man?”

I pointed to the 250 pounds of military-looking meat approaching my car.

“Master,” she whispered. Through all the fright, she was still beautiful: a poreless, ivory face and almondshaped eyes with centers that were, surprisingly, almost green. I peered into those eyes and somehow saw Josie Hurtzinwitz’s hazel gaze staring back at me—that intense and furrowed brow whenever

Nelson Lake National Park, New Zealand [Lauren St. Peter]

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I complained about attending the annual charity banquets or wanting to shortchange (just a little) the monthly contributions to the ACLU. “Think of what your mother went through,” Josie would say, which was ironic because Mom loathed Josie in the beginning. “Too young,” she used to gripe, “just wants to be a trophy,” which was partly true, but she grew to like Josie, even love her, especially in the end when things got really bad for Mom. “You planned the accident?” I asked the young girl.

She shook her head. “No—fate.”

Fate—didn’t Uncle Josef say something about the Jewish people and that horrible word? Before I could finish my thought, the girl jerked her head forward, screaming and pointing: the man with the shaved head had spotted her and was marching toward us.

I threw my sedan in drive and yanked the wheel all the way over. He was maybe ten feet away when I somehow maneuvered the big Mercedes out of the endless vertebrae of stopped cars. I just had to drive across the grassy median to get to the other side, but the bald brute punched his fists into the hood of my car and bared his yellow teeth. He took a step back, pointed at the girl and with his other hand reached for something at his waistline, or…that’s what it looked like. Microseconds blurred. To my amazement, my foot stomped the accelerator. The shaven-headed fellow didn’t get out of the way in time. I heard the shattering peal of the girl’s scream, and everything went red. I remember hitting a deer once when I was seventeen-years-old, that indelible crunch of bone against metal and glass. When my vision came back, he was in the air above the sunroof, whirling.

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over the unmowed median toward the other side of the highway, the wild grass switching and snapping against us. We were now heading west, deeper into the dark-soiled heartland. I looked back and saw the large man facedown—a small crowd gathered. As we sped away, I kept him in my side mirror. He became a motionless dot surrounded by other dots, then disappeared altogether.

Sweat covered my forehead as I turned the moments over, one by one. Turn around, I thought, call the police, do something! But I kept driving, the hypnotic ribbon of highway unspooling in front of me. Faster and faster. Please god, I prayed, just let me get home and I’ll never vacation again. I looked to the young girl: her face burned with tears, and I saw there was more than just fear in that grimace—there was the germ of something much grimmer, something called rage.

“So this master fellow,” her sobbing quieted some, “he the guy we left on the road back there?” She said nothing. “Look, I know you got problems but you gotta start providing some answers, or else I’m going to leave you on the side of this goddamn highway. It’s not every day I run someone over.”

She swallowed hard, still staring directly ahead.

“No, he work for master. Very mean,” and after a second added, “master have many girl. Too many.”

She fidgeted with the drawstring of her baggy sweatpants.

“Many girls—what do you mean too many?”

She shivered, said nothing.

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My god, I thought, were there going to be more than just police looking for me? The taste of bile boiled up in the back of my throat, and that ribbon of black highway that had been guiding us was starting to slither and morph in front of my eyes. I spotted a sign for a scenic overlook to the right and steered my car onto the sandy, unpaved road. The overlook was maybe a quarter mile from the highway, far enough not to be noticed. The parking lot lay cramped between a couple of monstrous, moss-covered oaks, of the kind that aren’t often seen near the beach anymore. There was enough space for my car and maybe three others, but it was just us. The elephantsized boughs draped over everything else. I cut the engine, and she looked at me.

“Well that’s good…” I was still gazing at the unspoiled beach.

“What you look at?”

“What am I looking at?” Again, she nodded her head.

“The future.”

“What you see?”

It was asked with a kind of innocence that I didn’t expect from somebody in her predicament. What did I see—in the future I saw my past. I saw Josie crying by my mother’s hospital bed, that regal brow that

“What,” her face was still raw from crying, “why you stop?”

Without answering her, I got out of my car, leaving the door open in a daze, and surveyed the damage done to the front. A dented hood, smashed passenger headlight, the windshield a spiderweb of red fractures. Had I been driving that fast? Surely not. I briefly entertained the idea of insurance covering it (how absurd now) then came to my senses and sat on the ruined hood. After a minute, the girl got out of the car and stood by the side of it with her arms folded, staring at the beach with me. It was a breathtaking view of white sand against an infinite blue (the oaks shading us from sun). But there was something obscene about the tiny, manmade overlook, just a mound built up against the endless licking of the waves.

“You okay?” I finally asked.

She quickly nodded her head.

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buried her eyes in sadness. “Why am I here with your mother every night, huh? Where are you—where are you?” My mother lying motionless there, dwarfed by blinking machines, tubes protruding from her gray body. I had checked out, Josie, that’s where, fallen back while you held her hand to make the tough decisions. But why didn’t I offer to help when you glared at me? Why did I feel, instead of pity, relief that after all those years the last energies of my mother were being squeezed out of her? What I told the Asian girl was: “Something impenetrably murky and full of death.”

“What?”

“Nothing…” Impossible to explain these things. “It’s just the Gulf.”

“Gof?”

muddy roads. But not here. “You’re welcome,” was all that came out. Sometimes there’s nothing more eloquent to say. “So where’s home?” I asked.

“Laos.”

“Where?”

She repeated her answer.

Laos? Where was that country again—Southeast Asia somewhere (certainly no place Josie ever took us).

“And that man back there, is he the one that took you?”

“No. Ot’ers sell me.”

“Sell you?”

“Yes.” “Not ocean, not—” she struggled with the word, “Pahsific?”

North Stradbroke Island, Queensland, Australia [Shannon Collins]

“You’re a long way from there, sweetie.”

“What?”

But I could tell she got the gist of what I meant, and her expression fell. After a moment, she approached a little closer, sat on the hood next to me and stared at the lapping of the water. “T’ank you,” she said.

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She nodded her head. “Taken from my home. Taken from mother.” A long, cloudy tear cut her cheek in half. “Sisters,” she whispered.

“You have sisters,” she nodded her head, wiping away the tears. “How many?”

“T’ree,” she blurted out, and this brought a small smile to her face.

“Is it pretty where they live?”

She nodded her head vigorously, as if trying not to forget. “Yes, very pretty, very pretty.” She searched for the words: “Many mountain and…green.”

“Many mountain and green,” I repeated to myself, the only words she had in the English language to describe her home. One noun and one color, that’s home. The way she looked now was, I’m sure, nothing like her true self. The gold-toothed grin of the antihero pirate (what was he smiling about?), this giant t-shirt blowing in the wind like a sail. Really, she was small enough for that wind to pick her up and send her flying to the Caribbean. And you’d be the lucky one, I thought.

We returned to the highway, and I continued west.

The other side was even more blocked up now. What the living hell to do? The thought crept into my head: Josie would know. No—no way I could involve her. I didn’t even know where she was. I was beginning to feel nauseated when Chanmali blurted out, “What’s ot’er word?”

“What word?”

“For me,” and she spread her hands in front of her, keeping them still, as if to indicate more than just herself.

Somehow that one gesture clarified things. “For slavery?”

“Yes. New word.”

Lazy Day at the Beach, South Africa [Teianna Chenkovich]

“What’s your name?,” I finally asked.

“Chanmali.”

“Chanmali?,” I asked, putting a strong accent on the last syllable. She nodded her head. “I’m Mark.” I extended my hand, but she just stared at it like it was a cold fish (must not be their custom, I told myself).

“We had better get back on the road,” I said, not wanting to explain to her why. But she understood.

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My mind was swimming in black, as she eagerly looked on. “I—I’m sorry. I don’t know.” She deflated, slouching back in her seat. But when she looked out the window, the stopped-up traffic jarred her memory. She tapped on the glass for me to see, eyes wide and green.

Horses Running Free in Siberia [Katie Allen]

“Ah,” I said. “Human traffic.”

“Yes, right word,” she grimaced as if tasting something very bitter. “I am traffic.”

“Traffic,” I said to myself, “My god, you’re right. Where did you learn that one?” But she didn’t respond. I believe she was transfixed by the richness of all the automobiles united in near perpetual immobility, as if she’d never seen so many before, each like a jewel on an endless necklace to nowhere. Then I noticed the blood spreading across my broken windshield.

I thought about the girl’s tormentor, lying prone on the side of the highway. No doubt there were plenty of witnesses. Was I going to be wanted for murder, or just manslaughter? Should I turn myself in before I saw the fast red and blue lights screaming up behind me? Any minute now, I thought. Any minute…

“Where are we,” she asked, pointing at the cars out the window, “where traffic go?”

“The beach,” I said between gritted teeth, the noose of reality tightening around my neck. “They’re just going to the beach.”

- Jeff Dingler

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Attentive Monkey, Vietnam [Ryan Montbleau] Burano, Italy [Kristen Landre]

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Lighthouse, Akranes, Iceland [Meghan Cloutier] Prague, Czech Republic [John Kodera]

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Nyhavn, Copenhagen, Denmark [Lauren St. Peter] Fisherman on Long Hai Beach, Vietnam [Benjamin Schroeder]

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Rainbow Mountain, Peru [Elizabeth Anderson] Street Scene in Osaka, Japan [Maxwell Fisher]

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Galway Bay, Ireland [Maeve Williams] Potter’s Workshop in Seville, Spain [Lindsey Hunt]

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Awe-rora Borealis [Alyssa Kelly] Cinque Terre, Italy [Kyra M. Detone]

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Worn Wall, Vietnam [Benjamin Schroeder]

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Left to Her Own Devices, Vietnam [Kelsey Rowley] Colmar, France [Noelle Nichols]

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Surveying the Landscape, New Zealand [Lauren Gibson] Mount Cook National Park, Aoraki, New Zealand [Elizabeth Cilia]

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This Page: Views of Southern France Facing: Reading Alan [Caroline Mackin]

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Sketchbook

This Page and Facing: The Hidden Gems of Spain [Lauren Downes]

Florence Up Close [Isa Akerfeldt-Howard]

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Verse & Vision II

Tig Choili

The Long Walk, Galway, Ireland [Maeve Williams]

I listen to the music as it puts me in a trance, I feel as though my feet are itching for another dance.

The bow flies back and forth, gliding on the strings, Sweet melodies flood the room, making ears ring.

Feet tap the floor, driving home the beat, Some songs bright and lively while others bittersweet.

Laughter creeps from corners afar, smiling faces sitting near, Everywhere I turn is filled with an infectious cheer.

In a dark room it’s surprising that there is so much light, Coming from the hearts and souls of those who love the night.

There is peace and adventure all rolled into one, In this evening as I sit here and talk to everyone.

The night flies by and now I must run along, But there is no place I’d rather be, than here listening to this song.

- Sarah Underwood

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Observatory, Cerro Tololo, Chile [Taylor Gorycki]

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The Colosseum, Rome, Italy [Natalie Powers] Plaza de España, Seville, Spain [Ellis Linsmith]

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Trevi Fountain, Rome, Italy [Mikaela Benny] The Parthenon on the Acropolis, Athens, Greece [Samantha Collins]

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From My Journal I

Exploring Sweden With My host siblings [Sarah Walters]

Staying: A Reflection on Studying Abroad

3 March 19:00, day 49 abroad F*** dig! His words rang out radially, cutting deep in everyone’s chest although not aimed at any of us. Two fists slammed down in synch with as much force a 13-year-old could muster, the silverware and candlesticks clanging. Throwing his napkin down like an unwilling surrender flag, he stormed out of the dining room. The sound of his door slamming was heard soon after.

14 January 10:00, first day abroad

My study abroad experience at DIS was not what I expected. Staying in a homestay with a Danish family was not the hygge experience I had anticipated.

With my host siblings navigating the aftermath of a divorce, hygge wasn’t found in brunches, candlelit dinners, or fuzzy blankets. Rather, it was found in smaller fleeting moments, better defined by a lack of chaos than the presence of anything.

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“I know someone last year who got stuck with an old couple who never spoke to her,” a student remarked, boasting of their knowledge. Fear begins to slowly creep into my head as I picture a miserable semester abroad stuck with an unsociable host family. I try to shake it off, remembering all the Google searches about the importance of family and hygge. The comforting thoughts vanish as my name is called; my new family has arrived.

I nervously pull my suitcase behind me, searching the faces of Danish families I pass for some expression of recognition silently pleading for someone - anyone - other than the well-dressed somber old man on the couch. I approach the DIS staff member who, smiling, hands me a blue folder. “They’re right over there,” she points. I turn to see a slim woman in a dark pencil skirt and silky blouse waving at me. Her wavy blonde hair is pulled into a bun and a pair of glasses rest above her forehead keeping stray strands from obstructing her sight. I almost don’t notice the 10-year-old bullet, with gold curly-hair, bee-lining straight for me. I am knocked over by the babbling blur: Hej-my-name-is-Care-oh-lee-nuh-but-you-cancall-me-Caroline-and-I’ve-always-wanted-a-sister.

Holding her in a rather fierce hug I wonder, is this hygge?

24 February 8:30, day 42 abroad Please, please, please don’t go! The 10 -year-old begs in an embrace similar to the first time we met. Like a broken record track I remind her I have to go, it’s a trip for school, no I can’t skip. Her brother is standing at the end of the hallway, his lanky arms crossed in bitterness. He won’t say it, but I know it’s not me he’s upset with. This was the first weekend I wouldn’t be home to babysit for their imaginative excuses opting out of staying at fars hus. Sometimes it was because Caroline “ate too many blueberries and I have to stay home” or Max had “a very, very important basket game I have to prepare.”

I wrestle out of her embrace shooing her off and return to packing. A tell-tale knock on the door tells me I’m about to have another heart-to-heart with Max. He walks in and sits on the bed silently for a moment. “Mor says family is important.” He pauses. “I think she is right about a lot of things. I am not sure she is right about our dad.” I study him carefully. He makes no attempt to raise his magnified eyes framed by his thick “hipster” glasses to meet mine. I sit next to him and instead of the usual sitting in silence I pull him in for a hug.

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“I think your mom is right when she says family is important. Sometimes family is complicated, there will be good days and bad days. But family is loving each other even on bad days.” Max mumbled a retort lost in my armpit. “What was that?”

“There are too many bad days,” he said, coming up for air.

We sit in silence a bit. “Want to watch me play Counter-Strike?” He signals. It was our code for moving on. I sit on the worn out American-flag blanket on his bed as he ceremonially places his bulky black headphones over his small head. He spins in his fancy leather office chair a few times grinning mischievously before beginning. I watch him sneak around the poor graphics, the screen is spattered in red virtual blood now and then as he jumps in surprise or laughs in helpless defeat. As usual, he turns around after each death to make sure I’m still watching, and continues to insist he is still a very good player - better than his friends - as if I would leave him for not being good enough. As usual, I stay.

Edinburgh Castle, Scotland [Colin Spencer]

5 March 15:00, day 51 abroad Caroline is crying; my limited knowledge of Danish is of no use for her distraught words that sound more like wails. Her twisted, pale face is blotchy and tear-stained and she sits cross-legged on her pink bed clutching an old stuffed lamb, her “teddy bear.”

I check my phone trying to gauge how much time I have to work with before my host mom comes home.

Two hours. I’ve worked with less before. “Hey hey hey,” I say to her as if I’m approaching a wild dog. “You have to slow down, I promise I’ll listen.”

Between sobs I am able to connect the dots. Her father had shown off the decorations and plans for his kærestes daughter’s confirmation. They were beautiful, and there would be kage, and everyone was going to be there…but she and Max were never invited.

Once she had finished detailing her story, in proper Caroline fashion her sniffling came to a sudden halt.

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She looked up and said “I need to do a musical.ly.”

She wiped her tears as if it was the face paint of a character she no longer wanted to be, and fumbled for her iPhone 5 (which wasn’t the rose gold 6S, pointing out once again that her birthday was coming up). She opens the musical.ly app and begins lip-synching to Selena Gomez and Sia nodding her head, flipping her hair, and moving her hands in some kind of pop sign language, dabbing now and then. I shake my head laughing and feeling old at not understanding “kids these days”. She sternly hushed me, saying I was distracting her but when I move to go she pulls me back to the bed, asking if I would hold the camera. As usual, I stay.

31 March 22:00, day 77 abroad

Village in Southern Spain [Anjali Mehta]

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“I thought when they got older he would get more interested in them. If anything I think it might be worse now. Did I tell you about the confirmation incident?” I nod as my host mom sips on her glass of red wine, setting it down next to a crumb-covered Royal Copenhagen plate. The candlelight bounces shadows in a festive manner. The house is unusually quiet since the kids are at their dad’s. “I went for a drive - so bad for the environment I know - but when I came back I decided I was taking the kids right then and I would figure the rest out.” Her tone wasn’t emotional or angry; if anything it was matter-offact. Her composure contrasted drastically with the emotional states of Caroline and Max when speaking of their father. “Oh Miss Sophie, you must let me know when you’re a mother.” An unspoken thought crossed her face as her blue eyes glazed a bit. She reaches for her glass again, and in Caroline fashion suddenly

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switches topics. “It’s nice to have another adult around to talk to” she says, taking a deep sip.

I unsuccessfully fight back a yawn, the dim light seeming to get dimmer and dimmer as my body begged me to go to bed. She laughs at me with a flicker of disappointment not many would catch, “I don’t mean to keep you up. You can go to sleep.” I shake my head, almost at myself for betraying my exhaustion. I reach for my own glass, half forgotten and half full, and summon all remaining energy to keep me awake. “No, no I’m fine,” I say feigning reassurance. As usual, I stay.

My time abroad has helped me to see through superficial cultural differences between families in different societies. It’s easy to notice the differences and stereotypic features at first glance. But the challenges families face in the US are the same problems families halfway around the world in Denmark face. Life happens.

I didn’t expect my presence with my host family to play such a crucial role in forming a support system for them. I didn’t expect them to need a support system whatsoever; I thought I would be the one relying on them navigating my first experience abroad. Simply staying by their sides when things got hard was more than enough because they each felt alone in processing the divorce. Having an important person leave your life isn’t easy no matter what country you live in, and neither is asking for assurance and company from a new person in your home.

Lone Tree in Field [Huruizhen Qin]

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From My Journal II

Friends of Queen’s Wood

To be honest, I can’t tell you what will happen when I return to the States. During one of our late-night wine talks my host mom once spoke about a beloved co-worker who was leaving her workplace, “I feel like there are these people who come into your life and I’m rather indifferent. But then there are these people who leave your life and I think yes, you matter and it will be different when you are gone.”

September 6, 2016, 12:03 pm.

I hope that when I stayed with each member of my host family when they were struggling that it mattered, that it made a difference. And I hope that although things will be different they too can find those small ways to be there for each other, even if it’s just Counter-Strike sessions or sporadic musical.ly hand dances.

And even though it’s a losing battle, In the end It doesn’t have to be So bad.

- Sophia Melvin

I needed to have a think in a horizontal position.

And the graying man gave me a gift That it’s my turn to fight gravity-More evenly.

This is a journal entry from one of the many adventures to the Fox residence for my theater course.

Each trip was the same. The same Tube lines: Russell Square to Kings Cross on the Piccadilly line (which was always running late), Kings Cross to High Gate on the Northern line, riding until almost the very end, often the last person in the car on any given Tuesday or Thursday afternoon.

This particular Tuesday, I was not there. I was home, it was still summer, and I was in a field with my friends.

I didn’t want to be surrounded by busses, and trains, and people. There were so many people. After class, I cut through Queen’s Wood, a short-cut from Sheila’s house to the Tube station, and the only bit of green dense enough to escape for a moment or two the sirens and horns of people who are always rushing to get absolutely nowhere. I laid on the bench and wrote until I wasn’t one of them.

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I needed to have a think in a horizontal position.

I felt as if I was watching an anticlimactic movie with me being the overdramatic supporting character; this wasn’t going to be me for the next four months. It couldn’t be, I don’t know who she is. I don’t have the script memorized or even in front of me. “Why is he walking this way, I just want five minutes to myself.

God damnit. He’s looking at me. Oh, he’s not so bad.

He has kind eyes. Wow, I suck. He smiled. He thinks I’m insane. He didn’t care.”

And the graying man gave me a gift That it’s my turn to fight gravity-More evenly.

Waiting at the Station [Huruizhen Qin] Outside the Galleria dell’Accademia, Florence, Italy [Anna Gerla]

I felt welcomed and encouraged to take up the entire bench as the old man kept walking. The space was mine, and he gave it to me. I continued to lay there, alternating sketching tree branches and singing to myself with the dancing dust shining through the browning leaves. This was the first time I felt I could catch my breath since I arrived in London nearly two weeks earlier. I stretched that moment for as long as possible, imagining what the next four months in this crazy city had in store for me. I hadn’t yet known the sleepless nights and the drunken walks home alone (and if I had I might’ve cried a few more tears.) I did know, however, that it would be hard. I didn’t know anyone, and I was losing myself.

And even though it’s a losing battle In the end I was woken from a long trance by a shaggy dog with a wet nose and a liking of my coat pocket (note to self: empty your coat pocket after stuffing what’s left of a sandwich into it when you’re too shamefully

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American to eat on the Tube.) The dog reminded me of home; he was free and happy (or at least it appeared he was, possibly unaware of his owner trekking behind him in the distance.) “Oh no, he’s absolutely fine, don’t worry about it. These pants need to be washed anyway. Oh yeah, New York. No, upstate. Only about three hours if you drive fast. Thanks, you too!”

I packed up my things, took a picture in my mind of the tree who became a confidant without a choice, and made my way to the Tube, past the cafe and the preschoolers and the construction workers and up the hill and down the other and down the stairs because the escalator takes too long, logically. Walk faster, you’re late. Slow down, you’re okay.

It doesn’t have to be So bad.

- Mikayla McLean Portsmouth, England [Alex Kerai] A Moroccan Stray on the Beach [Rafaele MacDougall]

Palace of Westminster London, England [Alyssa Bonesteel]

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Portraits

Profile, Vietnam [Maddie MacDowell] Piazza Della Repubblica, Florence, Italy [Kyra M. DeTone]

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Street Vendor Selling Ginger, Vietnam [Kelsey Rowley]

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Children on the Beach Catch a Crab [Elizabeth Oliver]

Isabel, My Host Mother in Spain [Nagina Ahmadi] Construction Worker, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam [Ren Workman]

Vijin

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Accordion Player, Florence, Italy [Anna Gerla]

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Gloucestershire, England [Sean G. Burke] Playing Guitar, Mekong Delta, Vietnam [Ren Workman]

Fashion Student and Professor, Rome, Italy [Madeline Beatson] 148 The Aleph

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Der Aleph in Deutschland I

Münsterplatz Farmers’ Market One of my favorite things about Freiburg is the Münsterplatz Farmers’ Market. The market, held Monday-Saturday from about 7:00am to 1:00pm, takes place around Münster (cathedral) in the city center and is easily accessible for all. For decades, the market has been a great source of quality fresh foods and local goods for the people of the city. Located on the north side of the cathedral are the local farmers, while on the south side are more commercial stands.

You can find fruits, vegetables, bakery goods, meat, homemade wine and beer, flowers, plants, handcrafted wooden plates and bowls, and even a few food trucks (my favorite is the tofu truck which has tofuwurst)!

Hiking in Petra, Jordan [Janey Blackwell-Orr] Old Town Square, Prague, Czech Republic [Bizzer Gahagan]

The price of the food at the market is much cheaper in comparison to the prices at supermarkets. Due to

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the popularity of the Münsterplatz market, many of the districts around Freiburg have even started their own smaller farmers’ markets. As of now there are 16 markets throughout the different districts and they usually hold the market once or twice a week.

Why do people love the farmers’ market scene? The farmers’ markets are great for two reasons: 1.

It’s a great location for socialization. One thing that has become very clear since I arrived in Germany is that Germans love their public spaces for socialization. With its location in the city center, the Münsterplatz market is the perfect spot to meet up with friends. Whether you’re going to enjoy the food, the atmosphere, the street performers, or the surrounding stores/restaurants, there is just so much to do! In fact, the city of Freiburg is working on a new project to expand the city center and create more room for trams as well as even more social spaces.

2. People can gain a better understanding of where their food comes from. Through the creation of the supermarket, many people have lost touch with where their food is coming from. One of the great things about the market is that you are able to actually meet the people who produce the food and who are proud to sell their goods. As a consumer shopping at the farmers’ market, you can get to know vendors, learn about local agriculture, and understand the benefits of eating seasonally. These connections are lost when food is bought at the supermarket; it dehumanizes the food production process. For me, going to the market has made me reevaluate the connection I have with my food and and I’ve come to appreciate the process that goes into making my food much more than ever before.

- Noelle Nichols 152 The Aleph

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Der Aleph in Deutschland II

Blooming Chestnut Tree I have been counting down the days before I return to Vermont for the summer, which will be the end of my semester abroad. The last four months have been unforgettable and amazing in so many ways. Now that I only have a few more days in Freiburg, I have been realizing the little things I will miss here, whether it be having a beer in one of the many beer gardens or walking through the city’s farmers’ market. I have been reflecting on the time I have spent in Freiburg and how grateful I am for being able to study in such a unique and beautiful setting.

Now that it is May, I have been taking advantage of the warmer, sunny days. The city is finally full of color; the trees scattered within the city and around the University are blooming and there is a whole other lifestyle that I’ve been witnessing. The city is now filled with students and families relaxing in parks and other public spaces. There is a common tree I’ve seen throughout the city, both in the parks and lining the streets. After doing some research, I found that they are chestnut trees. The trees have been in full bloom, with large clusters of flowers accompanied by big, lush green leaves. On the walk back to my flat, I always stop to look and appreciate the subtle beauty of these trees. The flowers are white with smaller portions of pink. While the city is transitioning from a cold and snowy winter, the colorful flowers accent the streets and parks so that everyone can enjoy the beauty.

tree within the soapberry and lychee family and can grow to about 125 feet tall. The horse chestnut tree originates from southeastern Europe, but can be found in areas as far north as Sweden, the United States, and Canada. The tree is often found in parks due to its aesthetically pleasing flowers.

Some fun facts about the horse chestnut tree: during World War I the seeds (called “conkers”) were collected by the public and donated to the government for use as a solvent for the production of cordite (used in military armaments). In addition, they are slightly poisonous and can even repel spiders and insects. There was a famous horse chestnut tree in Amsterdam called the Anne Frank Tree. She mentioned the tree in her diary and it survived until 2010.

- Ben Alexopoulos

The tree is better known as the horse chestnut tree (the scientific name is Aesculus Hippocastanum). It got its name because the tree’s fruit can be toxic to horses if ingested. The species is a flowering deciduous Chestnut Tree [Ben Alexopoulos] 154 The Aleph

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Der Aleph in Deutschland III

Wer ist der Bremer Elefant?

Bremen’s fame as a major port city is due in large part to one of Germany’s less spoken-about histories: international colonization and imperialism. Prior to the Treaty of Versailles in 1919, Germany had major colonies in Africa, the Caribbean, and the South Pacific, along with a few shipping ports throughout the rest of the world. During this time, the exploitation of the colonies’ native populations for labor and resources was lauded as not only financially acceptable but morally so as well. It was as a result of German imperialism that the Bremer Elefant was created.

In its original conception, the Elefant was meant to pay tribute to those German souls that had been lost overseas in Germany’s largest colonial territories: Cameroon, Togo, Deutsch-Ostafrika (present-day Tanzania), DeutschSüdwestafrika (present-day Namibia), as well as several other locations in the Pacific. Many of the memorial’s strongest proponents were merchants from Bremen and Hamburg who had grown their fortunes from goods traded from Africa to the shores of the Niedersachsen region of Northern Germany. Among these advocates was the prominent Bremen-born merchant Adolf Lüderitz, the founder of Deutsch-Südwestafrika in 1884.

In 1932, under the design of sculptor Fritz Behn and the architect Otto Blendermann, the nearly 35-foot tall brick elephant was constructed in a park near the city’s central railway station in the Schwachhausen neighborhood of Bremen. The “Reichskolonialehrendenkmal” stood proudly as a monument to the colonial ambition of Bremen and the neighboring ports that had for so long benefited from the trade originating in Germany’s former African colonies. In the years following the end of World War II, this nationalistic mantra was shunned and the statue was left to crumble.

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It was not until 1988 that the statue came into the limelight again when students built a small metal sign next to it in support of the anti-Apartheid movement. The following year the president of the newly independent Republic of Namibia, President Sam Nujoma, was invited to Bremen to rededicate the statue as the “Antikolonialdenkmal.” The rededication of the statue served as a way to transform the previous meaning of the statue, one that supported the oppression of native peoples across the globe by German imperialism, into one that supported the independence and freedom of those that had been previously subjugated to German rule.

Shoes on the Danube Memorial, Budapest, Hungary [Margaret Maloy]

In 2009, in a continuing effort to bring Germany’s dark colonial history to light, a new monument was erected next to the Elefant to commemorate those killed during Germany’s occupation of Namibia between 1904 and 1908.

During this time, some 70,000 people from the Ovaherero and the Nama ethnic groups were killed, including upwards of 50% of the Ovaherero and 80% of the Nama populations.

Today, the monument serves as a staging ground for political and social activism as well as a place where crosscultural connections can take place. The tumultuous history of the Bremer Elefant shows the ways in which physical embodiments of oppression can be transformed into structures that call attention to some of the lowest points in a society’s history. In an age where many are calling for the destruction of memorials to the Confederacy or the erasure of names of prominent slaveholders from college and university buildings, it may be interesting to think of how we can transform these American “Elefants” into spaces that don’t glorify the behavior of their creators, but rather continually call attention to it.

- Emmet Hassett 158 The Aleph

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Der Aleph in Deutschland IV

The Missing House There are a lot of places all over Germany, especially in Berlin, where the people or the government have created memorials about World War II and the tragedies that happened during the war. These memorials demonstrate that Germans recognize that the war is part of their past and that they aren’t looking to hide that fact. But, the memorials also serve as a way to acknowledge the past and move on. A lot of these memorials are big, almost grand, gestures such as the Jewish Historical Museum or the Monument to the Murdered Jews. But there are other memorials around Berlin that most people don’t know about. One such memorial is the Missing House.

The Missing House is a memorial dedicated to the people who lived in a house on Groβe HamburgerStraβe in the Mitte District in Berlin that was bombed during the war and never rebuilt. Walking down the street, one barely notices anything out of the ordinary; it just looks like a courtyard between two other row houses. But, upon a closer look, one starts to see the little things, like the pieces of the wall from the old house that are still attached to the other houses, how the pathway leads up to an entrance that is no longer there, or the fact that the white plaques on the sides of the other houses are not actually advertisements – instead, they bear the names, dates, and occupations of the people who lived there during the war.

This is a memorial that doesn’t attract thousands of tourists a day. In some ways it might be considered an antimemorial. It isn’t an established monument in a public space symbolizing the government or an ideology, and it is not trying to influence the historical narrative of the place or what happened there.

- Katie Allen 160 The Aleph

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Heron Island, Queensland, Australia [Madalyn Borek]

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