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5/10/05: We are not politicians:
Tuesday: It was a day that we just happened to take the same bus home as the Koreans, which included Mr. Ri (their chaperone),
Kim and Ri.
With our presence the bus turned into a cacophony of noise as the Koreans practiced their English and we critiqued their
pronounciation. The rest of the slightly crowded bus sat motionless; eyes transfixed into space like some sort of art display.
Mr. Ri had decided to sit next to me and Kim next to Fanta. Ri found a seat in the adjacent aisle.
"I do not agree," Mr. Ri said to me as he worked on his "g" sounds.
Everyday they practice their English and Swedish in an almost maticulous fashion.
Today they had gone shopping as well; a luxory afforded to very few in their country. They have come to Sweden with very
little other than the clothes on their backs. The jeans and belts they bought were something of an extravagance.
At first glance the belts looked to be a 12-year old's indulgence; one white, the other black with oversized rhinestone
butterfly buckles. Not something typical of grown women.
At second glance they became a painful reminder of the childhood indulgences they never received. Gaudi belts and girlie
trinkets don't exist in North Korea.
I started to feel childish in my insignificant cultural complaints. It makes me smile to think of their opportunity and
what they have done with it thus far. The two are always smiling, always laughing, always ready to try something new.
People have been quick to diminish them as descendants of a less-than subordinate political system, and make judgements
on them as people because of it. This all seems silly and ignorant to me.
Ri and Kim remind me more than anyone, that we are not representatives of an entire nation, nor political champions of
international causes. We are soccer players and before that. . . young women.
5/4/05: Separations
On a more serious note, I have encountered some disturbing cultural differences. Mainly this plea of elitism. I hesitate
to call it racism, but more a national exclusionism. There is a rift between "immigrants" (those who's parents are not born
in Sweden) and those who can trace their Swedish ancestry back generations.
Being a minority I am extremely sensitive to the shifts of linguistic separation: "oh but she's an immigrant", initiate
an immediate response in my mind. I have repeatedly encountered these strange comments when I have shown pictures
of some of my teammates, who apparently do not illustrate the "natural" asthetic of blonde hair and blue eyes (slightly tweeked
by the occasional brown hair).
When I confronted a parent about his choice of words and their conotation, he seemed puzzled and then defensive. The
confusion is caused by the simple fact that in America everyone is an immigrant and to separate on the basis of parental origin
is a waste of time. I was actually quite offended that they would cast these girls off as something other than "Swedish",
eventhough they have clearly made this their home.
The simplistic answer is to say that the word "immigrant" does not properly translate. The meaning of the word does not
hold the same weight here as it does back home. But then my instinct tells me otherwise.
To me this is the first of many mental confrontations we will encounter. The perspective is skewed simply because of
the cultural mixture our country (America) comprises. I was told before I came to Sweden that it was an ultra-liberal
country. I am now skeptical as to how far that definition of liberal stretches when tested across the world. I find
the same separation anxiety here that exists overseas back home. This time it borders on wealth, weight, nationality and education;
with more emphasis on nationality and weight/health.
My awareness has heightened and I no longer invision myself outside of my surroundings. This is home to me for now. I
am now a part of the landscape and am cautious of my place in it.
Being Fat is a National Disgrace:
It was the third unwanted comment I received about the fat content of my meal. It was an opinion that prompted me to
say, "what are the rates of anorexia in your country, because they must be astronomical." This was returned with silence and
then the response: "I think they are quite bad among some areas, but you have the same in your country no?"
hmmmm, let me think.
There is an extra gym class here for your child if he is considered "fat", The concept of large (in terms of clothes) is
rare, fat content is everpresent and fear of it seems to be everywhere.
The same conscious exists in America (I would be lying to say that it didn't), but the tone of fear and disgust in the
conversations spark something a little different in the back of my mind.
I just hope that the children have time to develop a sense of self before they are type-cast and pigeon holed into a
negative self-depiction.
And as always there are two sides to every story. To be healthy has never been a bad thing. If anything the U.S. should
adopt some of the same perspectives.
But let it be known that I don't want to hear about the fat content of my meal. Why? Because I don't care. I'm an athlete
who works out everyday and holds few reservations about her body. And the extra bowl of granola cereal is not going to cause
me to have an obesity attack.
What
does competition mean to you?:
I was
raised in a society that taught us that winning wasn’t essential; the game was more a form of social activity. No one
player was better than the rest. We were not to single out individual talent. Everyone had the opportunity to become great
in time. Aggression and emotion had no place in an athletic arena nor in everyday society. I’ll work hard and if I win
I’ll be happy, If I lose I’ll feel bad, but it won’t really matter either way.
How do you combine such
mentalities on a field where four of your teammates come from countries that believe in winning at all costs? How do you perceive
competition when you’ve been taught to be noncompetitive?
I’ve struggled
to decipher which is more dysfunctional. In terms of athletics, this mentality has to be the biggest divide. We play to win.
There is no point in stepping on a field if you have no intention of walking off a winner. Really, there is no point. Good
sportsmanship and a well-played game don’t equate to the reward of winning (and I only consider myself a mildly competitive
person).
I watch teammates willingly
give up their spot on the field for lesser players without a fight. I watch girls suppress their feelings so as not to disturb
relationships. I watch and participate in noncompetitive practices and warm-ups. I deal with this phenomenon on a reoccurring
basis.
It's only recently that
I’ve noticed a change. Things have begun to shift in another direction. Our presence on this team has actual changed
the fabric of intensity among our teammates. A week ago in practice I saw the quietest, most docile player battle for a 50/50
ball like her life depended on it. I saw her release her emotions and be competitive. To me, this is progress. Not because
she is becoming more Americanized, but because she’s learning how to win.
In our games I can see
our Swedish teammates hoping that we (the foreigners) get the job done. No one wants to really step up and take control of
this team. This can’t be the dominant opinion. This is their team. I often think that this situation wouldn’t
happen in America. Players would not willingly hand you their team without you proving your worth. Again it’s this idea
of competition. When you reach this level, it’s every woman for herself. And in the sacrifice and competition of practice
you become a team. Then when it becomes time to walk on that field you know that you have 10 other players ready to win.
Sports are often used
as a metaphor for life in America. How you approach the game says a lot about your character; the desire to win illustrates
strength, the willingness to work when no ones watching--discipline, the effort to run for one another--loyalty. When you
compete in sport, you compete in life. So when you’re taught to compete in a mild sense how does that translate to your
life?
I think right here marks the biggest difference in our two societies as well. Life is not a competition in Sweden.
You do the best you can and then you end up somewhere in the middle. I just can’t stomach the idea because I was socialized
to do the opposite; to grow restless in the shadow of others and to win at all costs.
6/03/05: Doing a Little Research
Ignorance can be an uncomfortable place to dwell for long. So today I did a little reading after I realized that I know
virtually nothing about North Korea and the place from which my two teammates come from, Pyongyang.
According to CNN I have a great deal to worry about. However, I'm not so much worried as I am intrigued. In a short time
I learned of how North and South Korea were separated, after I believe WWII, the south becoming Westernized and the North
falling under Communist rule. Nearly 30 percent of the North's national income is devoted to its military power, while
the common people struggle to eat while living in virtual poverty. They have nuclear and chemical weapons, the country
is closed to outside influence and they hate the U.S.
Wow. . . .
So now I ask, how in the world did Kim and Ri get out of their country and more importantly, what's their story? Of course
these are questions I should never ask and will probably never know the answers to. Everyone gets antsy when I start asking
questions because no one wants to rock the boat. But then Mats bought me Time Magazine the other day and there it
is, another article on North Korea.
We don't live in a vacuum so it's hard to pretend that I'm ignorant, but I'm doing the best I can so as not to upset
anyone. I ask them safe questions about their family and what it's like at home (all with the help of the interpreter of course).
Half the time I think they don't understand and the other half I think are programmed responses.
Either way I hope I'm not hunted down by the U.S. or Korean authorities because of what I've written. If my thoughts
have become a threat to national security please just let me know and I will gladly revoke my right to freedom of
speech and retrack what has been written.
Sidenote: I'm reading Orwell's 1984 and I am strangely reminded of the thought police and their ability to wipe
out history. ok I'm sorry. That was completely random (well actually, not that random if you think about it).
In all honesty though, I don't wish to be hurt just because I'm thinking outloud. Can you sense the paranoia in my voice?
Again I think it's because I'm reading this creepy book where, "Big Brother is always watching".
Anywho that's not the point. The point is, for the first time I now realize how important and unique it is that
the three of them (Mr. Ri included) have made it outside the confines of their country.
The other day My Ri asked me if I would come visit them in their home land.
I laughed and then proceeded to draw a map of North Korea with a box around it (symbolizing its closed society). I then
drew a line traveling to the tiny sketching of their country. When the line reached North Korea I drew a big "X".
Mr. Ri looked confused.
"Americans are not allowed to travel to your country," I said, pointing to the large X again.
Mr. Ri laughed and then began to tell me, with great assurance, how one could simply fly into Beijing and then just
hop onto a flight right into North Korea.
"A-hhaaa," I said while throwing my hands up as to say why didn't I think of that.
Now if only good old Condoleeza Rice knew it was that easy.
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8/15/05: Patriotic Trickery
When people attack my country I can feel myself transform into this redneck flag-waving lunatic. And people do it more
often than you would think.
I’ve been seduced into defending/explaining national policy on all of the following: government, labor enforcement,
education, athletics, nutrition, child rearing, Medicare, garbage and sanitation disposal, senior citizens, racism, wealth
and egotism, unemployment, obesity. I guess I could go on, but my brain is starting to hurt in recollection.
Clearly, these aren’t topics I would bring up on my own. I just want to sit and talk about the weather, Johan’s
crazy hair, the new shirt I bought on sale. But no, someone makes a remark about America and I'm back on the defense wagon
again.
This is why people don’t travel, because they end up sounding like flag-waving lunatics.
My greatest fear in coming here was becoming one of those arrogant Americanized stereotypes, spouting about how great America
is in comparison and how everyone should follow suit.
After 4 months what I’ve learned most about myself is that—I’m an American. It’s an obvious statement,
but it wasn’t the declaration that shocked me but the feeling it provoked. I like the arrogance, I believe in its potential,
and I miss its confidence, regardless of its leadership.
People tell you all the time that you should love your family, so you do so without giving it much thought. And then one
day love becomes tangible and you can’t explain it but you know love—you feel love.
I love my country. And for the first time I feel it. For the first time I am truly proud to be an American. I know, just
like the song right?
7/30/05:
Love of the Game?
It's Thursday night with intentions of watching the U-19
Women's European Cup, but Finland turns out to be awful and the run of play boring. Flipping through the channels I stumble
upon Manchester United vs. Kashima Antlers, a preseason match of unexpected energy. Now 60 minutes in I haven't moved; the
score 2-1 in favor of Kashima. Granted Manchester United stars are sitting on the bench, this Japanese team proves to be quite
entertaining.
Sometimes you can forget how beautiful the game can be; how exciting and awestruck you can be watching
the skill of the best.
During our training camp this last weekend I had a conversation with our coach Magnus one night.
He asked me who my favorite players were. That list has somewhat shifted now, after watching Christiano Ronaldo tonight, but
he just wanted to test my knowledge of the game. He wanted to see if I actually watched enough soccer to contrive of more
than the obvious Beckham or Mia Hamm (neither of the two making the list).
We talked about how little the Swedish
girls actually watched soccer. Magnus told me he would come to practice or training the next day and ask the girls if they
had seen the game, and all he would get were blank stares and questions as to what in the world he was talking about. I'm
not a soccer junky, but I do watch the game at its highest levels ( I don't have the patience to watch just any soccer. .
.sorry). It just seemed so odd to me when he talked about their indifference toward watching the game they claim to know.
If you want to be more than just good at what you do you have to study those who do it better than you. That rule is universal
and should not be an epiphany.
Their comments seem even more surprising when you include the following. Earlier that
same day at training camp we had to go around as a team and list three things that we were good at. I cannot tell you how
many girls said, "I read the game well." To me, when you say that, it means that you have assumed some mastery over the game;
you know how to control and manipulate fascist of the game to your advantage. Now I ask you, how can you have mastered a game
when you don't even watch it? I had to do everything in my power not to speak on the matter because from their straight-faced
responses, they were serious. Maybe it means something different in Sweden, but I'm guessing they just have no idea as to
what they claim to know. I guess I just look at the game a little differently. To me there are no limits to what can be learned.
And not everyone can read the game. I have many more years before I claim to even understand the rhythm, the flow, the possibilities
of this game.
Their watered-down disposition and disillusioned self-perception made me realize that I may care about
this game more than I let on. I flirt back and forth with whether or not I might actually love it. And some days, like today,
my conviction tells me yes. I sit here watching great players glide up and down the field, growing anxious to emulate them
at the next opportunity, annoyed that tomorrow is our day off and I'll have to wait one day longer to get the chance.
| What Color is the Sky you ask me. . . |
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It's the color of rain
the color of light reflected through a cloud.
It's the color of serenity.
Do you see what I mean when I tell you it stretches farther than I remember?
It's what reminds me that I am not home. . .
7/3/05: Small Talk
Wednesday, Fanta and I had lunch in Stockholm with the head of the club,
Conny.
It was typical lunchtime conversation. Where are you going for break? How's your stay been? Is there anything
we can do to make it better? We flirted with small talk for longer than necessary. And as it often does, such talk trails
into something deeper; that is if you're paying attention.
"What do you plan to do when you get home?"
There
it is again. That question. What do you plan to do with your life? It always seems like such an obtrusive inquiry, because
so many of us in my generation have no answer. And while I can cover the immediate future with the grad school explanation,
I struggle to get much further than that.
Our generation is one in search of its own distinct personality. There is
no major distraction to define it for us: no draft, no depression, no national crisis. Instead we have all this time and energy
to focus on ourselves. What do you want to do with your life is now a real question with limitless possibilities.
I
see people trying to analyze our disposition, asking questions like why aren't we motivated and why are so many of us in rebellion
of settling down, raising a family, getting a job? But unlike generations that came before us, we are bound by nothing. We
could literally be anything that we want. People say this all the time, but for the first time, it's really true. Obviously
I'm speaking in a general sense, but the opportunity to pursue your dreams can unveil itself if you seek it.
There
are scholarships if you want to go to school, there are entrepreneurial positions if you want to create your own business,
there are technological outlets to design, draw, manipulate any media you could imagine. You could write, you could draw,
you could go into business, you could be an engineer, you could be a grocery store owner.
There's more that we want
to be than just doctors and lawyers. It's not all about money (at least not for some of us); it's about being happy, it's
about being proud of the life you chose.
I'm going to grad school at Northwestern for journalism this fall. When I
graduate, the cost of my education will probably be more than my first yearly income. But I love to write. I love to learn
about everything and nothing in particular. This is what I want to do. And again, when I finished I will be presented with
the same dilemma. I can do anything. But this time I will be equipped to do anything in a field that makes me happy.
When
I speak to friends and people of my generation there seems to be a paralyzing fear when presented with the aforementioned
question. For a long time I couldn't move in terms of making a decision about my future. I would get this idea that whatever
I decided I would have to live with for the next 50 years. I could see this typical 9-to-5 life forming before my eyes, and
it terrified me. Eventually, I realized that I could always change if I was in a position that I didn't like, but I just couldn't
live the life of my parents. And not because they live miserable lives, but because everything about my surroundings, my education
and the way I grew up, demands its opposition. Something in me screams for originality. I don't really know how to explain
it, but I think we are all struggling to define this generation, separate from expectation and defiant in our own purpose.
So when you ask us what we want to be, the silence isn't representative of defiance, but instead restless anxiety.
Illiteracy:
When you can no longer speak the language previous education ceases to matter. I stare at the newspaper with the emptiness
of ignorance. I cannot read. The pictures serve as the only platform from which to make educated guesses.
This limitation is drastically reduced by the marvel of the interenet and the million news services it provides, but
day to day words are illegible. Without the release of the mass of books I have brought, I would begin to unravel in my inability
to interpret communication.
I am reminded of engineers and doctors from other countries who venture to the US and cannot find suitable jobs because
of their foreign identity. Traveling, in many ways, reduces your educational capital. I am an illiterate, uneducated "immigrant", stumbling
through an unknown country.
5/28/05: The NIGHT
If you stay up long enough you'll inevitably write about the nights. Not because you're a writer, but because some things
are too beautiful to ignor.
It's 10:30 in the evening and the sky still holds the distant sun in its grasp. I wander up and down the soft-lit streets
daydreaming, thinking of nothing and everything.
It's just cold enough not to be warm and warm enough not to be cold.
People always talk of how beautiful Sweden is. They talk of lakes and seas, of buildings and culture, but it's the night
that makes it beautiful.
There's a time, no matter where you are, when the sky turns a pale purple and the sun a bright red. In Sweden, the moment
lasts for hours.
And that's what makes it beautiful.
7/3/05: Musical Ramblings
I was once asked what I was passionate about. Music, I said.
"No,
I mean, what could you not live without. What are you psychotic about?"
Apparently, my original answer was not good
enough. So, I elaborated.
"I listen to music religiously. When I go into a room I turn on the radio, CD player, Ipod,
whatever. And when I leave, I turn on another appliance in the next room. I wake up and go to sleep to music. I walk to class,
to the buss, to the train, to work with my headphones on. I spend more time listening to music than I do talking, writing,
thinking. I stalk people who present the promise of new and unheard music. I can watch music videos for hours on end with
the hope of discovering a new song. I carry at least two mp3 players with me when I travel, just in case the battery runs
out on my Ipod. Is that psychotic enough for you, because if it's not I can continue."
For me music goes beyond background
noise. There's just so much depth in the concept of music in terms of what you listen to or how you play it. I could go on
and on about what music can illustrate about a person or about a society.
But what got me thinking about music in
a more social sense this week was a program on MTV, called Advanced Warning where they show up and coming new artists. The
last artist was a reggae act from Germany, called Gentleman. To be honest, I don't think I've ever seen such an interesting
person. Here was this white guy talking in a Jamaican accent and speaking with such conviction about his music. He had completely
taken on the culture as his own and it seemed so natural to hear this reggae music coming out of his mouth. He embodied all
that I truly love about music; just the idea that there are no boundaries when it comes to what moves you. There are so many
personalities in a sound, in a song. And to me, what you listen to says so much about who you are.
I can't tell you
how many relationships I've formed with people just because I embraced a type of music that spoke to them. What you listen
to can illustrate your perspectives on life, whether you just like to have a good time or maybe just want to think. The depth
of your musical chart often shows me how colorful a personality you are. For people like me who don't always voice their personality,
music can fill that void. I always say, if you want to get to know me, listen to my music. Nothing is more revealing than
my cd collection.
Sometimes I wonder what life would be like with out it. Or more importantly, who I would be with
out it.
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