Yes, and … Islamabad (and Beyond)

One of those “perhaps-I’m-older-than-I-feel” moments arrived last week in the form of Pollyanna Whittier, a much-maligned fictitious little girl who has, since her inception at the hands of author Eleanor H. Porter, become the avatar of toxic positivity. Porter’s 1913 creation touched a nerve, so much so that at least three other authors hijacked young Pollyanna and incorporated her into over a dozen “Glad Books.”

The plots wrote themselves. In each iteration, Pollyanna relentlessly played the “Glad Game” (Find the good! Score spiritual points!) in her attempts to cheer up her spinster aunt and every other sourpuss who got in her way. Her popularity peaked in 1960 when The Walt Disney Studios brought this emotional bully to life with the help of Haley Mills. Just one year later, Mills starred in The Parent Trap, creating the dual roles of identical twins who conspire to bring their divorced parents back together. In both films, the parentified child prevails, unencumbered by boundaries but bogged down with emotional baggage that, in adulthood, will most likely play itself out in horror films or Swedish cinema.

The point is, when I referenced Pollyanna (me: “perhaps I’m being a Pollyanna”) in my Improv and Mental Health course at the University of Minnesota, not a single student knew who–or what–I was talking about.

Some context: My Improv and Mental Health class at the U of M ended last week. I always give a short goodbye speech on the final day, prefaced once again by a momentary jag of emotion during which I gulped and sputtered. (You are at work, Jim!) After I gained composure, I told them, truthfully, that they had–in seven short weeks–created a loving, accepting, celebratory environment that stands in stark contrast to the cruelty erupting all over the planet.

I’ve talked about this before.

My students looked at me like the young people they are and smiled. Perhaps they found this proclamation excruciating. No one spoke, so I forged on, into the void:

“I don’t want to be all Pollyanna about this, but if we can create this kind of space in this classroom, maybe there’s hope for the immense spaces beyond these walls.”

I couldn’t read their reactions, not while they picked up their jackets and backpacks and scrambled out the door. Midterms loomed, multiple part-time jobs demanded attention, some of them may be in the first flush of love or slogging through the rigors of heartbreak (and, appropriately, didn’t share this with me). They’re busy building their lives; they indulged me with a few nods and a smile or two. My generation hasn’t made it easy for these young people, what with our paralysis around gun violence and climate change and authoritarianism and all the forms of rank fundamentalism that turn actual human beings into numbers and precepts and collateral damage and cannon fodder. They never begrudged me for my failings, but I couldn’t help but think about these catastrophes as I watched them leave.

(I’d put good money on the fact that Eleanor H. Porter would never have written a young adult novel entitled Jim R. There’s no pressing need for another soothsaying-sad sack. We already have magnificent Sad Books promoting the Sad Game. Have you read A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara? Leave the World Behind by Rumaan Alam? Anna Karenina by Tolstoy? Fred Gipson’s Old Yeller?)

What a drag. Of course, the world holds more complexity than Glad or Sad. (Duh.) We discussed this in improv class, how we get to, whether we like it or not, live dialectally, smack dab in the middle of contradictions that can only be fleetingly resolved. This isn’t to say we throw our hands in the air and curse (although I do, often); instead, we focus on what’s right in front of us and, when we can, acknowledge reality, show compassion, say NO to violence, try to set things right when we lose our sh*t. We see ourselves in the actions of others and begin again and again and again…

Dang it.

This dialectic showed itself in our Honors course as we hovered between the ridiculous and the sublime. Immediately after playing “Where Have My Fingers Been”–a game where students create an improvised scene between their right and their left index fingers–we discussed Dialectical Behavior Therapy (DBT) and the ways improvisation mirrored its techniques. In both endeavors, we try to stay grounded while acknowledging chaos; we go for the laughs, knowing that trying to be funny guarantees we’ll flop. We gesticulate wildly while our fingers do battle or fall in love.

As with improv, DBT helps adherents strengthen their Distress Tolerance and Emotional Regulation by entering into Contradictions with Curiosity and Calm (I’m capitalizing on purpose, not like Someone Else who also won’t shut up.) In improv, we don’t know the outcome of each scene. We aren’t fortune tellers. But when we jump in with the intention of making our scene partner look as good as possible we can–fleetingly–be both inspired and compassionate. We do look for the good, just like Pollyanna did with her Glad Game. At the same time, we don’t disavow our fear (“What if I fail?”) and our pettiness (“Why did they get the laugh?”) and our despair (“How does this help anyone?”). We live with it. All of it. We don’t strike out. We try not to panic.

Now that I’m out of the classroom and wandering around the wide world, I find myself wondering–once again–how improv applies to World Peace and Democratic Values. I dragged my actor/director/singer/playwright friend Greta Grosch into this discussion about Pollyanna and politics when the two of us met at SK Coffee in Saint Paul for a session of Silent Writing. We gabbed the whole time. As Greta was about to leave–having written nothing (my fault)–she said, “My father always answers ‘I’m grateful’ when anyone asks how he’s doing.” I’ve met Ken Grosch, Greta’s dad. I admire that man. And while the Glad Game and the Grateful Game share some stringent rules, I do think gratitude might just be a winning strategy.

Is this so? Let me know in the comments!

One more thing. Since the pandemic the Twin Cities has become the turf for posses of wild turkeys (I just learned this term; in captivity, groups of turkeys can be called “gaggles” or even “gobbles.” How did I not know this? My dad sold poultry supplies!). These two turkeys greeted me in front of Northrop Hall while I rushed to class. They refused to cooperate for a photo or even budge when I waddled past. I’m grateful for this. No lie.

How about that?

(An entry from home.)

I don’t cry on the first day of school like I did when I was a kid. Now I grouse and moan and question my decisions, but the tears don’t flow. Thanks to the Honors Program at the University of Minnesota, I’ll be teaching a seminar called “Improvisation and Mental Health” for the next seven weeks. Class started at 8:00am last Wednesday. Perhaps my tearless state speaks to my wobbly-but-improving mental health, a prerequisite to teach this particular class. Or maybe my tear ducts froze. In any case, I dragged my feet.

You know what? Class went well.

Because of Dennis (who dropped me off on campus before daybreak so I’d be free to take the train home), I made it to Northrop Auditorium on time. My students–once again–surprised me with their insight. We laughed; they decoded the cryptic links I’d plastered all over the university’s counterintuitive “teaching platform” (I miss the mimeograph machine, and not only for the smell); I took the light rail back to Saint Paul and didn’t sleep past my stop.

The password for my university email account actually worked.

Thus began my fortieth year of teaching. Funny, too, how I learned this new lesson for the billionth time: simply showing up is a good enough place to start.

In improv we aspire to show up physically, cognitively, and emotionally. To do this, we commit to the moment by saying, “YES!” even when our knees shake and our thoughts spiral. We acknowledge the fear/anxiety/expectations/excitement as entry points for unscripted moments. We dive into the flow whether it’s cold or hot or frozen or tepid. We trust that by saying “YES” to the moment (and each other) we will discover what the moment offers, what it requires, how it will bring us together in ways that celebrate our specific gifts and our universal shortcomings.

“YES” has power. It liberates us. It can dissipate the fog of the the fusty “no” (but, clearly, has little power over the strained metaphor).

Along with this, “Yes” also gives power to the crucial word “NO” by making “no” distinct and intentional.

To every thing, turn! turn! turn! This includes “YES” and “NO”. Once again:

–“Yes” does NOT mean agreement. It means we acknowledge the moment as it is. We don’t agree to hurtful or insensitive scenes.

–We never agree to anything that diminishes or demeans another person. In fact, we say an emphatic “NO” to cruelty.

–And, equally emphatically, if something goes against our gut, we say “N0.”

Is listening to our gut different from attending to our nervous system? (Of course, our gut is regulated by our nervous system.) Both inform us; we ignore them at our peril. But what’s the difference between feeling distressed and feeling disgusted? Am I splitting hairs?

I’ll give these questions a tussle. Our nervous system registers distress, telling us to fight or flee (or freeze or flop or friend) when confronted by uncomfortable or threatening situations. The response protects us, but sometimes–often, for many of us–these anxious responses become neurological habits based on past trauma, old scripts, generalized fears, cramped expectations, and self-consciousness. While the nervous response is in the moment, the threat comes from the past. Saying “Yes” and (oh, god) embracing this discomfort might make us braver. And happier. At the least, saying “yes” instead of relinquishing our power to the word “no” can lead us through anxiety and into a new, more satisfying experience.

But the gut response? That’s different. When our gut speaks up we feel nauseated. We expel our breath in sharp gusts, hoping to blow back the infectious poison. Our lips curl. Our nostrils flare and we turn from the decay, the stench. Our necks snap back in disgust. We are offended. We want to spit. The source of our disgust may be threatening, but more than that it feels wrong.

In improv, as in life, when we mistrust our gut, we do ourselves harm.

Witness last week:

My nervous system told me distressing stories on the way into class on Wednesday: “You’ve forgotten how to teach!”; “A class on mental health? Shouldn’t the university have hired someone else?”; “Maybe you should button your collar; you look like a cross between an aging polar bear and David Hasselhoff.” Had I given these thoughts credence I’d have spent the morning hiding under the covers in a turtleneck and sports coat, wondering what threats the afternoon had in store.

Instead, I recognized these stories as habitual, breathed in the invigorating, freezing air, shook out my tense body, and improvised with my students. Joy! I may have been the only passenger smiling on the train home. I can’t say for sure; the sun was in my eyes and people tend to avoid large men in bulky coats who take up more space than the seat affords.

When I got home and plopped on the couch, my gut kicked in.

I turned on the news. I listened to our twice-impeached ex-president disparage and defame a woman he’d been found liable of sexually assaulting (had the statute of limitations not expired, he would have been charged with rape). The TV blared about MAGA followers who, at their leader’s instruction, threatened judges and jurors with violence. All the while the indicted one laughs. He sneers. He eggs on his supporters, encouraging them to maim and dismember, to violate his former constituents, destroying their safety and security with lies and innuendo. He brags of his ill-gotten wealth while soaking his flock for all they’re worth. He suggests his vice-president should be hanged by the blood-thirsty crowd he unleashed.

Now, imagine our ex-president acting out the following real-life scenes in an evening of improvised comedy.

(The curtain rises.)

He mocks John McCain for the injuries he suffered as a prisoner-of-war.

He mimics a reporter with palsy for comic effect.

He suggests shooting migrants in the legs at the southern border. He repeats this line for laughs.

(All of this really happened.)

(Curtain falls.)

I imagine you’d turn your head in disgust. I imagine your gut would heave; your eyes would tear up; your entire body would recoil. I imagine you’d say NO.

You might even boo him off the stage. Banish him from the club. Offer him improv lessons to see if his humanity can be salvaged.

Sympathizers say it’s all in jest. That he’s simply saying what everyone is thinking. That he’s just an improviser.

Just an improviser?

No.

Hell no.

From the depths of my expanding gut: NO.

(In improvisation, when we feel stuck or stymied, we DO SOMETHING. Maybe we could vote: https://www.eac.gov/voters/register-and-vote-in-your-state.)

Comments?

Poster in Frere Hall, an exhibition space that once housed the British colonial government in Karachi. Apparently, the first attempt to codify badminton rules also occurred in this building. Priorities were set.

I wish I knew more about the plenary session advertised on the disintegrating poster above. The speaker doesn’t promise a better world or a doomed one, just a different one. Seems like truth in advertising to me.

The CDAF grant winds down; Casim and I leave Karachi tomorrow morning after our final “Laughing Matters” show tonight. As with Islamabad and Lahore, Karachi has kept us busy. We sat for interviews on four TV morning programs and, in the process, had our Tarot cards read and our horoscopes revealed on air (my downfall will be my greed; please send money). We also visited schools to conduct workshops and spent an evening doing improv at a beautiful dance studio with one of Pakistan’s premier classical dancers. On top of this, the Pakistan American Cultural Center has hosted two workshops (and our show tonight) while keeping my blood sugar robust with endless cups of tea.

I also got sick; probably a case of hubris (“I’ll eat what I want!”).

Here’s some picture-postcard-charm from Karachi, a city I didn’t expect to like. Sneaky place. I’d come back in an instant:

Quaid-e-Azam House, Jinnah’s residence until his death in 1948. The architect, Moses Somake, was a Jewish-British-Indian man who designed many prominent buildings for the Raj. Some people here have lamented the demise of Karachi’s cosmopolitan character; fundamentalism can be a powerful astringent.

The Arabian Sea at Clifton Beach.

Poor Casim. Whenever he asks what I want to do, I say, “Could we stop by the beach?” I didn’t burden this unfortunate beast.

The Pakistan American Cultural Center. If I lived here I’d spend hours on this lawn, watching the crows circling overhead and hoping for a sea breeze. A charming place.

I have a weakness for schools and for evening classes. I may be alone in this. At the Pakistan American Cultural Center.

Distressed door at PACC.

The Pakistan American Cultural Center has unfurled lots of these descriptive banners (I am compassionate; I am smart). Fortunately, there are many to choose from.

I enhanced the color on this photo, but not by much.

Upstairs at Frere Hall. The trees don’t grow as tall here as they do in Lahore; they’re scrubbier, too. Can’t stop thinking of California and the Inland Empire.

Many, many beautiful mosques in Karachi. This doesn’t feel like the time to visit one as a tourist, so I went to the Christian cemetery instead. How did Nascimento Albuquerque find his resting place in Karachi, Pakistan, especially after Partition? Wish I knew.

More flowers, this time at the Dolmen Mall Clifton. Had paneer rolls and mint lemonade in an air-conditioned vegetarian restaurant. Both were laced with a hint of guilt and shame.

From the Frere Hall gallery: “God is in everything…”

…even at the KFC and McDonald’s. Both employ teenage women–an opportunity that doesn’t seem to come easily here–so I should wipe that sneer off my face.

Casim and the Blowfish. Summer tour pending.

A lot of the beachfront property in Karachi has disintegrated due to the harsh, sandy winds and the humid, salty air. Clearly this house had additional help in its demise; its neighbors, however, crumble slowly from this wearing abrasion.

Silhouette on a hot, windy afternoon just west of Karachi.

As I mentioned, Casim and I have been guests on FOUR different morning programs in Karachi, promoting our workshops and shows. The hosts’ ability to keep up the banter impressed me as they generated rapid-fire questions that sorely tested my improv abilities. Over the course of these four mornings I was asked if mental illness wasn’t entirely men’s fault; what I thought of Matthew Perry’s untimely death (very sad); if space was essential to a happy relationship (see you soon, Dennis!); and this question, presented here in dialogue form:

INTERVIEWER: When did humanity go wrong?

ME: Um.

(I actually tried to reframe the question to be about improv and its beneficial, collaborative effects. Casim took over in Urdu, thank goodness, although I’m not sure any language has the vocabulary to pinpoint a sufficient answer.)

Our brushes with fame, captured digitally:

In Aaj News’ shiny blue newsroom.

Cheerful makeup artist, working his considerable magic.

At Bol News, being jaunty enough.

With Casim and Amna Malik, host of Dawn News’ Chai, Toast aur Host. I blushed.

When we weren’t basking in our televised fame, we spent most days and evenings doing workshops (28 in 21 days). I came away from every one feeling hopeful. In fact, and at the risk of getting simpy, the sentiment on the plenary session poster from Frere Hall–Another World is Possible–rang true.

We experienced these other possible worlds multiple times. In Karachi alone we worked with members of oppressed sexual minorities, trauma survivors, neurodiverse clients, adolescents, kids, senior citizens, lawyers, Urdu speakers and Panjabi speakers and Sindhi speakers, sweaty older White men whose digestion refused to cooperate (hi!), librarians, social activists, corporate trainers, feminists wearing hijab and feminists who didn’t, psychologists and occultists and atheists and fervent believers. Guys who play guitar and those who admire them…

In every single case we laughed and exhaled and supported one another. Our differences didn’t evaporate; instead, we all hung out happily together, a perfectly acceptable and accepting mix, at least for those moments.

I read the international news this morning and could feel the divisions reasserting themselves, the dividers fanning the flames, heckling their opponents (their opponents?) as if anyone could win at this violent, stupid, wasteful game.

Good grief.

With artists, actors, and dancers at Sheema Kermani’s studio, underneath her movie and performance posters. Ms. Kermani’s in the red-and-white sari, just to the left of Casim. A vital, committed, persuasive activist, she wears a sari as a form of resistance. Follow this link to learn more: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ca2NrK3CJ3U.

With Student Affairs staff at Habib University. The vertical garden behind us gets its water from condensation in the school’s air conditioning system (which, in turn, is solar powered). Fantastic place.

At the Institute of Business Administration in Karachi. A boisterous bunch.

The cast of our “Laughing Matters” show at the Pakistan American Cultural Center. A brave, funny group, all recruited at the absolute last minute.

(I’m back in Islamabad, leaving tonight for home).

Almost done. Pat Strandness–an improviser herself–recommended this poem by Jack Gilbert; my lifelong friend (and source of inspiration) Addie Sinclair referenced it in the comments for the previous posting. Perhaps this convergence is a sign that we ought to take Gilbert’s poem to heart:

Now, I’m not sure about God and the Devil, but I appreciate Gilbert’s acknowledging the need to defend delight in the face of seemingly intractable horrors. His line, “We can do without pleasure, but not delight” captures something I’ve been trying to fathom since I got here. The dubious pleasures conferred to a White man in a (not entirely) post-colonial world don’t sit easily for all concerned. I’ve been lauded and pampered beyond all measure with genuine hospitality (and, occasionally, some sly resentment); recruited for my Western voice by more-qualified Pakistanis; allowed to escape the grim poverty and retreat into an air-conditioned cocoon whenever the delicious paneer rolls–

(Hold on! This is in real time. No kidding. Autocorrect just changed the last sentence to read, “Allowed to escape into an air-conditioned raccoon.” That is delightful. My super-clever paneer line just got eaten by an air-conditioned raccoon. Surprise, absurdity, popping the pedantic balloon: something that makes us gasp and be out of time for a moment.)

The universe has spoken. I have said enough. Thank you, autocorrect.

I just saved you from a lecture. You’re welcome.

(Just one more thing, though): Gilbert’s last lines serve as a coda to another poem I love, Ithaka by C.P. Cavafy. Both poems speak to exploring and the beauty (and horror) it can reveal; both use harbors as metaphors for finding a place in this world; and both encourage us to cultivate an alert, observant mind.

The hope expressed in Cavafy’s poem kills me:

May there be many a summer morning when,

with what pleasure, what joy,

you come into harbors seen for the first time

(from Ithaka by C.P. Cavafy)

Gilbert seems to speak to an older audience, one that–maybe–feels the inevitable chill.:

We stand at the prow again of a small ship

anchored late at night in the tiny port

looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront

is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.

To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat

comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth

all the years of sorrow that are to come

(from A Brief for the Defense by Jack Gilbert)

Ah. I want to thank Casim Ovais for taking such good care of me and for enriching all the work–and we did a lot of work–we did together. I’d also like to thank him for stopping every five minutes so I could fuss with my phone and take portraits like the one below.

Casim, hoping the gate will close on further photos.

At the gate, now, about to fly home by way of Doha and Chicago. Thanks for reading…

Waiting for a chance to return. Thank you, Pakistan.

The tarot reading on TV revealed my greed. I want more comments.

We drove past this sign on the way to a workshop at Beaconhouse University in Lahore last Thursday. It gave me pause.

Master Biryani suffers from no lack of confidence. Lahore, Pakistan

Unlike Master Biryani, I worry about overpromising and underdelivering.

You see, I do believe in the potential healing powers of improvisation, particularly when the focus stays firmly on acceptance, non-judgment, and collaboration. Casim and I have been testing out this premise for the past two weeks, first in Islamabad and now in Lahore. By tomorrow evening (Inshallah/God willing), we will have conducted 18 improv workshops, presentations, and shows in just two weeks.

We’ve been busy.

And, I think, effective. At each of these events, we’ve lead the participants through exercises that encourage them to be in the present moment physically, mentally, and emotionally. I’d call this the crux of my CDAF (Citizen Diplomacy Action Fund) project. Witness my pedagogical stance below:

Teachers teach. At the United States Educational Foundation in Pakistan’s Lahore office.

And, I’ve left each of these workshops feeling energized and hopeful; the students–almost without exception–have participated with great gusto and commitment. I’ve learned a lot about short-form improv from Casim, and our debriefing sessions with the students, so crucial when connecting the lessons learned through improv exercises to a healthy mindset, become more succinct, more applicable with each session.

Casim, a talented and generous improviser, keeps me afloat. Together we explain how making your scene partner/friend/colleague look good alleviates self-consciousness and the anxiety that goes with it. Casim makes me look good.

Our connection, too, with Fizza Suhail, a trauma-informed therapist and a professor at LUMS (Lahore University of Management Sciences), has deepened our work considerably. Her discussions on attachment and attunement–our earliest relational connections and our subsequent ability to react in synchrony with others–have helped us explore how a playful, gentle, celebratory approach to human interaction can soften the petrifying effects of early trauma.

Casim Ovais; Fizza Suhail; me. A serendipitous convergence. (And they’re both really funny.)

We’ve gotten an exuberant response; I think we’re doing good work.

But I don’t want to be Master Biryani (remember him?) by promising the moon and stars. Our work is modest, as it should be. It’s also incremental, based on practice and repetition. Which is why I can’t stop thinking about the gentleman who sought me out after an evening workshop last week, wondering how he could possible use the “Yes, and…” approach when his country was, in his words, “falling apart.” “How will this training make a difference,” he asked, keeping his hand gripped to my forearm as he implored me for guidance.

Pakistani truck art with self-explanatory message.

His question caught me up short. Comparisons are odious, as my grandmother used to say, but I’ve wondered the same thing about my homeland, a place I love as much as the Pakistani gentleman at the workshop does his. What can improv do in the face of monumental challenges?

The scope of these challenges is daunting: Another mass shooting. A treasonous Speaker, second-in-line to the presidency. Wars which ignite and persist. Legislators mocking the less fortunate, mimicking their leader who threatens our citizens with violence, covering his ass by calling it all a joke.

None of it’s funny, of course.

So the question arises, again and again: How can we pursue mental health without crawling into a cave and praying–to whom?–for this massive madness to pass, for the constant barrage of horrible news to whittle down? What actual steps can we take? I didn’t want to offer improv as a panacea to the heartbroken Pakistani man. In that moment, I was stymied.

Have you heard of “screen apnea”? It seems we stop breathing when we first look at our screens. The smaller the screen, the longer we hold our breath. And then our nervous system engages in the fight-or-flight response and we find ourselves anxious and overwhelmed, all because of Facebook and group texts.

I finally responded, after I took a long breath, saying something like this: When we dread the future we often feel powerless. Our anxiety skyrockets. We can’t see each other for all the anger and despair. Improv offers a reprieve from this alienation by grounding us in the present moment. It can help us connect with others without regard to our affiliations, nationalities, sexualities, spiritualities. We can change this moment, and maybe the next, and then possibly the one after that. That’s something, right?

The Pakistani gentleman nodded. Maybe he didn’t believe me. Maybe he wanted a more encompassing answer. I can’t blame him, but I’ve seen the joy and lightness strangers can experience when they laugh together in the moment, and I told him that I hope improvisation can be a moment-by-moment antidote to all the poison in our shared atmosphere.

Maybe these pictures will help. In all of our workshops we stepped outside of the insanity and discovered something joyous. Witness:

At Olomopolo Media in Muslim Town, Lahore. Casim observed that practicing improv “inoculates” us from real stressors. An apt metaphor.

Beaconhouse University students, poised after a rigorous game of Zip-Zap-Zop.

A school picture? No! It’s the participants at the United States Educational Foundation in Pakistan’s office in Lahore. Thanks again to Casim and Fizza Suhail for bringing the PowerPoint to life and then some (we laughed; they laughed; we kept the staff at the USEFP office well past closing time)(thanks and sorry!).

With Casim and the NUR International University psychology students at Fatima Memorial Hospital in Lahore after a FIVE HOUR workshop! Real stamina.

My feet on display after our show “Laughing Matters” at Olomopolo Media. A glorious evening where the performers and the audience members changed roles with ease. This is for Jen Scott: It was the definition of an Infinite Game, if an infinite game can allow itself to be defined.

Thanks to Olomopolo Media for hosting two workshops and our show. Cheers, too, to Fizza Suhail who improvised on stage for the first time and made it look effortless.

Casim and I fly to Karachi this afternoon. I’ve loved being in Lahore. None of these photos does the majesty of this place justice, but I’ll give it a go:

Outside the Badshahi Mosque in Lahore.

Domes and minarets above the canopy of trees.

Puri in flight before sizzling in oil. Outside the famous Capri Restaurant, Lahore.

Lahore at night on the grounds of the Gymkhana. The word “gymkhana” derives from an early term for tennis. Or polo. Alligator shirts and stuff.

The garden outside Olomopolo Media. Could sit here all evening.

Compelling sculpture outside the Quaid-e-Azam library.

Watchful cat in the Bagh-e-Jinnah (Garden of Jinnah) (Jinnah was Pakistan’s first governor-general).

Quiet morning in Lawrence Gardens.

The hosts at NUR International University sponsored me at the Lahore Gymkhana, a kind of country club that has turned its back on the modern world. Strange, quiet, serene, colonial, hidebound, exclusive/exclusionary. Residents must adhere to a four-page dress code. I left my crocs at home:

“Where luxury comes as a guest to take a slave.” Thank you, Joni Mitchell.

The Lahore Gymkhana at night. Thanks to the hosts at NUR International University for letting me stay here. The breakfasts alone recommend the place; by the time the tenor sax renditions of 500 Miles, Jambalaya, and Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina had looped I’d find myself well into my third serving of halva. Sugar, oil, flour, butter: addictive.

Imposing guard with kind eyes at the Lahore Gymkhana.

A few more photos from Lahore:

Wrestling with a peacock in Lawrence Gardens. The real ones–which show up when least expected–could take me in an instant.

My mug is everywhere. Here I’m hovering above the welcoming committee at NUR International University. They gave me beautiful flowers, too.

Casim points at my face with a collection of colleagues at Fatima Memorial Hospital.

(Days have passed; now I’m in Karachi. As I type this I’m sitting on my bed in the Karachi Gymkhana, waiting to start again. Here’s a preview):

Does this need a caption?

In the meantime, I’m going to take a page from Master Biryani’s book and offer some unsolicited and universally applicable advice. Please use it wisely:

I like comments. Lots of them. Just saying.

How about this: I’m back in Pakistan on a Citizen Diplomacy Action Fund (CDAF) grant entitled “Supporting Community and Mental Health through Improvisation.” Five days in and I’m only now starting to get my bearings. In fact, when I’ve tried to come up with a cohesive blog entry I’ve punted and, instead, watched all sorts of Instagram reels featuring clumsy panda bears and (why?) anacondas that have somehow slithered into people’s HVAC systems.

I’m here promoting mental health.

Thank you, CDAF.

…and improv, it seems, where we let go of our expectations in order to find inspiration in the present moment (a place where anxiety–which is future-oriented–can’t flourish). My best laid plans have been leading me in circles, so I’m going to take inspiration from my non-linear thoughts and let the (mostly) random order of these photos tell this story.

Onward. Sort of.

Taken from the in-flight screen on Qatar Airlines from Doha to Islamabad. My plane is huge.

The US State Department funds this grant (thank you!) but unlike the previous Fulbright experiences, it doesn’t determine housing or transportation. If you weren’t one of the dozens of travel agents and worldly friends I consulted to arrange this trip, consider yourself lucky.

Once onboard the plane(s) I watched wellness videos provided by Qatar Airways to ease my concerns (are my compression socks working? Should I be able to feel my toes?). After 37 hours of travel I arrived in Islamabad at 3:00am. My talented and funny co-facilitator Casim Ovais picked me up and drove me into town.

Casim Ovais with me on the terrace of the Fulbright House in Islamabad. An engaging storyteller, he.

Jet lag and personality got the better of me at first. I continued to fret about the things in my line of sight (I need eyedrops but can’t keep my eyes open wide enough to use them; the time difference involves simple and impossible math) and about things far beyond it (the world is on fire; the world is really on fire).

Don’t Worry, Be Happy by Emily Starck (2022). How did she capture the human nervous system so perfectly? And ironically?

The day-to-day, moment-by-moment focused my buzzing mind. Some evidence:

Looking out over the Fulbright House gate at the Margalla Hills above Islamabad.

Life goes on at the Fulbright House. (I may never use this.) (I will never use this.)

Ejaz and Sheeru (“little lion” in Urdu). Ejaz takes good care of us; Sheeru has other agendas.

Adeel, engrossed in the Pakistan/India cricket match. We were instructed not to talk during the game. Even now I’m concerned that I’m not using the correct terminology.

We wave at each other every time I leave.

Comforting straight lines between the boulevards in Islamabad. Excellent for channeling the frantic chatter of an anxious mind.

On Day Two I rode with Casim to the twin city of Rawalpindi. A world away from Islamabad, if only a half hour by car.

Saqafati Sure (Cultural Note) by Ahmed Habib (2020). Eerie similarity to Starck’s painting above. An old guide book I found compares Islamabad to Rawalpindi as “chalk and cheese”; “chaos and control” might also fit. Pindi, as the locals say, is vibrantly alive.

My CDAF project began:

I spoke about my CDAF project at the unveiling of the Pakistan Institute of Mental Health in Rawalpindi. An honor. The Urdu script behind me reads, “Untie the knots in your heart.” Poetry and psychology can coexist. See below.

Poster on the wall of the new PIMH clinic. I agree, for what it’s worth.

With the esteemed staff of the PIMH. One of the speakers elaborated on the logo: The endless circles in our mind confuse us; the strands of wheat, when ingested indiscriminately, make us sluggish. The goal, then, is to free the mind and disencumber the body.

Neon in a Rawalpindi coffee shop near the Pakistan Institute of Mental Health. A different approach to the troubled mind.

Visited four schools in five days to facilitate workshops; attended three rehearsals; gave two speeches, AND took part in this talk at The Black Hole, an educational and performance space in Islamabad named by an arts-conscious physicist. Casim-with-a-Q and Fizza shone!

Casim came up with the name “Laughing Matters” for our talks and shows about improv and mental health. Genius!

Along with Casim as co-facilitator, I’ve been leading workshops on the psychological benefits of improvisation. We do exercises that encourage participants to leap into the present moment even as they feel anxious or self-conscious. To do this, I spend a lot of time emphasizing that, in improv, our goal is to make our scene partner look as good as possible. We acknowledge the gift of their presence over and over and over again.

We also have fun, and, in one case, we had cake. I turned 64 on my fourth day here; the teachers and staff at City Grammar School in Rawalpindi got me a delicious red velvet cake. I’m becoming a crier in my old age (with or without eye drops). They sang; I got misty.

Celebratory photo at the end of our three-hour workshop. Cake, Casim, the school principal (next to me), and some enthusiastic teachers whose finely-honed improv skills opened my eyes, again.

Murals everywhere.

Rules, too.

At Bahria University. Modesty encouraged and enforced. Creativity unbridled, despite or because. I don’t know.

Casim is producing a documentary on Applied Improvisation–taking the skills used in improv and applying them to life outside the theater–while Abrar (center) has been our trustworthy and gifted cinematographer. He stepped in front of the camera, reluctantly, after our workshop at the National University of Sciences and Technology (NUST) in Islamabad. My goal is to make him laugh. I have my work cut out for me.

We’re also doing improv shows in three cities as part of the CDAF grant. Our first show opens tonight at Theatre Wallay in Islamabad. At rehearsal, the director and cast gave me a second birthday cake (chocolate with coffee icing). Oh, man.

Happy birthday to Eddie, too. I’m a twin in a family of twins; it felt good–and familiar–to be surrounded by the Theatre Wallay cast while I’m a world away from home. (Hi, Dennis.)

Moon over Theatre Wallay’s outdoor stage in Bani Gala, Islamabad. The logs are part of the set for a Flemish/Belgian play they’re producing, in Urdu, next month.

Casim oversees interviews with cast members for the Applied Improv documentary.

I chose two poems to end this meandering entry. My own words can’t encapsulate the strangeness of doing light-hearted improv workshops while the forces of authoritarianism and fundamentalism unleash such violent cruelty on the world. The poets Adrienne Rich and Mary Oliver will have to contain this fission.

Fission and Fusion by James de Villiers (2023).

Today, it feels right to put Adrienne Rich’s poem first:

Tomorrow, Mary Oliver’s poem may feel to me like “silly” words in my “personal weather.” For now, I like the fact that these poems comment on each other, one ending and the other beginning with that demanding pronoun “I.”

How to resolve this? In improv–for what it’s worth–we try to step into the unknown, the discomfort, the fear (and the joy). And then, moment-by-moment, we live with resolve, if not resolution.

One last thing: Improv’s not about me. It’s not about you. It’s about what we discover together. This takes practice.

Send me some comments, please.

Sunset over Rawal Lake in Bani Gala, Islamabad.

Existentialist on Chatteswari Road at 5:30am.

Alas. I took all of the precautions listed on the tee-shirt above and still spent the Eid holiday alone in a Dhaka hotel room, sick as a dog.

The revealing part? It wasn’t that bad.

Hotel instructional card by the telephone. The punctuation and the aphorism made more sense when I was delirious with food poisoning.

I spent three days in a dark, air conditioned room eating yogurt, honey, and hardboiled eggs (sequentially, for the most part). The staff circled around me like a hawk or my mom, chastising me when I ordered too many dairy products or when I stepped outside (which I did, three times) without an umbrella. I rallied enough to get back on the bus for Chittagong; on the way home we stopped at the same roadside restaurant where I’m sure I’d had the offending meal. The waiter remembered me, reciting my exact order as I hovered by the entrance. I commended him on his memory and ordered a milk tea and nothing else.

A painting in the AUW canteen, warning of fast food and its dangers. Apart from a canister of (stale) Pringles and some processed cheese slices, I’ve been very good.

I do like the public safety warnings here in Bangladesh; the watchful hotel staff come by it honestly. Maybe it’s the language translation, but I’ve received more good-natured scoldings in the past two months than I’ve had at home over the Christmas holidays. For instance, “Avoid the Attitude of Competition” has been painted for the drivers to see on every pedestrian overpass between here and Dhaka. Not sure if that would have saved me and my “loose motion,” but I think it’s a worthwhile instruction. As with many public health campaigns, this one falls on deaf ears. People don’t drive here. They hurtle.

This isn’t Bangladesh, obviously. Still, this community could use some words of wisdom on its bridges and underpasses.

The bus, like the hotel, provided another cool respite from the chaos of the cities and my uncooperative body. I loved sitting in my reclining seat on the upper deck, watching the (beautiful, green, shimmering) scenery go past. I always emphasize in my improv workshops that THIS moment is the moment of inspiration because it’s the ONLY moment we can work with. I really did try to keep this in mind; doing so lessened the disappointment of forfeiting all my Eid plans.

This all-embracing philosophy was put to the test by my three-year-old traveling companion, just two seats away. He had a device of some sort–one that played videos–and he delighted in the Old MacDonald song for a good portion of the five-hour trip.

Maintenance rehearsal–where we just repeat words over and over again–is less effective than elaborative rehearsal. With elaborative rehearsal, we take new information and make a meaningful attachment to pre-existing information. For instance, why did Old MacDonald name his dog Bingo, or does the possessive pronoun “his” refer to Old MacDonald himself? Why would MacDonald’s parents name him “Bingo MacDonald”? Did he have a cat, too?

(And for all my smarty-pantsness, my lifelong friend Anne pointed out that Old MacDonald’s creed was “ee-i-ee-i-o,” not “B-I-N-G-O.” I blame no one but myself.)

Cox’s Bazar at night, looking back from the shore toward the shops and hotels and open-air fish markets.

A week’s worth of rice, curd, and turmeric dal settled my stomach and so I accompanied M.K. Jatra to Cox’s Bazar International University to conduct an improv workshop for his Expressive Psychotherapy students. No one complained when I asked them to run around in the swampy conference room; in fact, the students’ enthusiasm more than made up for the listless ceiling fans and the damp, disintegrating carpet. By the time Jatra and I rolled up our pants and walked out into the tidal pools (see above) I was hot, sweaty, dazed, and very, very grateful for these remarkable students. Their sincerity and commitment broke my heart in the best possible way.

The Bay of Bengal from Marine Drive, south of Cox’s Bazar, heading for the Myanmar border. The concrete structures (that look kind of like seals) line the entire coastline in an attempt to prevent the over-heated salt water from crossing the road and leaching the rice paddies. Climate change is here.

The following morning we hired a car and drove along the ocean road to the Teknaf Zero Point and the Naf River jetty where goods (and people) from Myanmar’s Rakhine State cross the international border. In 2012 I taught for a semester in Myanmar. The first democratic elections in years were held while I was living in Yangon, giving rise to cautious optimism for a healthier, less oppressive society. All that hope has been dashed by the recent military coup. Seeing Myanmar, even from a distance, brought back memories of my friends and students whose lives have been truncated once again by an authoritarian government.

Gazing toward Bangladesh from the jetty on the Naf River.

Myanmar on the far side of the trees. Close to a million Rohingya people from Rahkine State live in Bangladesh’s refugee camps, forced out by the Burmese government for being Muslim. They can’t return to Myanmar and they can’t really assimilate in Bangladesh, although AUW has a significant number of Rohingya students.

So much bloodshed. At the same time, it’s impossible to overstate the beauty of this part of the world. We left Cox’s Bazar early in the morning when the light had a first-day-of-school brilliance. I’ll lapse into cliché, but the light really is golden. Over the ocean sat enormous, billowing thunderheads with sheets of rain falling beneath. The green and silver rice fields, bisected by red dirt lanes that lead to ancient copses (hi, Shanan), seemed to vibrate with life. Goats and cows lolled about in defiance of the (sparse) traffic, causing our driver to swerve but not swear. (An awful, awful moment: he hit one of the goats with a sickening thud. All morning that sound reverberated in my ears. Can’t stop imagining the terror that poor creature must have felt at the last moment. We careened on, guilty of many things).

Heading north to Cox’s Bazar. In the lower right corner of this photo is an iconic Bangladeshi sampan, still used for fishing. These crescent-shaped “Moon Boats” maneuver the shallow coastline on their nightly expeditions.

From another world (and courtesy of National Geographic).

Now I’m back in Chittagong, staring at my luggage and wondering how I’ll compress two months into an overhead compartment. I’m ready to come home and yet my heart clutches when I think of this school and my students and everything that will go on without me. Rather than indulge my maudlin tendencies, I’ll post some pictures of places and people:

If you say so.

Help! (Roadside mural on Cemetery Road, Chittagong.)

Friends.

Survived the wrecking ball, for now. Chittagong.

Early morning Chatteswari Road. Chittagong.

Each unit comes with a thesaurus. (The other day in class we discussed Carl Rogers’ “self concept.” I asked the students to complete this sentence: “I am__________.” One woman said, with complete confidence, “I am cute.” Another said, “I am taciturn.” I love it here.)

Leading this workshop today at the American Corner. Results below.

A great group at the American Corner! Improvisers, all.

Selfie with students at the opening night of AUW’s musical adaptation of Little Women. Jabin–next to me–played Meg March with good humor and genuine feeling. She and her cast mates earned thunderous applause and standing ovations. A perfect production for an audience of brave, resilient women.

People I encountered on my early morning walks:

I showed him the results of my photography. This captures his response.

Outside the hospital on the other side of Cemetery Road.

Encouraging gentleman at bus station ticket counter. I made exact change.

Our driver from Cox’s Bazar. He let me take his picture, but would not face the camera.

Lone soldier with Myanmar across the river.

Jolly man.

Vendor at the Zero Point.

Pensive man.

Invaluable maintenance man (with goats) at Thames Tower. And by “invaluable” I mean VERY valuable.

So goodbye, Bangladesh. Geopolitics and religious strife tear at both our countries, convincing us that we need to be suspicious of one another. I feel it, and in my more exhausted moments I had a hard time finding compassion and commonality. More often than not, though, this place taught me (once again) the value of having an open heart, or at least the aspiration to have one.

The Facebook algorithm knows me better than I know myself, which is how this Pledge of Allegiance found its way into my feed. Thanks for listening to me–

Yep.

The women of the AUW Boxing Club will not be erased. I don’t have permission to post their actual photos, but I did witness their ferocity, their determination, their joy.

Last week I attended the inaugural meeting of the Asian University for Women’s Boxing Club. I took some photos of the veteran boxers, the two coaches (one of them male), and the novice members, many in bright red hijab, but I couldn’t capture the exhilaration that carried the event. I also didn’t have permission to post these photos, so this will have to do:

Faculty sponsor with bespoke and outspoken tee-shirt.

Most of the women in this brand new club are Afghan. Some were celebrated boxers in Kabul before the most recent takeover by the Taliban. One speaker, the president of the club, alluded to the obliteration of women’s boxing–good lord, of women’s civic participation–in Afghanistan after the US forces left. She chose her words carefully, apparently aware that even from the safety of the AUW auditorium she shone as a fiery rebuke to the Talibs. Over the exuberant cheers of her classmates and the pounding bass of the looped club music, she whipped up the crowd with exhortations to take control of their own lives, to stand up to the threats of men. At the end of her speech–and before the thrilling demonstrations–she stared at the audience and said: “Suffering makes your life beautiful.”

A club with grit and heart and POWER.

Quite a declaration. From the comfort of my front row seat and my privileged male gender, I could think of a thousand ways suffering makes life ugly; even in a beautiful country like Bangladesh, all you have to do is step outside to be confronted with the debasing reality of poverty and hunger and sexism. But I don’t think the Boxing Club president was pawning off some “When-life-gives-you-lemons” pabulum on the student body. She and her “lady boxers” (her words) kicked and punched and pivoted with such laser-sharp intensity that whatever the driving force that motivated them might be–anger, excitement, despair, self-defense, vengeance–these women used it to transform their suffering into something extraordinary. Beautiful, even.

I walked home, grateful as could be to have been in the presence of such perseverance. Even the (insert expletive) humidity couldn’t dampen my spirits.

Two clubs sponsored Pride at AUW: The Queer-Straight Alliance and the Art Club. Evidence of their vibrant collaboration above.

That very same week, AUW held a second Pride event. As the resident psychology instructor, I’d been asked to facilitate a conversation in which students wrote their “confessions” on an index card. Once these cards were collected, I was to pluck them from a fishbowl and read them aloud. I said I thought this was a bad, potentially unethical idea. Where were the resources in case a student revealed something desperate? Confession implies sin; do we want to conflate LGBTQ concerns with sin? (No.) I’d been double-booked and would have to run to another workshop at the other campus before the hour ended; what if I left a student in the lurch?

My concerns were duly noted and then dismissed.

Awaiting the LGBTQ deluge.

Fortunately, the faculty turnout nearly matched the students’ attendance and so my leaving early wasn’t a problem. The balloons, a nice touch, outnumbered the human participants; they exploded at random from the heat, insuring that no one dozed off. My ethical concerns also deflated after I figured out a way to screen the “confessions” before reading them aloud. The context differed from LGBTQ life in the West, but the worries expressed on the index cards sounded familiar: Most students feared rejection by their families and their friends. In Bangladesh, religion, culture, and politics all conspire to make gay people ashamed of themselves on a deep, fundamental level–not so different from the American Right’s cynical strategy to revile gay folks with insinuations about “grooming” and “psychic crises” in children who happen to find out that some of their classmates have two moms or two dads.

(A cruel, narrow-minded strategy, if I do say so myself. Suicide rates for LGBTQ teenagers in the US have increased over the last three years, due in part to the relentless hectoring by religious fundamentalists and their political bootlickers. Some stats from The Trevor Project and NPR: https://www.npr.org/2022/05/05/1096920693/lgbtq-youth-thoughts-of-suicide-trevor-project-survey.)

Think about it.

A perennial question arose: In light of these students’ bravery–the fact that they showed up in a room to discuss identities and behaviors that are illegal–how should this faculty facilitator address his own identity? More questions followed: Does my coming out model courage or does it crowd out the students’ experiences? Does it make the discussion all about the teacher and his need to self-disclose? What are the legitimate risks to sharing one’s homosexuality in Bangladesh? Which boundaries should remain in place?

I blanched and, instead, used the pronoun “We” (i.e. “How do WE address the judgment implied in the statement, ‘You don’t look gay'”?) as if I were straight out of the House of Windsor (pun intended). Not that Bangladesh needed another royal family member to call the shots, but there We were, dispensing noblesse oblige with our fingers in the fishbowl.

We found this on Wikipedia: “Throughout his life [King] James had close relationships with male courtiers, which has caused debate among historians about their exact nature.” Indeed. (And, yes, King James was from the house of Stuart. I looked it up.)

While we’re on the subject of royalty and its post-colonial after-effects, Bangladesh inherited its criminal laws against homosexuality from the British Indian Government in 1860. These anti-gay laws are still on the books, to devastating consequence.

Xulhaz Mannan, editor of the Bangladeshi LGBT magazine Roopbaan, was killed in his apartment in Dhaka along with activist Tanay Fahim by religious fundamentalists in 2016.

Coming out as LGBT–or even as an ally–for a Bangladesh citizen involves terrible risks. Imprisonment, estrangement, violence and murder (see above), suicide: Bangladeshis face these threats daily if they try to live openly. Coming in and coming out as a know-it-all-Westerner overlooks that reality. I wanted to defy the shame that can keep gay people like me in the closet, and I also wanted to tread carefully before running to my next event.

What a tightrope. And a compromise. Here’s to the brave LGBT students and their allies, both in the US and–especially–in Bangladesh.

Thanks to Bonni Allen for the headshot and to Nabila Afroz for the poster and the mid-session tea. I made it on time to this really enjoyable workshop.

I can’t exactly vouch for my mental health here (it’s hot and that makes me fussy; did I mention that?), but the improv workshop after the Pride event was an unmitigated blast. Here’s hysterical proof:

Modeling contemplative mindfulness with some students.

Time winds down. I’ll be in Dhaka for the Eid al-Adha holiday and, the following weekend, in Cox’s Bazar to give another improv presentation. Been feeling torn in two. I’m excited to return to summer in Saint Paul and I finally feel useful and connected here. People have faced worse conundrums.

Places and portraits, while I’m still in Bangladesh:

The entrance to Shilpakala Arts Academy, where I’ve seen plays about Che Guevara, post-partition East Pakistan, the liberation that turned East Pakistan into Bangladesh, the origin of the Bangla language, and gift-giving gone awry, courtesy of O. Henry. All of it in Bangla.

Monsoon approaching Chittagong. Photo from the roof of Thames Towers.

Early morning construction worker in Chok Bazaar.

Same morning, different profession.

Kindly gentleman at the former British Railway offices.

Coconut vendor, just before the rain.

I took too long trying to get the iPhone to focus.

Knife sharpener, stopping on his daily rounds through the neighborhood.

Friendly AUW canteen worker. He won’t give me seconds, but he does so with a smile.

Buddhist monk and Pali professor. He moved the footlight to create these shadows.

This gentleman invited me to join him in calisthenics at a nearby park...

…and so I did. (Hello to Karen Connelly who has taught me the benefits of bilateral stimulation and to Katy McEwen who has worked thanklessly with my midline dysfunction.)

Aquarium storefront on a Monday evening in Chittagong.

Eid al-Adha approaches. A doomed fate for this poor creature; his sacrifice will feed a few. When I left the building this morning, the only other animal on our street was a goat. By this afternoon a huge bull and two more goats had joined them. Lowing and bleating behind every garage gate, now. Haunting.

Beautiful Bengal.

Post a comment if you’re so inclined. I like comments.

Listen to me! (Wild-eyed foreigner at the University of Chittagong.)

After a busy, gratifying week of teaching, I thought I’d return to the lobby of the Radisson Blu to celebrate the start of the weekend. I found a cushy blu(e) chair underneath an air-conditioning vent and sprawled out with a cappuccino and Pema Chödrön’s latest book, How We Live is How We Die. Neither the book nor I is a real barn-burner; I fell sound asleep to the whispers of Muzak and woke up 15 minutes later with a billion mosquito bites.

Pema Chödrön, an American Buddhist nun, would suggest I work with my sleepy posture rather than resist it. Also, I might try befriending the mosquitoes, as they have much to teach me about easing into discomfort and receiving unwelcome gifts as opportunities for wisdom.

I love Pema Chödrön. Maybe I’m wrong, but I get the sense she wouldn’t judge me for seeking escape in a climate-controlled hotel lobby. I also think she’d empathize with my (continuing) realization that there is no escape, that our propensities for suffering will accompany us no matter how far we travel or how cushy our chair.

A mosquito harborage.

The quality and quantity of suffering expand and contract, though. Complaining about mosquito bites in a posh hotel lobby feels indecent when, just outside the Radisson’s metal detectors and guarded front gates, entire families live on the street. In those threshold moments the crush of, well, everything is irreconcilable: the listless babies, the mirrors-on-a-stick checking for explosives under the chassis of a Mercedes-Benz, this Westerner whose iPhone costs more than some of these people will earn in a lifetime. Meanwhile, at school, there’s the Afghan student, separated from her family by 1,500 miles and mountains of red tape. The refugees from Myanmar who have to drop the class because to stay in Bangladesh will annul their asylum in Thailand. The posters by the elevator pleading with students to stop cutting themselves when the trauma presses too hard on their nervous systems.

Witness and breathe, a simple and oddly vexing task. This seems to be one of Pema Chödrön’s gentle suggestions. Every moment holds its own birth and destruction. Suffering dissolves into joy; joy dissolves into suffering; suffering dissolves into joy. We’re crossing thresholds with every step. Resistance solidifies our illusions; our shared illusions can bind us together.

I’ll stop with the bumper-sticker sentiments. Pema Chödrön explains this better.

Signs of resilience pop up everywhere as well, some of them literal:

Good idea.

The exuberant cast of AUW’s Little Women. (We did improv; as an alumnus of Louisa May Alcott Elementary School [class of 1971], I think I didn’t disgrace the school or the author.)

5:00am football players, known to one and all as “We Brothers.”

What to do with all this? I don’t know.

On Wednesday, I read my students the riot act for cheating on the last exam. They responded with blank stares and one or two tears. For some of these women, having a university degree will spare them lives of breathtaking uncertainty and despair. For many of them, asking a friend for help makes perfect sense, especially on an exam (for the record: I reserve the last 20 minutes of every exam for class discussion about the material. I think this teaches them to ask the right questions). When I tell these students that the point of the exam is to understand the material and not just to tick off a box to get a diploma, I’m sure I sound naive. “Professor Sir! You don’t understand!”

It’s just a test. That diploma means the world.

Multiple choices, if you’re lucky. (Eyes on your own paper, please.)

Fortunately, dedicated people like M.K. Jatra exist. I’ve mentioned our collaborations in previous entries. His goal–as a theater artist who uses dramatics to alleviate suffering–is to create a mental health center at the University of Chittagong. He enlisted my help last week as the visiting (White) scholar (yikes) to co-present a 90-minute PowerPoint presentation on Expressive Psychotherapy to the university’s administration and faculty.

Words can’t capture what exactly happened. I’d say, “You had to be there,” but even then the mystery would remain. I think our presentation was a success, but a fish doesn’t know it’s wet. Judge for yourselves:

M.K. Jatra in a rehearsal room at Shilpokola Academy, Chittagong, Bangladesh.

A driver picked me up outside the Asian University for Women immediately after my psychology class on Wednesday. It takes nearly an hour to get across town to the University of Chittagong; I was enjoying the air conditioner and the reassuring restraint of a seat belt. I couldn’t hear Jatra in the back seat due to the endless horn-honking, but we seemed to have found an amiable silence that suits his temperament and my language deficits. About ten minutes into the trip I noticed a siren on our tail.

“That’s weird,” I said to Jatra.

“No,” he replied.

Jatra didn’t seem concerned that we were scheduled to begin in 30 minutes and that the car, wedged between two screaming three-wheel taxis, had been at an impasse for at least ten. The siren blared even louder, to no real effect. We finally broke free and passed a student demonstration celebrating technology (oh?) before creeping through one of the few traffic lights in a town of eight million (at a railroad crossing) (thank god).

The siren pursued us. That’s an understatement: it felt as if we had become the siren. Like one of those European ambulance sirens that sounds like Hell’s on fire.

You’re going to be late!

After nearly 45 minutes of full-volume, pulsating alarm I wondered why the driver hadn’t pulled over. I undid my seat belt and turned around to see if I could lay eyes on this persistent traffic cop. Nothing unusual appeared in the rear view mirror. I whispered to myself (although no one would have heard me if I’d shouted at the top of my lungs), “Where is this a–hole?”

Jatra picked up on my confusion. I pointed at my ear and said, “Siren?”

He, in turn, pointed to the roof of our car and twirled his index finger. He moved his head in tandem.

“Really?”

He nodded.

The sound was coming from our car. Our car had a siren on its roof. We were the siren.

“Why?” I asked.

“You are an important person and we have to get you to school on time,” he said. And then he laughed, even louder than the siren itself.

We got there.

People stand on ceremony in Bangladesh. Before Jatra and I spoke, the Vice-Chancellor and four other administrators addressed the audience for nearly an hour. I had already blurted out my resumé in 90 repetitive seconds, so I stared out at the crowd from our red leather chairs and occasionally asked the Vice-Chancellor to explain what was happening (“They are speaking”). By the time Jatra and I had moved down to the floor to do our PowerPoint, the administrators had left and we had 15 minutes to talk about mental health and the need for sympathetic and systemic responses to crises.

Jatra introduces our presentation.

I jumped in, explaining how mental health centers have begun to expand at universities in the States to address anxiety and depression and addiction and suicides. Serious stuff, worthy of many more minutes. I flipped to Jartra’s Expressive Psychotherapy slide and, as planned, said, “And now Professor Jatra will talk about his area of expertise.”

“No,” he said. “You do it.”

The remaining seven minutes were a blur. I voiced every thought I’d ever had, some of them germane, some of them just multi-syllabic. When I finished we got a hearty round of applause followed by Jatra’s deft handling of the question-and-answer session. Then we had lunch.

“Are you happy?” I asked on the drive home.

“Oh, yes,” he said. Apparently our talking points would be featured in the the student newspaper the following morning. Apparently there may be a mental health center at the school in the near-enough future.

M.K. Jatra. A man of few words and much influence.

All in all, it was a peculiar but glorious day. Jatra has been a good companion here in Chittagong. Last night he and his wife took me to a Bangla production of O. Henry’s The Gift of the Magi. I had a great time; amazing how relaxing it can be to let go of language and just focus on faces.

Speaking of, here are some more photos from my early morning walks and various rambles. I asked permission, of course:

Security guard guarding himself from the sun outside AUW.

Early morning Chatteswari Road.

Some step forward.

Rickshaw driver, stopping for tea.

Brooklyn comes to Chittagong at GEC Circle.

Audio tech at University of Chittagong.

No smile, but free tea. Very gracious.

Chok Bazaar. 5:00am.

I took part in this:

Kudos to the brave faculty and students who arranged this evening. Not an easy place.

Finally: I love South Asian windows.

Thanks to Pema Chödrön for the guidance.

Leave a comment, please. I’d be much obliged.

Living proof that anti-sweat iontophoresis may become the greatest medical/electrical advance of the 21st Century. I hope I don’t sweat to death before its unveiling. Also, there’s a green-and-yellow foot next to my face. At Dhaka University.

A caveat to start: Things are looking up. My students keep me on my toes. I’m getting lots (and lots) of improv work. The monsoon has arrived and, for three seconds this afternoon, I thought, “Wow. A breeze!” Oh, and this: I broke down and bought processed cheese slices. I don’t regret it. And sure, I enlisted half of Chittagong to help me find contact lens solution (it’s only sold at “optic stores”); together we overcame the traffic and language barriers and found an optician who sold me some saline solution.

Bangladesh continues revealing its beauty:

Beautiful Chittagong as seen through the rain and contact lenses.

The red sun from the Bangladesh flag, symbolizing a new day and an end to oppression. Chittagong University arboretum.

“Trees are the earth’s endless effort to speak to the listening heaven.” Rabindranath Tagore, Bengali poet.

Where the walls aren’t succumbing to climbing vines and crumbling damp, the murals work their magic:

Challenging the mind/body split.

A student interpreted: “It’s in my blood.” (Apologies if I misremembered.)

Beauty and birds. Chittagong University.

I’ve also been having a lot of Type Two Fun. Here’s a definition from the internet, a perfectly reliable source:

Type II fun is often hot, wet, muddy, or uncomfortable. Examples of Type II Fun include hiking, trekking, camping, kayaking, or going on some other grand adventure. It’s only fun in hindsight. Type II Fun refers to the type of adventure that you “want to have had”, but don’t necessarily “want to do.”

Kids playing soccer at 5:30am in a nearby park. This is Type One Fun.

I had two days of wonderful Type Two Fun at Chittagong University this week. M.K. Jatra, an expressive psychotherapist, invited me to join him for some workshops and lectures. I agreed, only to find myself (happily) baffled by the cavernous gap between my expectations and reality. Two thoughts eclipsed everything else.

The first, and most obliterating: “What is happening?”

Secondly: “I can’t wait to write about this.”

I’m not sure I’ll be able to capture the experience, but man alive: it was Type Two times Two.

Some fragments, photos, and captions to illustrate:

We don’t know each other and I’m not sure why I was a guest at the international law lecture. I learned a lot. For instance, both Bangladesh and the United States declared a “Unilateral Declaration of Independence.” We left West Pakistan and England behind, respectively.

A sobering prelude to the Type Two experience:

After listening to this international law lecture–which explained Bangladesh’s deeply traumatizing extrication from West Pakistan–I was invited to lunch in the faculty canteen. The talk hung heavy in the air, at least for me, a relative novice to the topic. Bangladeshis take pride in the sacrifices they made to gain independence; memorials to brave martyrs grace nearly every traffic circle and public park. Universities in Bangladesh keep these wartime memories vivid with sculpture and mosaics and commemorative posters shellacked to the sides of dining halls and dormitories. This makes sense: the genocidal horrors of 1971 targeted the academic community with chilling precision. I couldn’t help but look at these current professors and their families and think about their compatriots, killed in their beds as retaliation for seeking independence just two generations ago. As a teacher I feel free to say this: academia can certainly be fusty and arcane, but sitting with these professors in the context of their recent history made me proud to be associated–however remotely–with them. The stereotype of the bumbling, ineffectual professor brings out the brute in many of our politicians (who often are the beneficiaries of the Ivy League educations they cynically disavow). They relish the role of the playground bully, stoking violence against anyone whose power isn’t physical. The students and professors in Bangladesh showed courage as their country emerged from the bloody fight for independence. For a moment, apologizing for being one such bumbler felt like an affront to these brave souls.

Lecture finished.

Nope. (The Bangla actually says, “Dear Girlfriend.”)

Bas-relief on the wall by the Catholic Church in Chittagong. Bangladeshi citizens during the Liberation War of 1971.

Life goes on, somehow. The present moment pulled me out of my rumination, as always. I’m sharing some snippets of conversation that shook me out of my pondering and into the Type Two Fun I mentioned above. Internal monologue included, as necessary:

To the gracious student server in the faculty canteen:

ME: “I’m a vegetarian, so I’ll have the rice and dal.”

GRACIOUS STUDENT SERVER: “Yes! Have the mutton, too!”

ME: “No, thanks!”

GRACIOUS STUDENT SERVER: “Okay! Then fish for you!”

With the husband-and-wife faculty members, trying to understand their soft, clipped English while standing by the generator underneath a decapitating ceiling fan:

HUSBAND: “Our son is in the United States for graduate work.”

ME: “That’s great! Where?”

WIFE: “Estrogen replacement.”

ME: (to self) “What?”

Walking into class with my laptop to give a lecture:

PROFESSOR: “Do you have your PowerPoint lecture ready?”

ME: “Yes.” (I hate PowerPoint presentations, for the record.)

PROFESSOR: “Do you have your adaptor?”

Me: “Yes.”

PROFESSOR: “There is no projector.”

Theater students, released from the tyranny of the PowerPoint presentation.

On both visits, Jatra introduced me to many illustrious faculty members (“My name is Jim. Nice to meet you!”) (“Why are you here?”), got me endless cups of tea (only once did I confuse the sugar with the salt), showed me how to eat a local pome fruit using the husk as a spoon (“Jim. You do it wrong”), and signed me up for eight more workshops, all of which were cancelled by the time we left campus.

I finally got to fire up the infernal PowerPoint. Three slides in the load-shedding began.

Headline from Al Jazeera News: “Bangladesh suffers long power cuts amid worst heatwave in decades.” Not sure my slide deck would have alleviated any of the misery. We improvised instead.

Later in the afternoon, I had an audience with the Vice-Chancellor of Chittagong University. A powerful woman with a bemused, regal presence, she chuckled as I confronted a plate of orange slices. In many Asian countries–Bangladesh included–most people eat with only their right hand. The left hand is considered unclean. I could live here until Time is Done and never figure out how to peel fruit with just one hand. As an elegant host, the Vice-Chancellor allowed me space as I threw citrus around her tasteful sitting area.

My grandmother lived a few blocks from the Parent Navel Orange Tree in my hometown of Riverside, California. My dad and grandfather sold smudge pots to keep the citrus from freezing during cold snaps. My high school colors, in honor of the orange groves, were orange and green. I let my people down.

Admittedly, these are small (fusty) moments, worthy of a chuckle I suppose. We all survived these cultural misunderstandings with good humor and tact. Bigger forces were at work, though. Before catching the bus back to the AUW faculty housing, I asked Jatra why he hadn’t joined me in my lectures and workshops. He had been interpreting for me, but with his extensive knowledge and experience in art therapy he really should have been leading the classes himself. He gave me a shrug, so I asked again:

Over tea in the faculty lounge:

Me: “Why don’t you conduct these workshops? No one knows who I am here. Really, you should be in charge.”

Jatra: (touches my arm) “Yes. But you’re White.”

It’s not over.

Of course.

His truthful response sent a chill up my spine. I didn’t sense any resentment, but what did I know? I’d been dense. I was grateful, too, that he trusted me enough to share this hard–and obvious–reality. We sat quietly for a minute. It would have been easy to brush off the remark, say that he was mistaken and that racism is a thing of the past. Instead, we agreed to be co-presenters next week when we return to Chittagong University to talk about art and mental health. We spent most of yesterday morning compiling a joint PowerPoint presentation to accompany our talk. This collaboration feels better, more just, although I came to find out that Jatra is a stickler for font size and has intransigent, furious beliefs about color choices.

I still hate PowerPoint.

The light breaking through at Chittagong University. The brutalist architecture tries to contain the encroaching natural world. A fascinating duel.

That’s about it. I saw a riveting production of Oedipus Rex at a local arts school. The actors spoke Bangla so I had to rely on my recollection of Sophocles from Mrs. Bishop’s English Honors class at Riverside Polytechnic High School. Our 1974 production involved standing in a straight line and shouting the chorus’ words in unison. If we redefined the play, it was by accident and not for the better. In this Bangla version the chorus moved around the stage like a wave, constantly crashing into Oedipus and threatening to drown Jocasta with each terrible revelation. Gripping.

The chorus takes a curtain call. Oedipus Rex, 2023.

And I have many more portraits ready for the next blog. Here’s a teaser.

M.K. Jatra in front of poster for Oedipus Rex. He clearly has taste; I think our PowerPoint will be all the better for it.

Here’s to all the teachers out there. Please send comments. I beg of you. In the meantime, another quote by Rabindranath Tagore, the Bard of Bengal:

“Don’t limit a child to your own learning, for he was born in another time.“

Rabindranath Tagore: 1861-1941.

Just after 5:00am on Chatteswari Road.

I remember many swim practices where a song would get stuck in my head, pursuing me up and down the lane for the entire two-and-a-half hours. The more insipid the song, the fiercer the chase (“M-I-C-K-E-Y M-O-U-S-E,” for instance. Or some song about a three-hour tour). Despite recent postings to the contrary, I think my ear worms are getting a tiny bit more sophisticated. Lately, these lyrics from Joni Mitchell’s “Barangrill” have been tailing me:

And you want to get moving

And you want to stay still

But lost in the moment some longing gets filled…

(Thanks, Joni Mitchell)

The smile and the hand are at odds.

I can’t stay still. It’s too hot to keep walking. Joni Mitchell gets me.

Bangladesh is suffering under a persistent heat wave (91F in Dhaka at 10:30pm last Thursday night); I’ve been getting up earlier and earlier for a morning walk to beat the heat and clear my head. It’s still a (pleasant) shock to leave the cool of Thames Tower and step out into the smoke and haze of the morning. By the time I’m on the main road the crows are sifting through the piles of coconut husks, cawing at each other to set their morning boundaries. The men walking past acknowledge me with a booming, “Good morning!” The women avert their gaze. Today marked the first time a dog took offense at my presence. I tried to remember if I absolutely should or should not establish eye contact. I blinked. He wagged. We parted ways.

The monkeys in Dhaka left me alone, what with all the cables to coil.

These morning walks do fill some longing. I feel a weird sense of accomplishment just finding my way back to the apartment. Everywhere I look something catches my eye; the photographs fail, but I like the challenge of trying to capture (ha!) the proliferate world here. To echo Ms. Mitchell, getting lost in the moment takes me out of the desire to control time (six more weeks; three more exams; a month’s worth of dental floss, maybe).

Some moments for you:

Sunrise at Chok Bazaar. Dennis has been accompanying me on FaceTime. I hold up the phone and show him what I’m seeing. When he saw the sun rising he snapped the photo on his phone. So, a picture in Chittagong taken by someone in Minneapolis. What next? Flying cars?

Me, in Chok Bazaar, sloppy at 5:15 in the morning. In the mirrors of a modern bank…

Parked.

Early morning ISKCON temple in Chittagong. Haribol! (Hi, John.)

Stairs and shutters at the Chittagong ISKCON temple.

Looking at a tea warehouse through the multi-tinted windows of the Asian University for Women on Chatteswari Road.

Some Bangladeshi men have obliged me by letting me take their pictures. Public life is patriarchal here (the prime minister, however, is female); approaching a woman on the street for a photo would be intrusive. Hence:

CNG driver in Dhaka.

Henna!

Cycle rickshaw driver outside the Alliance Française.

Happy student emerging from the reading room at Dhaka University.

Entrepreneur along the fence at a nearby park in Chittagong. He offered to check my cholesterol levels.

Cycle rickshaw driver in matching lungi, shirt, and collapsible hood.

Criminology graduate student and CNG driver. Excellent impromptu tour guides, both.

Chai? Cha? Tea? This gentleman serves them all.

100 degrees Fahrenheit at Dhaka University. He’s looking at the canteen where I bought a Mountain Dew for the first time in fifty years. It’s still gross and perfect.

You’re hot? I have fur.

And finally:

A crowd gathered at Dhaka University. A consensus emerged: I should pay for a cycle rickshaw to see the campus (I walked).

Oh, and this interloper:

Sitting for lunch at the Sikh gurdwara on the campus of Dhaka University. An oasis of quiet in crazy Dhaka. “Kindness as their deity and forgiveness as their chanting beads. They are a most excellent people.” Guru Granth Sahib Ji

As you’ve guessed, I spent last weekend up in Dhaka, roaming around and trying to immerse myself. My roommate Reza (who still lives in a separate apartment; not sure when AUW will move me downstairs) kept me company on the nine-hour, double-decker bus ride last Thursday evening. We talked about movies–he’s a cinematographer–and food and our families. I asked him about adda, a Bangla word I’d learned in Kolkata. Here’s a definition, courtesy of a BBC report:

“We are not expected to produce something out of an adda,” Aditi Ghosh, head of the linguistics department at University of Calcutta, told me. “It is a kind of unplanned mental exercise where we not just talk about ourselves and our families, but we go beyond that. It is about ideas and events happening all around us.”

An adda in Kolkata.

If two people can form an adda (Is it a noun? A verb? Both?) I’d like to think Reza and I did. I commented on every passing object (“Look at that tree!”) while he incorporated these observations into discussions about art history and politics and Bengali society. We talked about load shedding and the upcoming fuel crisis. I groused about the Christo-fascism that is eroding human rights in the US. He told me about “September on Jessore Road,” Allen Ginsberg’s poetic lament for the refugees of the 1971 War of Liberation.

“Millions of fathers in rain/Millions of mothers in pain/Millions of brothers in woe/Millions of sisters with nowhere to go.” Ginsberg’s poem on display in the Liberation War Museum in Dhaka.

Reza handed me his phone so I could read the poem off the tiny screen as the bus headed toward Dhaka. How do societies recover from such horror? Where do they start? We talked about this, about how the generations that fought this war are still with us, if they survived. We talked about Ginsberg and censorship and the dangers of denying the past. The mood shifted as we stopped at the requisite roadhouse in Cumilla (everyone has to get off the bus; everyone is heartily encouraged to eat). Reza ordered dal and rice and Pepsis to share. We chatted some more and almost missed the bus.

Nothing was solved, not even this less complicated question: “Why do people take offense at other people’s vegetarianism?”

Lots of okra in the dining hall. Might just drive me back to beef.

In high school my insightful friend Sarah coined the term “houseboat person.” I think this is akin to people in an adda. Think of this as a kind of geometry proof by way of explanation:

Friends are people who sustain us.

Houseboat dwellers are people who can live easily in close quarters.

Friends who can live easily in close quarters are houseboat people.

Time will tell if Reza and I will be houseboat people, but I was very grateful for his easy, unforced, interesting company.

Waterscape, waiting for a boat. Dhaka.

As for teaching, a student of mine came to office hours and gave me good talking-to. That morning, nearly half the class had arrived late and I had pleaded with them to make a better effort at being on time. She said, “They were raised in military dictatorships. You have to be firm!” Below is videotaped evidence of my iron-fisted pedagogy:

This video raises more questions than it answers.

The students at Dhaka University were eager to tell me about their own history with certain types of dictators, how authoritarianism tore their worlds apart. If I can do them remote justice, I’ll include their observations next time. An object lesson for us in the States, for sure.

Joy Bangla. On a wall at Dhaka University.

For now, I’m ending with another glimpse of Joni Mitchell and her song “Good Friends”:

No hearts of gold

No nerves of steel

No blame for what we can and cannot feel

Good friends, you and me…

Much love, whether we’d survive on a houseboat or not. Send me comments; we’ll create a digital adda.