Dear American Museum of Natural History...

You're on my shit-list.

You would think that America's largest, oldest, and best-funded museum dedicated to natural history would be quite the fun place to visit. A trip to Chicago's Field Museum should theoretically give you some idea of what the AMNH should be like: informative exhibits, interesting, visually appealing displays, and up-to-date information displayed using the most current exhibition techniques. But you would be wrong.

We and the AMNH didn't get off to the best start. Guarding the building's front entrance is a tall bronze equestrian statue of Theodore Roosevelt, one of the museum's greatest supporters, flanked by an loincloth-clad African and a Native American. I don't think I need to explain the racist overtones of the sculpture. When we entered and went to the front desk, the employees had never even heard of the Field Museum ("It's another natural history museum, about as famous and large as this one") and then they didn't even let us in free. In fact they ended up charging me extra for a special exhibit, meaning I only got in for a standard student rate ($16.00). Already peeved, Shewara and I went to exploring the place. The collection seemed extensive: gems and geology, space and astronomy, and exhibits on every cultural group outside of Europe. This last part should ring some bells: the "primitive" peoples of the world were fit to be displayed as "natural" history, while civilized society was not. This idea has taken something of a firm hold in the public museum-going consciousness (even the Field Museum functions in this way), but most other institutions make up for it with the way the exhibits are constructed. The AMNH exhibits were constructed in such a way as to turn every continent in the world int a homogenous blob of disorganized people who had little better to do than create "ritual objects," "fetishes (a terribly offensive term for a sacred figure or mask that I thought had been out of use since the 1950s)," and do "ceremonial dances." Any sort of cultural differentiation, context, or explanation of the purpose, or even local name, of any object was almost impossible to find. For example, there was a glass display case of ten wooden figures labeled "Ritual Figures of Central Africa" None had an explanation or cultural group on the label. They didn't even have labels. What was interesting about this fact was one of the figures I knew for a fact to be a royal portrait of the greatest king of the Kuba Kingdom in central Congo, a very wealthy and powerfyl empire that in its heyday could battle any contemporary kingdom in Europe. The man in that figure was as influtential, famous, and powerful in central Africa as Louis XIV was in western Europe. And he gets "ritual statue." Give me a break.

I could go on about how crappy the people seemed (first the ticket counter, then the giftshop people who, when I asked them a question in English, discussed it with each other in Spanish. I responded to them. En Espanol.) I could go on about the shag carpeting and ridiculous steup of the geology exhibit, the fact that the astronomy exhibit actually made me dumber while boring me out of my mind, and that if they ever put a group of beautifully carved, in my opinion breathtaking, Northwest Coast statues together again in a dark corner and label them all "statue" I am going to be forced to take away someone's Ph.D. Because seriously. So, AMNH, go get that money you have, take a trip to the Field Museum, and learn how to create some displays so you don't turn New York's future leaders into a but of culturally and scientifically illiterate pea-brains by the time they're 18.

Thanks.

Books: Warm, Fuzzy, And Decidedly Huggable.

Our most recent acquisitions:

Free Culture

The Black Atlantic

The Tipping Point

Shewara Graduates, Part 1: Driving Problems and Food Solutions

Contrary to what my parents have been telling me for my entire life, Pennsylvania actually makes for very interesting driving. They always used to tell me about when we lived in eastern Pennsylvania, and how the long drive from our home to our grandparents' house outside Cleveland was annoyingly boring. I disagree. After 500 miles of Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio flatlands I was ready for a topography change, and got it as soon as I crossed the Pennsylvania border in the form of beautiful rolling green mountains which delightfully continued for all of the state's 337 miles of I-76 excitement. I find hilly landscapes much more fun to drive as well, because the frequent turns keep me occupied. Indiana and Ohio tend to put me to sleep very quickly. And even better, when getting to PA I discovered that the state turnpike actually accepts the Illinois I-Pass at its tolls, making my driving easier and my wallet more full.

The roads in the city of Philadelphia are a much different story. After two 7-hour days in the car, I was ready to park my vehicle and relax in Shewara's apartment for a while - but I-76 would have none of it. Philadelphia is a mass of exits and interchanges with seemingly no rhyme or reason, so I soon found myself accidentally exiting on I-676 despite the fact I hadn't exited anywhere. The road just went that way - what I should have done is exited off to stay on the road I was on. This ended up taking me some 40 blocks from my intended destination, meaning I then had to navigate Philadelphia's mass of one-way streets and dead-ends to get back to where I wanted. In the end my navigation skills saved me, and I arrived exhausted at Shewara's apartment for ten days of fun.

Sunday the 7th was our first full day together, and we basically did little more than relax. We managed to get up the strength to drive to Trader Joe's and pick up foodstuffs for the week - Thai yellow curry sauce (which we never used), two types of cheese (Romano and White Cheddar), a bag of spinach (also unused), hummus, crackers, a lime chessecake, and Vodka Pasta Sauce. That evening we made gnocchis with the vodka sauce and watched an odd 1960's French film about two hours in the life of an (is she or isn't she??) dying B-list celebrity singer. We went to bed relatively early so we could make an early start in the morning to complete our long quest to finally enter the Philadelphia Mint (from which we had twice been turned away on previous trips). This time, making sure we carried no human possessions of any kind (the reason we were denied entry before) we were allowed in. We took a leisurely self-guided tour, watched the coin presses make 13 pennies a second, looked at the rather informative exhibits, and then ended up in the gift shop where I felt compelled to purchase an Abe Lincoln presidential medal.

We felt de-energized after our numismatic adveture, so we headed to Maoz, our favorite Dutch vegetarian falafel joint, on South Street. For 5 dollars you get a falafel-filled pita, all the toppings you want, the best French (they call them Belgian) fries you've ever had, and a kosher Israeli juice drink. The Philly Maoz is the only one in the United States, so we need to write some petitions and get them to build more. Hopefully in Chicago, right next to our other favorite joint, Hannah's Bretzel. After Maoz had replenished our energy, we walked into the old city center to do some hardcore historical exploring. We paid one dollar to enter the old cemetery which contains Ben Franklin's grave, right across from the Mint. Ben's resting place was well-cared for, but other areas seemed rather depressing, so hopefully our thoughtful and respectful walk-through cheered up the spirits who most assuredly make their home there (which includes five signers of the Declaration of Independence). We continued our explorations eastward, but ran into problems when we discovered that many buildings were closed on Mondays. We still managed to make it into the old church Ben Franklin attended which still houses the font used to baptise William Penn. We also visited Betsy Ross' house, a small affair nicely tucked between two larger buildings. Betsy herself is buried in the front yard. Upon entering we were accosted by a house employee dressed in early American war attire, and acted the part. He yelled at Shewara and I for wearing red clothings (Redcoats. Get it?), and was then very confused when I said I was from "Chicago." I should have said "Louisiana Territory" and he would have understood. The house exhibits itself were very interesting, giving extensive information on the unsuspectingly fascinating early American textile industry, of which Betsy was a part. We also learned from some very annoying people that their mother was incapable of working her own cell phone, a fact which apparently needed screaming throughout the house when she tried to receive a phone call. We laughed at the woman, paid our respects to Betsy, bought some souvenirs at the gift shop, and went on our way. We stopped by our favorite bookshop to buy a new copy of Bruce Chatwin's In Patagonia to replace my old copy, as well as a $0.93 copy of Mario Lanza's "Greatest Hits" on a vinyl record. After the bookstore, we soon found ourselves on Front Street (what they use instead of First Street), home of Franklin Fountain, purveyor of the world's finest old-time milkshakes. Shewara and I split a chocolate shake for four dollars, and we weren't disappointed. You know a shake is good when it doesn't even fit in the glass made for the shake, they have to give you the metal mixing cup to contain the shake's other half that cant fit in the glass. We got to sit in barstools that folded down from below the bar (you have to see it to understand) which at the time was delightfully amusing and made our shake taste better. We leisured at the FF for a bit, chatted about the day, and then headed home from a fun first day in Philly.

On the 10th, with no real plans during the day, we slept in. Our evening, however, was fully occupied. We went to see the Philadelphia Orchestra, which is touted as having the best string section in America, and they lived up to the hype. (Note: Chicago has the best percussion. Suck it, New York!) We acquired two cheap student tickets ($10 a piece, as I recall) which are sold off to students to fill in gaps where season-ticket holders don't show up. So basically we got the seats 92% off. We heard three selections including a Bassoon symphony (the Bassoonist was a fantastic Japanese-Argentine who got an instant roaring standing ovation the second he finished), as well as a symphony Rachmaninoff had written specifically for the Philly Orchestra back in the 1940s (I told you they were good). Overall a great show. I always enjoy attending the symphony, as does Shewara, because it makes us feel both cultured and relaxed. We also had the pleasure of walking around the Orchestra's brand-new building, a great piece of modern architecture which for once made great use of large spaces and extensive glass paneling as unifying elements in the design. It looked something like a hollowed-out glass airplane hanger and they stuck the theaters inside, but it worked just great.

After our classy symphony date we walked two blocks to a small hipster cafe to split a chai tea and chat about socially relevant political issues and world-changing ideas. We stayed for about 45 minutes, during which time I had the privilege of using their bathroom. Not only did it have a light timer instead of a switch, every square inch of wall or ceiling in the unisex single stall had been covered with broken glass and ceramic (much like a mosaic) and accessorised with old statue pieces and worn-out plastic action figures. After using the bathroom, I came back upstairs and told Shewara that she had to go use the bathroom as well, if only to see the place. Luckily she took photos (to be posed later). After the cafe we went back to Shewara's apartment to get some rest before taking a bus to New York for the day the next morning. So all in all a very good and eventful two days.

That is, until we got to New York.

Off To Philly!

Shewara is graduating on the 15th! I am really proud of her. She's accomplished a lot, especially this year, so she has a lot to be proud of too.

Since I don't want to miss the ceremony, I decided to leave ten days early (just in case!). Maybe we can do some fun things while I am there :)

So I will be gone for two weeks having an awesome time. No new posts until I get back - don't miss me too much!

Feliz Cinco De Mayo! (Or, Matt's Immigration Rant)

Last Monday, 400,000 people made the long walk from the Ashland Green Line stop to Grant Park in Chicago. I was one of them. Almost all of them carried flags - I saw countries diverse as Northern Ireland, China, Ghana, Egypt, Germany, El Salvador, Peru, Poland, and the United Kingdom. Many of them carried Mexican flags, I'd say about 15%, but the overwhelming majority were American flags. Thousands and thousands of them. Large flags, small flags, flags worn as capes, flags sewed onto shirts and hats, even tiny flags being waved by small children in strollers.

These 400,000 people were particiapting what some called a show of "intimidation" or a "protest." Some said they had stormed the streets and taken off work to show the incredible power and influence of illegal immigrants in this country, as if defiantly opposing the very government whose flags they now hoisted above their heads. But to those who said that this march was anything other than a joyous, peaceful, and exuberant showing of ethnic and adopted national pride - you are straight wrong. Not once did I hear any harsh words directed at any person. Not once did I see a fight (at the end of the day, no arrests were made and only one minor scuffle was reported, making it one of the most peaceful 400,000 person gatherings I've ever heard of). As the cheers of "Si, Se Puede! (Yes, We can!)" echoed through the city streets, reminding us of the struggles of the Mexican migrant workers who used this cry in the early 20th century, I couldn't help but think that if those who oppose giving help and open arms to illegal immigrants were here, perhaps their minds would be changed.

Americans, as a whole, are scared of immigrants. We are scared because they commit too many crimes, we are scared because they steal our jobs, we are scared because once they outnumber white Americans, Spanish will become the second official language of the United States. Not only are we scared of these things - but we believe them. We believe they are happening as we speak. One of my uncles, who lives in California, speaks of the multitudes of (presumably illegal, in his mind) Mexicans he sees on a daily basis. The lowest of the low in society, he calls them. Sitting around in gans, hassling people in colloquial Mexican Spanish, probably going to rob or kill after the sun goes down. He believes what he sees, and America belives him too.

But while he was walking down that same street, he probably didn't notice the fifteen Latino he passed. He didn't notice them speaking English and teaching it to their children. He didn't notice them neatly dressed, walking to their very difficult and labor-intensive jobs to make such small amounts of money that no American would accept it. He didn't see them paying income taxes, property taxes, and social security taxes for benefits they will never collect. He didn't notice that, according to a multitiude of recent studies (specifically by Harvard sociologist Robert Sampson) that almost all of second-generation Mexican-Americans speak English. Fluently. He probably didn't realize that over 72% of third-generation immigrants speak English both as their native language and the language spoken at home. He didn't realize that, on average, immgrants actually tend to be more law-abiding than American citizens on average,em specially when they live in large immigrant communities. He didn't get the memo when it was discovered that illegal workers only drive down wages for the lowest of the low paid workers only by 5%, and that theyhave no effect on American wages overall. Even more interesting, immigrant workers actually create more jobs, since the jobs they do they generally do well, opening the door for employers to create more positions for a now booming business.

Right now, on the other side of the world, we are spending literally one billion dollars a day to bring freedom and deomcracy to a people who never asked for it. They never waived American flags, they never knocked on our front door and politely asked to be let in. They kill each other seemingly without thinking about it, and we, the United States, insist we are doing good by bringing freedom and opportunity to a people who could never have it otherwise. Yet here at home, millions of people who are actually improving our society are politely asking for our freedoms, our opprotunities, to be bestowed on them as well. Just as they were given to the Italians in New York in the 1900s, just as they were given to the Irish in Boston in the 1920s, just as they were given to the Chinese and Japanese in California in the 1800s. All of these waves of immigration were met with the same reaction that now meets Latin Americans. And all improved America. Each and every one of them. And now contemporary immigrants are doing the same.

In the end, it amazes me how much life can improve when those asking for help are greeted with open arms and a smile rather than fear and trepidation. I think we need to give immigrants a chance, just as we have done for so long, and let them improve this country like I know they are doing already. There were many people at the Monday's rally, all of whom were white Americans, who were holding up signs of support for their newest American brethren. I found this one to be the most poignant:

I'm glad, too.

Happy Cinco de Mayo!

(For further reading, click here.)

Back From Beyond The Edge Of Existence (Now Featuring Words!)

If you drive east from Chicago on I-88 for what seems like 400 miles, you will find yourself just outside of Iowa City, Iowa (and why you name a town for a state like Iowa is beyond me.) So you then take I-80 north to I-380 north for another thousand miles or so through endless cornfields and soybean fields and wheat fields, past the edge of known existence where the water and land falls off of the end of the Earth, past the demons that guard this place, then make a left somewhere, and you will find yourself in Mason City, Iowa.

Not that Mason City is a bad place. It has a supermarket or to, a good Mexican restaurant, and 22,000 people that probably wake up every day wondering why the hell Frank Lloyd Wright bothered to design a house here. But design it he did.

I wasn't here to take in the (lack of) tourist sites, however - I was here to walk. My archaeology surveying job had taken me to the edge of the world so I could walk ten miles from Iowa to the Minnesota border, some twenty-five miles north of Mason City, and make sure that there were no early American or perhistoric (Native American) artifacts or sites. My first instict was that if nobody bothers to live here now, why would anybody have bothered to live here then? And as it turns out, I was right. For two days full work days I walked, staring at the ground the entire time. For ten miles. You usually have things to think about while you are walking. Normal walking time only lasts a few hours, but after two full days, you start to go insane. You start thinking about things you would never normally think about, thoughts you can't even put into words later. Your mind goes completely numb. And what is worse is that after work you have to go back to your hotel room (which has no internet) in Mason City (which has nothing to do). The only interesting piece of scenery was the large windpower field just south of our survey area. The field was home to some eighty or ninety generator windmills, each about seventy feet high, maybe more, which created quite an awesome site at sunset.

It would be an understatement to say I was excited when we finally left Mason City on Wednesday morning. I was actually looking forward to making a few stops in Iowa at random historic or culturally significant locales I had seen during the drive up. First stop was the National Czech and Slovak Museum and Library in Cedar Rapids, home of the largest library and museum collections dedicated to Czech and Slovak culture in the United States. They had clearly gotten money from somewhere for the very nice building and well-presented exhibits they had. What was most interesting to me was that, unlike most ethnically-themed museums, the NCSML did not make any effort to present the Czechs and Slovaks as having a largely disproportional contirubtion to human culture. Rather, the museum chose to define the people in opposition to their thousands of years of oppression at the hands of foreign and tyrannical governments. My only objection was their presentation of the modern Czechs and Slovaks as having friendly relations - most people will tell you that Czechoslovakia split into two countries for one very good reason. They didn't like each other.

After the museum (as well as a tasty lunch at a local Czech restaurant) I found myself in Brandon, Iowa: home of Iowa's largest "Fryin' Pan." The pan was built to raise money for a local community center in the sleepy town of 245 inhabitants. I decided it was a worthy cause and donated a dollar in addition to the two postcards I bought. I saved one for myself and sent the other to Shewara from the Brandon post office, which was little more than a converted trailer. The nice old lady who worked there even went out of her way to find me a 24-cent postage stamp for my postcard. After leaving Brandon, I thankfully headed home to civilization in Illinois, where I could prepare for a fun weekend of cultural activities.