Abusive Viewpoint

Earlier this week, As part of the Scottish Mental Health Arts and Film Festival, the Centre for Contemporary Art hosted a day-long seminar on using the arts to work with youth experiencing mental health issues. I attended several discussions and workshops; Lorenzo Mele, of 7:84 Theatre Company Scotland led a brief workshop on producing collaborative drama (or Forum Theatre...this is “of the oppressed week” for me as we are reading Pedagogy of the Oppressed for my MSc and I am now reading Augusto Boal’s Theatre of the Oppressed from which forum theatre is based). After the workshop, Lorenzo invited me to a performance today at The Tron, a theatre here in the city.

The performance (though, as you will see below, that’s not quite the correct term) is short drama dealing with domestic abuse. The material for themes and scripting came from youth in several Glasgow schools. It was staged with two actors; one actor played the part of a man at various stages from youth to adulthood. The other, a woman, played his girlfriend, mother, father, teacher, and counselor (both wore masks). The viewpoint character was the man (this was rather disturbing to some in attendance because, at first consideration, it seemed he was supposed to be a sympathetic character).

The actors went through the whole performance once (about 45 minutes) then began again; however, the second time through, members of the audience could call for the action to stop and request that one or the other characters lift the mask and reveal his or her thoughts. (The dialogue here came from a mix of the actor’s understanding of the character and the young people who contributed to the scripting).

Unfortunately, we were not able to proceed on to the third (and, arguably, most important) stage. The actors would go through the play again; this time though, the audience would become actively participative in the story itself. At any time they could call out, stop the action, and make suggestions for how the characters should act to change the situation (or actually step into the role of one of the characters). I think this would have cleared up some of the misgivings about showing the man as a sympathetic character; this was drama written by and for a very specific audience (young people at risk of abuse or becoming abusers).1 The point was to set up a space where they could explore these issues head on—yet still be in a “safe” place where the action can play itself out. The session this afternoon was an adult audience who work with youth in these situations and are considering ways to address them creatively.

Kudos to 7:84 for doing this project; it’s not something that can just be done on paper and it’s not something that can be performed “at a distance.” The actors involved have to have a good understanding of the issues and be willing to “act” face to face with someone who may be playing these things out in reality.

1 though I think that is not really a separate group of any society; everyone is at risk of some form of abuse and we all hold the potential of doing great harm (or great good) in the lives of those close to us.

Quote of the Day–Freire

I’m reading Paulo Freire’s Pedagogy of the Oppressed for my core course in the MSc. It’s brilliant; however, the translation reads like someone absorbed a bunch of Marxist literature and decided that the key component for successful writing is plenty of verbiage. For instance:

In general, a dominated consciousness which has not yet perceived a limit-situation in its totality apprehends only its epiphenomena and transfers to the latter the inhibiting force which is the property of the limit situation.

Why do people feel compelled to write this way? I can understand what it means (after a bit of parsing); however, the major theme of this book is collaborative work with the masses of people who are dispossessed and have little access to “traditional” education. What good are these thoughts of they are only accessible to people who have a high level of literacy? (I realise this argument is moot as Freire’s works have definitely proved themselves over the past 30 years; perhaps I should learn Portuguese and read the original texts.)

An embarrassment of books

I spent the day wandering around the nearby Glasgow University; I went to their campus bookshop and the library (the library is a 12 story building with more than two million volumes; I have a feeling I will spend some amount of time there as it is within walking distance and, as a Strathclyde graduate student, I can check out books).
From there, I made a general loop around the wider neighbourhood. I first went into a little back-alley bookseller where books were literally piled in heaps on the floor. Most of the shelves had books two or three deep in ranks. I don’t know if they occasionally rotate the stock back to front or if the rear volumes have been there since the 1930’s.

In this bookshop was a black and white cat; when I entered, it was sitting on a pedestal by the door. I assume she is the security of the place as she gave me a look over. While I was there, the fellow at the desk let her out (notable later).

Behind this place is a funky little tea house named Tchai-Ovna; the owner is half Czech and the waitress and I exchanged a few words in Czech (she is taking classes at Glasgow Univ.). They serve, of course, Middle-Eastern food.

After that, another bookshop…and then another…and then I stopped at a book fair. I am proud of the fact that, while I saw a lot of books that looked interesting, I did not purchase any books today. One, I am trying to save money and know that I will have to buy books for school; two, I know that I will have to move all these books at the end of the year.

The cat showed up twice after her first appearance. Once was just down the street. She was stalking a small bird. After that, some distance away, she was sitting in the entrance to an antiques shop greeting visitors there. She must provide security services to several shops in the neighbourhood.

I also stopped at the Botanic Gardens; there is an exhibition of bonsai trees on right now. They had some really wonderful examples on display (in peril from the curious fingers of children who were gleefully wandering about the glasshouse).

I’m going to set down with a book for the evening; something’s put me in the mood to read.

Glasgow Botanic Gardens

I’ve just returned from the Glasgow Botanic Gardens (it’s a five minute walk from my flat). I’ve found the place to go this winter when I need to take a stroll and clear my head. It’s like walking through a giant Victorian terrarium; every inch of the place seems covered with exotic plants. Lovely.

Arrived in Glasgow

I’m sitting in my new place. New country. New city. New people. I have exactly the same feeling I had nearly 15 years ago when my parents dropped me off at university (well, maybe not exactly). Yesterday morning, I kissed Andrea good-by to go away for a year of study. It was cold and rainy when I arrived in Glasgow. I’m excited about the program I will enter; but, at the same time, this will mean some sacrifices. Last night, the first night here, I was sort of sad. Excited but alone again. It better be worth it (and I mean that literally, everything here seems about four times more expensive than in the Czech Republic).

I did not learn very much Czech in my time there; coming to Scotland sounds, at first blush, like a relatively easy move when it comes to language. After all, English is spoken here. But, when I walked out of the airport yesterday, I needed to find the taxi I had booked to bring me into the city. I stopped an official airport looking fellow and asked where the taxi stop is. I literally did not understand one word he said! I’m not entirely sure how that is possible. Thankfully he did gesture in a direction and I found the location.

My taxi driver was this jovial guy who gave me a general overview of the traffic situation and some points about the city on the way in. However, I had to listen very keenly to make much headway through is accent eithe. E sounded lik e were speakin ethout everal diptongs e ave en moost Anglish spech. Ploos, air winder wos dawn e ole wae ain thee nois from de wind russian bie mae ait terrabil diffcult tae hear eich oother.

I will just have to get my ears in tune; most of the people I spoke with when I was here before were much more intelligible. (And, I have to wonder, it may be difficult for people to make their way through my accent. So I’m not complaining.)

The flat I’m in seems great; it’s in what used to be a fire brigade compound. There is a big inner courtyard with a community patio and we are in a relatively quiet neighbourhood. This will be good as I have a feeling I will spend most of my time this year sitting here reading.

Colloquial copy

I’m trying to write voice over copy for the Xtreme Team video; however, my words sound like a tired university professor reviewing the exploits of a group of adventuresome young people. I find myself using phrases such as in retrospect and along those lines. I’m not sure if this is a warning that my writing and speech is verging on cliché or I merely have the wrong set of vocabulary to write such things.
I recall meting a group of teens in a Philadelphia transitional home a few years ago. We fell into a lexically mismatched void of communication; I was saying, “Oh, pleased to meet you; it seems your program is progressing quite well here…etc. etc.” to their bemusement. I left with the impression they thought I was making fun of them. But, that’s just the way I speak. If I had attempted “streety” language it would have been truly false (and—I probably would have been thrashed).

Now, I’m just aiming for neutral language that will appeal to young people who might consider going on Xtreme Team. I’m afraid going into a MSc program this fall will pull me further down into an abyss of cluttered language. I shall endeavour to—I will keep Strunk and White close at hand.

Shame

For most of human history (or, “civilised” human history, if you like) the most disappointing thing one could do would be to shame one’s ancestors. To break family honour or lose face in society was (and still generally is) a terrible matter. To have a parent or close relative say, “You have shamed us all” could send a person into a downward turn for the rest of his or her life (which may be spent in psychological or physical exile depending on the severity of the transgression).

One’s family has a certain amount of honour built up over generations; to shame it is seen as a theft. An act of shame may draw down heavily on the account and cause it all to collapse. I think, to some extent, the responsibility (or the burden, if one considers the extreme expectations of some families) of holding up the family name has diminished. We are, in “the West” at least, so focused on the individual’s accomplishments and failings that past glories (or downfalls) are of little importance. This is, of course, both liberating and damming. If my forefathers were scoundrels, I’ll probably not be held to attest for their misdeeds; but we also tend to neglect the history of goodwill and actions of many who have passed on (this is particularly emphasised by the loss of extended families and the mobility of society in general; we are no longer of a place—neither bound to its history or its future).

It is the future we have to address. Whereas we once took care not to shame our fathers and grandfathers, we now take even less care to honour our children and grandchildren. Our focus, as a society, seems to be entirely on the present; in this, we shame both past and future generations. This is not a shame belonging to any one family or lineage; my shame spreads to your family and yours to mine. It is like a cancer than begins in one cell and spreads to another till, system by system, it consumes everything.

We are consumers of all (often we are collectively referred to as such as in the somewhat telling economic term consumer confidence). Our idealised frontiersmen forefathers might be forgiven for believing the Earth was an inexhaustible resource—we can have no such delusion. We are now openly stealing the fortunes of all who follow for our own temporary benefit. I’ve never heard someone openly wish a life of deprivation and despair for future generations; yet this is what we curse them with at almost every step. What greater shame or selfishness is there than this to lay upon the human family?

Note that I do not exempt myself; I am as complicit as the mass of others in a thousand little ways. But I do not wish to shame those who came before me—those who, no matter what we may now see as their missteps, believed they were building up a world for the better. I also do not wish to become a source of shame for those who follow. As I write this, I’m looking out my window at a group of children playing. I want none of them, as adults, to look back at me and say, “You knew; why could you not have been a source of change?” And what a radical change that must be.