Third Culture Kid

The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha is Cervantes’ powerful story about an unrealistic idealist. The main character, Quixote, is mostly well-intentioned but often misguided when trying to rescue the world from itself. He is also at times a disturber of the peace who unwittingly (and only occasionally) manages to do some good. One of the ideas behind the book is that morality, tradition, and courage are not universal in their definition. The story also warns those who take up causes in the name of virtue about the damage they could be involuntarily inflicting along their righteous path, often creating miserable circumstances for those around them.

I don’t see myself as a quixotic person, but I do “fight” regularly for what I believe in – both in personal and subjective realms like arts and culture, as well as in more fact-based professional disagreements. I feel particularly strongly about championing my ideas, I suppose in no small part because of the highly scrutinized and questioning environment and industry I work in.

The idea of how much fighting we do as individuals has been circling in my mind for a while now. And a small matter that unfolded at work today brought into light the questions I’ve been having about the interplay between conviction and common sense.

I was being challenged over a word that would have, in my professional opinion, greatly improved the overall quality of a product I was working on. But, upon reflection, it seemed very stupid to retaliate and ready my lance because of one word. Kicking a fuss over this minute detail would be the definition of quixotic. The opportunity cost here was too high, considering the fairly minor impact of this particular product on the bigger picture.

Almost as soon as I made the decision to “let go” and relent, a very unsettling feeling washed over me: is perspective, the big picture, undermining the strength of my conviction?

It was disturbing to see just how quickly and easily I set aside my own valid views in favour of a quick and easy resolution. Could this mark the beginning of indifference? Does the absence of a fighting spirit signify a lack of passion? Will dropping this one relatively tiny issue be the loose thread that, when gently pulled, unravels and disintegrates a complex tapestry of personal beliefs and convictions?

Or was the discomfort I felt a result of realizing that the fight is not outwards with a client or coworker, it’s my way of coming to terms with the full spectrum of the issue. It seems we are all at war with ourselves each and every day, with two sides called up for battle. One fights for beliefs, convictions and ideologies, while the other defends perspective and a well-balanced examination of the true costs and benefits behind each cause.

Whether or not Ideology and perspective exist on opposite ends of the spectrum, a balance of both is essential. Perhaps, like Quixote, I have been seeing things in black and white, right and wrong, when I should also consider the hues in between – assigning value to conflict in terms of significance or transience, worthy of fight or flight.

“Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and that which cannot remain silent.” – Victor Hugo

There is no authority in the universe that truly has the ability to impose upon us what we must feel about anything or anyone. Despite this fact, we grow up with rules and traditions designed to help us navigate through life in ways that have worked for others; sometimes a few others, or sometimes thousands, millions or billions of people. Well-intentioned as they may be, these rules can become stifling restrictions, turning what should bring us joy and pleasure into a source of frustration and displeasure, as piano quickly became for me when my desire to lead with my heart began to overrule the desire to follow my head.

The many years of formal music education I received focused entirely on faithful recitation of original works. We were taught the right way to play and were required to do away with personal whims and fancy.

Those in charge did exactly what was expected of them: they taught hundreds of students the proper tried and tested techniques and pieces for the purposes of either passing the Royal Conservatory’s examinations or performing at concerts. Music, we were told, is the highest form of art. Talented pianists were supposed to perform flawlessly, meticulously recite the work, and strive to evoke strong reactions from the audience. 

Within the walls of the school, being a great teacher meant creating and maintaining an environment that kept personal interpretations and creative outbursts in check. The works of classical composers were treated as museum-like objects: admired, but not touched. For students, the formula for success was simple: all you had to do was exactly what everyone else was doing.

Teachers placed heavy emphasis on communicating the “feeling” behind the music… but only within the confines of the composer’s annotations. It didn’t matter if the piece spoke to the player of delight, love or affection – if the markings declared it a cry of war, then the player’s fingers had best be marching along. And while many students had no issue adapting and thriving within this structure, some of us had trouble reconciling the dissonance we felt as we progressed through the years. There was no harmony between what we felt and how we were told to feel it. 

Privately, I practiced the pieces taught in class in the way that I chose to interpret and feel the work. I discarded the annotations that didn’t fit in with what I perceived the story to be. I changed the tempo to suit my particular mood. “Swan Lake”? Not always. Sometimes, it was full of hippos, thunder and speed. On occasion, my rendition of the “Moonlight Sonata” was accompanied by a hail of meteorites, sharp heavy punches on the piano (much to the horror of my parents). But back in class, I had to revert back to exactly what was written before me on the music sheets lest I face a barrage of criticism from well-intentioned but myopic and staid teachers.

With time, the need to play what I wanted to play in my own personal style became far more important to me than receiving positive feedback from the instructors or participating in any concert. My parents and teachers began to wonder if I would ever be the performer they hoped I would be. They rationalized it away, like it was some mildly unhealthy habit: I was a stubborn teen; I got bored with the instrument; I kept bad company; I was influenced by ridiculous modern music. 

They could attempt to reason it away all they liked, the reality was that there was no way to please everyone. And no reason to do so. 

I belonged to a group of outsiders who chose to act on impulse and create genuine experiences for themselves above anyone else. We performed with our hearts. We sought to retell the stories written by composers long dead and gone as seen through our own eyes and painted by our fingertips. We didn’t care if there was an audience of one listener, fifty, or two hundred. We had to let the music out of our heads, through our fingertips and into the auditorium that echoed back our strokes, reaffirming what we felt, how we felt it, and how real and legitimate it was. 

On the other side of the spectrum were our colleagues, the traditionalist piano students, who performed with their heads. They had the makings of the type of technical virtuosos revered and admired by many, both within and beyond the walls of the music school. By following the instructions, annotations, and traditions of performing according to a set of arbitrary but established and agreed-upon standards, they followed the guaranteed path to “success.” And I can’t be sure if they’ve ever stopped practicing long enough to hear if what they played was an extension of their character, or a mere parroting of their teachers’ values and expectations. 

What the microcosm that is music school really taught us was the need to make a seemingly simple but deceivingly important choice that had implications far beyond examination rooms and concert halls. Choose your head, or choose your heart. And know that you have a choice to make. Even though sometimes the choice may feel like it’s already been made for you, or it’s impossible, or not worth the struggle or the shame that comes from breaking time-honoured traditions – know that you can, and should, actively choose. And know that it’s okay to change your mind once you’ve done so, too.

 

 

I’ve been thinking “in Rothko” lately.

“When I was a younger man, art was a lonely thing; no galleries, no collectors, no critics, no money. Yet it was a golden time, for then we had nothing to lose and a vision to gain. Today it is not quite the same. It is a time of tons of verbiage, activity, and consumption. Which condition is better for the world at large I will not venture to discuss. But I do know that many who are driven to this life are desperately searching for those pockets of silence where they can root and grow. We must all hope that they find them.”

This was part of a speech Mark Rothko gave in 1969. He was talking about art; specifically, art in a world that was moving from the shocking and often morose modern expressionist phase (following World War II) into the colourful embrace of pop art, mass advertising, and sensationalist consumerism.

I find myself stuck on Rothko’s “pockets of silence” idea, though less in the context of art and more in terms of the information-abundant and creatively productive world many of us choose to live in – a world that somehow manages to be inspiring, challenging, patience-testing, ego-knocking, beautiful, excessive, self-congratulating, self-deprecating, exaggerated, humble, vulnerable, disingenuous, and gut-wrenchingly sincere, all at once. It’s a world that is often moving too quickly to find the value in those “pockets of silence”; in steady, rooted growth over rapid expansion and production for the sake of production.

Despite the attraction many of us feel toward that world, one largely built on “verbiage, activity, and consumption,” I often wonder if we are creating and championing genuine visions that are of true value and utility to those around us, like a hanging canvas, or something more transient and superficial, more akin to a throwaway magazine.

I’m inclined to believe that we all worry sometimes about our contributions to this world – I know I do. I fear the day my work becomes associated with irrelevant verbiage, or for taking up space for the sake of making my mark, or for adding only style with no substance. I think about the moments where my behaviour resembles Rothko’s intentional fogs and blurry shapes, when the lines that define me as an individual blur and shift to accommodate the observer. These happen when I get caught up in the frenzy of creating for the sake of creating; when I step out of the shadows, whether of my own volition or propelled by outside forces, to take my place in the limelight.

I wonder if perhaps part of the solution to these worries lies in attempting to consciously exist in the space Rothko described: living as though there is nothing to lose, only visions to gain; channeling our energies toward allowing ourselves to “root and grow” rather than add one more chirp to the chorus.

Maybe we ought to think seriously about finding our own pockets of silence, and using them as opportunities to pause and reflect on the quality of what we’re doing, and how we’re doing it. I suspect that these breaks in production and consumption can encourage and fuel the visions Rothko’s so fondly talked about throughout his life. Me? I seek out my own sacred silences – places that enchant my spirit; actions that restore my balance; people who bring about vision by virtue of their coexistence with others.

Regardless of where you fall on the spectrum of considering “which condition is better for the world at large,” whether you’re more inclined to seek those pockets of silence or identify more with the hyperkinetic world of verbiage and consumption, I think it’s a worthwhile exercise for each of us step back, reflect and consider the nature of our contributions to this world.

Are you drawing the bold strokes and defining lines that separate colour blocks, adding depth and clarity, and clearing the fog of abstraction? Or is your input best viewed from afar, as part of the whole – well intentioned, but not improved upon closer inspection?

 

My huge thanks to MH for input & edits to this post!

I am a terrible surfer.

Actually, I’m no surfer at all. But I like to pretend that one day, I’ll be able to get the hang of the entire thing, successfully surf a few waves and live to talk about it.

It’s not for lack of trying. I have attended classes on beaches in the two hemispheres. In fact, I already have a “pattern”: I do well during the fake surfing part on the beach – that’s when you learn some basic moves and get your positioning adjusted by the surfing instructor. Then I get into the water… and paddle like a rabbit that has just been tasered; limbs twitching in every direction with little to no progress made. And then it just gets worse.

Here’s the irritating part: my brain understands the idea behind surfing, especially the point when you need to decide whether or not you’re going to catch the wave. But understanding is one thing; getting my back, hands, feet and knees to work together swiftly is another story. Usually, after a few unsuccessful attempts (and by a “few” I mean four, or five if I’m feeling lucky that day), I abandon the endeavour, curse a bit and spit out heaps of salty water, then ask for a bodyboard – I’ll be damned if I miss out on the big waves just because I can’t stand up to them.

Welp. 

Last week, I found myself explaining an idea using one of the surfing analogies I learned. To be honest, I haven’t given surfing much thought since my last attempt. But, despite my being absolute crap at the sport, it seems that I’ve actually managed to recall and apply the little surf lessons I learned along the way.

Let go and embrace the chaos

The most common piece of advice I received during different classes is this: surf for the sake of surfing. It means trusting your instincts, making quick decisions, and handing over a decent amount of control to the water.

When you decide to catch a wave, you’re also choosing to accept the pushes and pulls that come with the swell. If you plan on being in charge the whole time after making that choice, you’re missing one of the most fun parts of surfing. Committing is a good option: seeing the wave through, and coming out safely using the momentum you gain along the way. If things aren’t working out as planned, and you’re getting the s#%t battered out of you, you can choose to bail – or wipe out.  Either way, your options are not dictated by how much or how little control you have over the situation. It’s determined by a large number of variables outside of your control, which – I suspect – is the allure of surfing for me. Chaos has options, and can be very liberating.

Wait, watch and see

One instructor made us paddle out and sit on our boards for a while. And I don’t mean five minutes until everyone was comfortable – I mean at least twenty minutes. We just sat there, watching the swell. He explained the practice of spotting and helping your surf crew when you’re out on the water, and making sure that you don’t “drop in” on anyone’s wave. This lesson was geared towards the more experienced students who realistically had a decent chance of catching a few waves. For us novice riffraff, the lesson was about spotting potential “winners,” or waves that could be fun.

The instructor’s message to us was about patience: how can you enjoy a good wave if you don’t know how to spot it? Does an opportunity always come announced as one, or do you need to develop that “sixth sense” to see it? I remember being extremely impatient, unsure of the answer, and falling over a few times while thinking about the usefulness of this exercise.

But  I got it, a while later. This type of sixth sense is not a gift you’re born with, there is an art and a skill to mixing observation with intuition when you’re examining your options. I don’t have the sixth sense of surfing now anymore than I did when I first started, but I feel more confident when I decide to chase a wave, even if the outcome isn’t always a success.

Not every wave is for you

One of the more abstract lessons we received was: “not every wave is for you”. This struck me as counterintuitive at first, because catching every wave would mean more practice and is likely the best way to get the hang of surfing. The instructor clarified that while surfing tends to be a group-oriented outing, the idea here was not about sharing the waves with your fellow surfers (which you should).

His point here was targeted at us as individual students of surf; we didn’t need to conquer every wave that comes our way. It’s about the opportunity cost: with the restricted amount of time and variety of uncontrollable factors, there can only be a handful of waves to be surfed during an outing. Sometimes saying “no” and passing on a chance is exactly what you need to do in order to catch the next – possibly much better – opportunity.

Right place, right time, right conditions

This is essentially the motto of surfing. Surfing doesn’t just mean being in the right place at the right time; you have to be sure you want to paddle out into the ocean, wait for the perfect opportunity and jump when the time comes. The right conditions have to be right for you.

Sometimes we cursed flat waves that derailed our plans. Other times, we skipped waves that seemed simultaneously fantastic and utterly terrifying. I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve decided against going into the water after seeing waves several meters high crashing against the coast. I sat on the beach sketching instead.

Those waves did not create the right surfing experience for me. Waiting for the right place, the right time and the right conditions means coming to terms with your limitations, and drawing on your strengths, at particular times and places.

Find your feet

The first time I heard this was from an instructor doing his lesson on a rocky beach in Maui, and I think the idea is more of a Hawai’i thing than a surf thing. The beach we went to was the kind that’s formed by massive amounts of lava flowing through rocks, creating a wall of hollow and sharp points in hidden places. The instructor was taking us to a “sweet spot” with a stretch of sand, but it required a short trek through this frightful terrain. He told us to move slowly, look ahead and, most importantly, “find your feet.”

He explained that the volcanic terrain of northern Maui makes it difficult to walk smoothly, since it changes from a hard rocky surface to mushy tropical soil unexpectedly. Balance is essential, and the best way to find it is to rest your weight on your feet from heel to toe. This helps you ground yourself so you can absorb the terrain and manage the instability that comes with its unpredictable and variable nature. You need to think about where you step and plant each foot firmly into the ground, with confidence, before you take the next step.

The instructor also explained that “finding your feet” is an integral part of surfing because once you’re up on the board, you need to position your feet properly in order to balance and ride.

Now that I think about it, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve told myself (and others) to “find your feet”.

The really big picture

The unpredictability of surf conditions meant that sometimes we paddled out for no reason. We had to turn around, get back to the beach and make new plans. It’s a very disappointing feeling, especially for those of us visiting from faraway places- our return was not guaranteed. And this sentiment is not lost on the instructors, because most of my classes began and ended with “look around you, how lucky are we?”

When things didn’t work out as planned, and our excursions were cut short, we were still the luckiest group of people at that place and time. The waves crashing before us and sweeping sand from under our feet were not a screensaver or background of a motivational poster. We were right there, witnesses to an amazing, humbling, frightening, stunning and liberating force of nature. There is no pause long enough to truly appreciate the beauty of an ocean.

I don’t know when I’ll be getting on a surfboard next, but I know this: the next time I do it, I won’t chide myself for being a terrible and uncoordinated surfer. I’ve been really lucky; I’ve learned a lot from falling (and failing) in the ocean at settings that can only be described as fantastical. And when I feel lost, I know exactly how to look for and find my feet.