Much has lost its mystery. The day I spiralled down the back stairs of Webster and lurched against a bathroom wall, giggling - so this is what it feels like to be drunk! The day I realised I was the one in the romance, not just watching it on a screen. The impossible becomes possible - moving overseas, learning a language. Less lustrous things have lost their mystery, too - how banks create money, and what happens behind the scenes of newspapers.
But I'm still not sure about the sun. If you look straight at it, you'll go blind, they always said. I watched it, low in the sky, because no one was there to tell me I shouldn't, just like there's no one to tell me not to eat ice cream for breakfast anymore.
The colours changed as I stared, threatening to become a colour I'd never seen. You're pushing it, the sun said. You'd better blink - a game of chicken.
I stopped running for a moment as it slipped behind the skyline and underneath the sea, waiting for the green flash, but I must have blinked at the wrong moment.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Monday, February 2, 2009
snowstorm
I have never seen a city so excited about snow.
To be fair, it's the biggest snowfall England has seen in 18 years, or so they're saying. Train service was shut down, buses were pulled off the roads, school was cancelled. One English friend told me he hadn't made a snowman since 1990 as we rolled snow and stones together on the beach into a lopsided snow-woman. Yet it's quite funny that London's in such a tizzy over an amount of snow that'd be laughable in Michigan or Massachusetts.
Still, I've fully embraced the excitement. My experience of this snowstorm is coloured by the fact that I celebrated my first snowfall of the season last night with two Brazilians who were seeing the first snow of their lives. I was washing dishes when Kaoru’s laughing flooded out from the darkened second kitchen. “Look!” I rushed to the window: two grown men gleefully packing snowballs. “Come on!” I cried. “Hurry!” and laughing, we spiralled up the staircase to grab our coats and cameras. Last night, there was a mere centimetre or two of snow, and still we danced in the streets, laid down in the crystals and made a knee-high snowman.
And this morning, it was real snow. Proper snow, turning the trees to enchanted trees and silencing the city. A group of us met at the seafront at noon and, fortified with sticky-sweet donuts, began a sporadic snowball fight that would last for two hours. After defending our lopsided snowman from unkind comments, I walked to the Brighton pier and looked out over the beach, towards the marina. I smiled at the sight of at least two dozen snowmen spaced out along the beach. The snow was still falling, the streets were full of mush and the bus service was still spotty, but Brighton was out in full force.
It may be what I love most about England: people are always outside. Doesn't matter the month or the temperature or even the rain. In mid-January, as the temperature hovers around zero, the seaside cafés are open, people are sitting at tables sipping coffee, and the beach walks are packed with strolling couples, joggers and waddling children. The racks at school are still packed with commuter bikes so you can't even find a spot.
Everyone sympathised with me before I came, moving to a rainy cold island, and now that I'm here they often ask, "How's the weather?" as though expressing sympathy for a nagging health problem. Perhaps it's because of my low expectations that I've been pleasantly surprised. Earlier this month I went hiking for the afternoon, remarking how pleasant the weather was as I strolled through fields of sheep. Am I turning into a Brit?
Nah. My snowman-making skills were infinitely superior.
To be fair, it's the biggest snowfall England has seen in 18 years, or so they're saying. Train service was shut down, buses were pulled off the roads, school was cancelled. One English friend told me he hadn't made a snowman since 1990 as we rolled snow and stones together on the beach into a lopsided snow-woman. Yet it's quite funny that London's in such a tizzy over an amount of snow that'd be laughable in Michigan or Massachusetts.
Still, I've fully embraced the excitement. My experience of this snowstorm is coloured by the fact that I celebrated my first snowfall of the season last night with two Brazilians who were seeing the first snow of their lives. I was washing dishes when Kaoru’s laughing flooded out from the darkened second kitchen. “Look!” I rushed to the window: two grown men gleefully packing snowballs. “Come on!” I cried. “Hurry!” and laughing, we spiralled up the staircase to grab our coats and cameras. Last night, there was a mere centimetre or two of snow, and still we danced in the streets, laid down in the crystals and made a knee-high snowman.
And this morning, it was real snow. Proper snow, turning the trees to enchanted trees and silencing the city. A group of us met at the seafront at noon and, fortified with sticky-sweet donuts, began a sporadic snowball fight that would last for two hours. After defending our lopsided snowman from unkind comments, I walked to the Brighton pier and looked out over the beach, towards the marina. I smiled at the sight of at least two dozen snowmen spaced out along the beach. The snow was still falling, the streets were full of mush and the bus service was still spotty, but Brighton was out in full force.
It may be what I love most about England: people are always outside. Doesn't matter the month or the temperature or even the rain. In mid-January, as the temperature hovers around zero, the seaside cafés are open, people are sitting at tables sipping coffee, and the beach walks are packed with strolling couples, joggers and waddling children. The racks at school are still packed with commuter bikes so you can't even find a spot.
Everyone sympathised with me before I came, moving to a rainy cold island, and now that I'm here they often ask, "How's the weather?" as though expressing sympathy for a nagging health problem. Perhaps it's because of my low expectations that I've been pleasantly surprised. Earlier this month I went hiking for the afternoon, remarking how pleasant the weather was as I strolled through fields of sheep. Am I turning into a Brit?
Nah. My snowman-making skills were infinitely superior.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
soundtrack: snoring
This library is dead silent except for one echoing, raspy snore floating up from the ground floor. Each time I look up from my books, I see a punitive notice:
“The Library has received many complaints from user about graffiti in the study spaces… If you are aware of someone who is defacing Library property in this way, please contact the building manager.”
Someone has scrawled on it “SNITCHES GET STITCHES.”
The UMass library hummed until late. Real late. But it’s hard for a library to hum when the café closes at 8, when you have to leave the library entirely just to use the bathroom.
This seems like a strange thing to say, but I miss all-nighters in the first-floor silent zone at UMass. May was a time of purpose, of culmination, of pushing beyond the limit – but knowing Joe Meloni would be there even longer than I would. And at least there, I could look forward to a gorgeous view of the sunrise.
But this is what I get, I suppose, for 3 ½ study-less weeks in Cape Town. Worth it? Yes.
“The Library has received many complaints from user about graffiti in the study spaces… If you are aware of someone who is defacing Library property in this way, please contact the building manager.”
Someone has scrawled on it “SNITCHES GET STITCHES.”
The UMass library hummed until late. Real late. But it’s hard for a library to hum when the café closes at 8, when you have to leave the library entirely just to use the bathroom.
This seems like a strange thing to say, but I miss all-nighters in the first-floor silent zone at UMass. May was a time of purpose, of culmination, of pushing beyond the limit – but knowing Joe Meloni would be there even longer than I would. And at least there, I could look forward to a gorgeous view of the sunrise.
But this is what I get, I suppose, for 3 ½ study-less weeks in Cape Town. Worth it? Yes.
Monday, November 17, 2008
One of the cool kids
I’ve never been one of the cool kids.
Sure, it didn’t help that my mom dressed me in turtlenecks and stretch pants until I was ten, or that I used to sew my own felt “pocket-mice” and wear them in my breast pocket, or that I was one of the last girls in the seventh grade to start shaving my legs. I can’t reminisce about the high school parties because I didn’t go to any, and the first time I was offered alcohol in college – as part of an initiation ceremony – I did a water shot instead. Oh, and marching band uniforms – need I say more?
But there it was on the front page of the Metro, a British commuter paper, on November 5: “The day America became just a little bit cool again,” with a picture of Barack Obama smiling and waving.
Me? Cool? It’s true. In the past two weeks, no one here in England has bullied me for covert violence, nation-building or economic imperialism. In fact, they haven’t even teased me about my accent. Instead, everyone wants to talk about the election, to rehash my team’s victory. That’s never happened before.
I don’t know if I can take credit for my sudden coolness. Sure, I voted. I followed the election, but so did half of the Brits I know. I didn’t campaign or register voters. I didn’t pen any brilliant columns urging people to vote for Obama. I didn’t give money to the campaign. And I certainly haven’t discovered a newfound sense of fashion in the past two weeks. I’m wearing a turtleneck right now.
Yet somehow, I’m cool by proxy. Everyone wants to be an American now, because we have the greatest claim to the excitement that’s sweeping the world. In these days of escalating food prices, economic recession, the terrorist threat and global warming, the world has experienced an unprecedented, universal wave of optimism, and everyone wants a piece of it. Around the world, the population of “Canadians” abroad has probably been halved.
Now that I'm part of the “in-crowd,” does that mean someone else will end up a loser? Maybe. On November 5th, a British friend complained: “Half of our humour is gone – we can’t make fun of you Americans all the time anymore!”
Will my new “cool” status last? Obama’s inherited such a mess that it’s impossible for him to live up to his promise. When I railed on Bush recently to a friend for “killing people,” he reminded me, “Obama’s going to kill people too, you know.” The war in Iraq is not yet over, and commitment in Afghanistan is likely to grow. No one knows for sure how to rescue the economy, and we can’t afford to restructure health care, reinvest in public education and launch a “Green New Deal” at the same time.
So I’m going to bask in my newfound coolness it while it lasts. I can already feel it starting to wane.
But whaddya know? Nowadays, turtlenecks and stretch pants – at least in England – are back in style.
Sure, it didn’t help that my mom dressed me in turtlenecks and stretch pants until I was ten, or that I used to sew my own felt “pocket-mice” and wear them in my breast pocket, or that I was one of the last girls in the seventh grade to start shaving my legs. I can’t reminisce about the high school parties because I didn’t go to any, and the first time I was offered alcohol in college – as part of an initiation ceremony – I did a water shot instead. Oh, and marching band uniforms – need I say more?
But there it was on the front page of the Metro, a British commuter paper, on November 5: “The day America became just a little bit cool again,” with a picture of Barack Obama smiling and waving.
Me? Cool? It’s true. In the past two weeks, no one here in England has bullied me for covert violence, nation-building or economic imperialism. In fact, they haven’t even teased me about my accent. Instead, everyone wants to talk about the election, to rehash my team’s victory. That’s never happened before.
I don’t know if I can take credit for my sudden coolness. Sure, I voted. I followed the election, but so did half of the Brits I know. I didn’t campaign or register voters. I didn’t pen any brilliant columns urging people to vote for Obama. I didn’t give money to the campaign. And I certainly haven’t discovered a newfound sense of fashion in the past two weeks. I’m wearing a turtleneck right now.
Yet somehow, I’m cool by proxy. Everyone wants to be an American now, because we have the greatest claim to the excitement that’s sweeping the world. In these days of escalating food prices, economic recession, the terrorist threat and global warming, the world has experienced an unprecedented, universal wave of optimism, and everyone wants a piece of it. Around the world, the population of “Canadians” abroad has probably been halved.
Now that I'm part of the “in-crowd,” does that mean someone else will end up a loser? Maybe. On November 5th, a British friend complained: “Half of our humour is gone – we can’t make fun of you Americans all the time anymore!”
Will my new “cool” status last? Obama’s inherited such a mess that it’s impossible for him to live up to his promise. When I railed on Bush recently to a friend for “killing people,” he reminded me, “Obama’s going to kill people too, you know.” The war in Iraq is not yet over, and commitment in Afghanistan is likely to grow. No one knows for sure how to rescue the economy, and we can’t afford to restructure health care, reinvest in public education and launch a “Green New Deal” at the same time.
So I’m going to bask in my newfound coolness it while it lasts. I can already feel it starting to wane.
But whaddya know? Nowadays, turtlenecks and stretch pants – at least in England – are back in style.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Obama is my president
"I'm proud to call myself an American for the first time in my entire life. I'm so happy."
She had a British accent, but she was crying, laughing, on her toes through the entire speech. Her mom was American, she told me, but she'd always been ashamed to admit it until now.
When I'd arrived at East Slope bar at one (that's 8 p.m. EST), I waited for half an hour outside the door before I was even admitted - the bar was filled to capacity. An American exchange student from Philadelphia and I stood on our toes to glimpse the big screen: Pennsylvania predicted to go Obama. We screamed, then whined: "Americans should get in first!"
But we did get in, and state after state turned blue: Pennsylvania. New Hampshire. Ohio. New Mexico.
Then, at 4 a.m.:
California.
Washington.
And the banner: "OBAMA VOTED PRESIDENT." How did it happen so easily, so fast?
On the way home, I passed a group of people on my bike. "Obama!" one yelled. "HE'S MY PRESIDENT!" I screamed back, then laughed gleefully, listening to Paul Simon. I couldn't keep myself from yelling the news to people at the bus stops on the way home:
"Obama's the president!"
She had a British accent, but she was crying, laughing, on her toes through the entire speech. Her mom was American, she told me, but she'd always been ashamed to admit it until now.
When I'd arrived at East Slope bar at one (that's 8 p.m. EST), I waited for half an hour outside the door before I was even admitted - the bar was filled to capacity. An American exchange student from Philadelphia and I stood on our toes to glimpse the big screen: Pennsylvania predicted to go Obama. We screamed, then whined: "Americans should get in first!"
But we did get in, and state after state turned blue: Pennsylvania. New Hampshire. Ohio. New Mexico.
Then, at 4 a.m.:
California.
Washington.
And the banner: "OBAMA VOTED PRESIDENT." How did it happen so easily, so fast?
On the way home, I passed a group of people on my bike. "Obama!" one yelled. "HE'S MY PRESIDENT!" I screamed back, then laughed gleefully, listening to Paul Simon. I couldn't keep myself from yelling the news to people at the bus stops on the way home:
"Obama's the president!"
November 4th
I have grown up in a time when so many Americans have been afraid to be proud of being American.
I have come of political consciousness in the seven years since September 11, 2001, as America has been increasingly vilified by others, increasingly polarised within. I have voted, but I have rarely felt that my voice was heard.
I left my country in 2006 feeling relieved to get away. And I have found my place in the world while apologising for my country. Once, the words were spat at me: "Everything evil comes from America." Other times, many times, I have laughed along with others at my country because mourning it has done no good.
I have come of political consciousness in a country that was still 50 percent disenfranchised by choice, a country much of the world still doesn't believe will dare to elect a black president.
And I have watched this race for more than a year, barely daring to hope. I have scanned the news reports, sometimes indignant, sometimes frustrated, sometimes afraid.
I know that the election means only new challenges. No person can absolve the sins we have committed or solve the problems we face. No one can restore the ozone layer we've depleted, rewind Katrina, erase the taste of American arrogance and greed that's still sour in the air.
But it is not about a savior for America.
It is about every American whose voice will be heard for the first time. It is about people in Uganda, and France, and China, and South Africa, and Thailand, who are watching with bated breath, who have followed this election religiously though we know nothing of their own politics. It is about every person who lived under Jim Crow laws or who has been the target of a racial slur or who has doubted what she can achieve.
Today, I remember the way I felt on a crisp, clear October night at Boston Common, after I saw Obama speak. As the crowds cleared, autumn leaves scuttled across the pavement in the breeze and words hung in the air, fat with possibility.
I can't call it, and I'm afraid writing this will jinx it. Maybe it's easier to feel confident from across the ocean. But this election is something much larger than myself; my words will not change what has been set in motion. All I can say is...
Bring it on.
I have come of political consciousness in the seven years since September 11, 2001, as America has been increasingly vilified by others, increasingly polarised within. I have voted, but I have rarely felt that my voice was heard.
I left my country in 2006 feeling relieved to get away. And I have found my place in the world while apologising for my country. Once, the words were spat at me: "Everything evil comes from America." Other times, many times, I have laughed along with others at my country because mourning it has done no good.
I have come of political consciousness in a country that was still 50 percent disenfranchised by choice, a country much of the world still doesn't believe will dare to elect a black president.
And I have watched this race for more than a year, barely daring to hope. I have scanned the news reports, sometimes indignant, sometimes frustrated, sometimes afraid.
I know that the election means only new challenges. No person can absolve the sins we have committed or solve the problems we face. No one can restore the ozone layer we've depleted, rewind Katrina, erase the taste of American arrogance and greed that's still sour in the air.
But it is not about a savior for America.
It is about every American whose voice will be heard for the first time. It is about people in Uganda, and France, and China, and South Africa, and Thailand, who are watching with bated breath, who have followed this election religiously though we know nothing of their own politics. It is about every person who lived under Jim Crow laws or who has been the target of a racial slur or who has doubted what she can achieve.
Today, I remember the way I felt on a crisp, clear October night at Boston Common, after I saw Obama speak. As the crowds cleared, autumn leaves scuttled across the pavement in the breeze and words hung in the air, fat with possibility.
I can't call it, and I'm afraid writing this will jinx it. Maybe it's easier to feel confident from across the ocean. But this election is something much larger than myself; my words will not change what has been set in motion. All I can say is...
Bring it on.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
"I didn't realise it was... That Bad."
Last Thursday, I went to a screening of the final presidential debate, sponsored by the Uni. Sussex Politics Society. Discussion was led by Professor Robyn Kolodny, an American professor on a Fulbright exchange who is an expert on American politics and election campaigns.
I was stunned by the turnout. A classroom meant to seat about thirty was overflowing; students were standing in the back and sitting on the floor. A few Americans came, but by and large the students were British, judging by their accents.
It's striking how much people here care about the American elections; one English girl even said she'd spent her summer in Florida campaigning for Obama, which reminded me of a South African acquaintance who's spent months in America doing the same. The awareness and interest 'across the pond' - I also saw a huge photo of Palin this weekend on the front page of the Bergen Tidende, the newspaper in Bergen, Norway - is a constant reminder of how much the American election does influence the rest of the world.
And the general assumption: everyone is for Obama. The president of the Politics Society talked about watching the elections in East Slope bar on November 4-5: it'll be a party "unless the wrong side wins", he said, to laughter. "Joe the Plumber" drew a lot of laughter, too; most audience members seemed to view McCain with incredulity, almost as a joke.
After the first segment, people asked Prof. Kolodny to explain - what's Acorn? who was Ayers? The most interesting part of the event, though, was the discussion following the healthcare segment of the debate. (Video is no longer available, but here's a transcript of the debate.)
In Britain, the NHS (National Health System) is free. I repeat: FREE. Everyone is guaranteed healthcare; it's treated as a right. Private insurance and care is also available, for people who want top-notch care or more expedient surgery. I'm no expert on the system, but so far my experiences have been good; I saw the doctor for a persistent sore throat, quickly and free of charge, and a friend of mine was seen quickly and taken care of well when he sliced off the tip of his finger. And what I sense so far is that, by and large, the English seem happy with this system.
So when McCain used "England" as a dirty word in the healthcare debate, some students seemed bewildered:
McCain: "Senator Obama wants to set up health care bureaucracies, take over the health care of America through -- as he said, his object is a single payer system. If you like that, you'll love Canada and England."
And it's true - one of the biggest fears in the American psyche is that we'll have to wait months to see a doctor, that we won't be able to get a good doctor. That's what we always hear about Canada and England - that the quality is terrible and the waits are long. We're scared.
From this side, it looks different. Students seemed shocked at the cost of private medical insurance: an average of $12,000 a year for a family, an expense McCain's $5,000 tax credit won't begin to assuage.
(For a useful summary of both Obama's and McCain's plans, information on how they would benefit different demographics, and links to independent analyses, check this out.)
One girl raised her hand. It seems so obvious that Obama's programme is better, she said. I guess I just don't understand why Americans would vote for McCain.
Professor Kolodny explained it well. Our American healthcare debate is framed in terms of choice and freedom, she said. Americans cling to the idea of choice in their health care - the idea that "I can go to any doctor I want" - but that choice is, in fact, only an illusion. You can go to any doctor you want... IF that doctor is on your insurance plan. IF (for some people) that doctor accepts Medicaid or Medicare, which many doctors don't because government remuneration is far less than what they'd get from the private sector. IF that doctor can accept more patients. IF you can get an appointment.
We're also obsessed with the idea of "on-demand healthcare". We want to be seen NOW - we don't want to wait. Yet in the States, you'll often have to wait weeks for an appointment. But we believe we have control over the situation, because we spend an entire morning on the phone calling different clinics, waiting on hold, until we find that at one place we can get in in six weeks while at all the others it'll be two to three months. Is that truly "on-demand"? I remember calling around to find someone to see me when I needed to send in my health information to the Marshall Commission. I had two weeks between being invited for an interview and flying to Chicago on 13 November; there was no one who could see me before early December, including the student health service at UMass, to simply give me a physical.
I added that our system is so complex that few Americans really understand it - even those who make an effort to do so. Robyn pointed out the amount of paperwork we have to do each time we leave the doctor's office: Was it an auto accident? Because then your auto insurance has to pay. Which insurance company pays for this, what do you pay out of pocket, what's your medical history... Sometimes, she said, she spends an hour on filling out forms after visiting the doctor.
I realised as she spoke that these sensibilities - of choice and freedom - are deeply ingrained in my psyche - but that British students were hearing the issues framed in new terms.
After the showing, a few people stayed around to talk. One English girl said to Robyn, "I didn't realise it was... I don't want to say it, but... that bad." Hilary and I laughed, but it was telling: to most of the rest of the world, it's common sense that the GOP platform is ludicrous, and American political rhetoric is often absurd.
I was stunned by the turnout. A classroom meant to seat about thirty was overflowing; students were standing in the back and sitting on the floor. A few Americans came, but by and large the students were British, judging by their accents.
It's striking how much people here care about the American elections; one English girl even said she'd spent her summer in Florida campaigning for Obama, which reminded me of a South African acquaintance who's spent months in America doing the same. The awareness and interest 'across the pond' - I also saw a huge photo of Palin this weekend on the front page of the Bergen Tidende, the newspaper in Bergen, Norway - is a constant reminder of how much the American election does influence the rest of the world.
And the general assumption: everyone is for Obama. The president of the Politics Society talked about watching the elections in East Slope bar on November 4-5: it'll be a party "unless the wrong side wins", he said, to laughter. "Joe the Plumber" drew a lot of laughter, too; most audience members seemed to view McCain with incredulity, almost as a joke.
After the first segment, people asked Prof. Kolodny to explain - what's Acorn? who was Ayers? The most interesting part of the event, though, was the discussion following the healthcare segment of the debate. (Video is no longer available, but here's a transcript of the debate.)
In Britain, the NHS (National Health System) is free. I repeat: FREE. Everyone is guaranteed healthcare; it's treated as a right. Private insurance and care is also available, for people who want top-notch care or more expedient surgery. I'm no expert on the system, but so far my experiences have been good; I saw the doctor for a persistent sore throat, quickly and free of charge, and a friend of mine was seen quickly and taken care of well when he sliced off the tip of his finger. And what I sense so far is that, by and large, the English seem happy with this system.
So when McCain used "England" as a dirty word in the healthcare debate, some students seemed bewildered:
McCain: "Senator Obama wants to set up health care bureaucracies, take over the health care of America through -- as he said, his object is a single payer system. If you like that, you'll love Canada and England."
And it's true - one of the biggest fears in the American psyche is that we'll have to wait months to see a doctor, that we won't be able to get a good doctor. That's what we always hear about Canada and England - that the quality is terrible and the waits are long. We're scared.
From this side, it looks different. Students seemed shocked at the cost of private medical insurance: an average of $12,000 a year for a family, an expense McCain's $5,000 tax credit won't begin to assuage.
(For a useful summary of both Obama's and McCain's plans, information on how they would benefit different demographics, and links to independent analyses, check this out.)
One girl raised her hand. It seems so obvious that Obama's programme is better, she said. I guess I just don't understand why Americans would vote for McCain.
Professor Kolodny explained it well. Our American healthcare debate is framed in terms of choice and freedom, she said. Americans cling to the idea of choice in their health care - the idea that "I can go to any doctor I want" - but that choice is, in fact, only an illusion. You can go to any doctor you want... IF that doctor is on your insurance plan. IF (for some people) that doctor accepts Medicaid or Medicare, which many doctors don't because government remuneration is far less than what they'd get from the private sector. IF that doctor can accept more patients. IF you can get an appointment.
We're also obsessed with the idea of "on-demand healthcare". We want to be seen NOW - we don't want to wait. Yet in the States, you'll often have to wait weeks for an appointment. But we believe we have control over the situation, because we spend an entire morning on the phone calling different clinics, waiting on hold, until we find that at one place we can get in in six weeks while at all the others it'll be two to three months. Is that truly "on-demand"? I remember calling around to find someone to see me when I needed to send in my health information to the Marshall Commission. I had two weeks between being invited for an interview and flying to Chicago on 13 November; there was no one who could see me before early December, including the student health service at UMass, to simply give me a physical.
I added that our system is so complex that few Americans really understand it - even those who make an effort to do so. Robyn pointed out the amount of paperwork we have to do each time we leave the doctor's office: Was it an auto accident? Because then your auto insurance has to pay. Which insurance company pays for this, what do you pay out of pocket, what's your medical history... Sometimes, she said, she spends an hour on filling out forms after visiting the doctor.
I realised as she spoke that these sensibilities - of choice and freedom - are deeply ingrained in my psyche - but that British students were hearing the issues framed in new terms.
After the showing, a few people stayed around to talk. One English girl said to Robyn, "I didn't realise it was... I don't want to say it, but... that bad." Hilary and I laughed, but it was telling: to most of the rest of the world, it's common sense that the GOP platform is ludicrous, and American political rhetoric is often absurd.
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