Interview With Chuck Palahniuk
This is
an interview with Chuck Palahniuk, author of
Fight Club, Lullaby, Choke, and
Survivor...
As for me, my younger sister has just hit DC and is bathing me in love. She gave me an Incredible Hulk pinata full of candy and a Target gift card, took me out for an early birthday dinner of Mexican and margaritas. She's good stuff, that Jess...real good.
Let's Rescue A Beautiful Word From Its Captors
I read this piece in the New Jersey Star-Ledger just after Christmas. It really made me think, and in the absence of any meaningful content of my own, I'm putting it out there...
Let's Rescue A Beautiful Word From Its CaptorsAnisa Mehdi
for the Star-Ledger
December 29, 2004
I'm picky about words. Maybe it's because I'm the daughter of an English teacher. Maybe because I went to journalism school. Or maybe it's because I've always wanted to show Henry Higgins he doesn't have a corner on the English language.
Words are powerful. They can save lives or destroy them; make truth of falsehood and weave tapestries about our society, our safety (remember weapons of mass destruction?) and who our enemies are.
Words can hurt, too. Almost as badly as sticks and stones.
I remember in 11th grade an English teacher at the High School of Music and Art in New York began shouting hysterically in the hallway at a Jewish friend and me: "She's an A-rab! An A-rab!" The message was to my friend: Get away from her. We both exited. Shocked. Stung. My heart hurt for a long while after that.
Years later I worked on a CBS News magazine team looking at American involvement in Lebanon in the 1980s and the attack on the Marine barracks in '83. One version of the script called it a "terrorist attack." I argued that the attack was against soldiers, not civilians. As journalists, it's our job to clarify, and we must distinguish terrorism from acts of war. Besides, Arab-American kids had it tough enough already, with the words "terrorist" and Arab virtually synonymous in our media. It wasn't fair that an attack on the military should be called terrorism just because Arabs committed it. Eventually the script line was changed to "surprise attack."
But 20 years later not much else has changed. Except now we abuse even more words, foreign words, that we don't understand.
As a Muslim of Arab descent, I feel the wrath of one particularly abused word every day: jihad. News reports about "jihad" or "holy war," bear the unspoken insinuation that because of my background I am connected with the terrorism that abounds; that my way of worshipping God is a threat to our national security; that it's okay to go after others with my background - before they come after us.
So let me clarify. I'm not. It isn't. And it's not okay.
For me growing up, "jihad" was a beautiful word. Jihad was the effort you made to do your best in school; your struggle to polish the talents God gave you; how you strived to live up to your parents' and your own highest expectations; to lead a life acceptable to the Almighty.
So, people flying planes into buildings, beheading hostages in Iraq and fomenting hatred against people of other religions - that's not jihad!
According to the Qur'an, the holy text of Islam, the Almighty does not reward the murder of innocent people. Nor does the Creator condone suicide - as in suicide bombings. Terrorism is sociopathic. In secular terms, it is criminal behavior. In religious terms, it is blasphemy to claim cold-blooded murder in the name of God. It is not jihad.
What's a journalist to do? The good news is we can call a spade a spade. There is an Arabic word for these crimes against individuals and crimes against humanity, and the word is "hiraba." War against society.
People who are following God or practicing jihad do not join war against society. Terrorists serve Satan, if anything. They are bad people, criminals in a secular sense and blasphemers in the sacred. Just because they think they're on God's side doesn't mean the American media and our government PR folks need concur! But by parroting their misuse of the word "jihad," that's just what we're doing.
There is nothing "holy" about war. There is no jihad in terrorism. Only hiraba.
So what happens if we call a spade a spade? Think of the disincentive to young, hungry, cynical Muslims - angry at their own governments and angry at ours for bolstering theirs. If they heard "hiraba" instead of "jihad," if they heard "murder" instead of "martyr," if they heard they were bound for hell not heaven, they might not be so quick to sign up to kill themselves and a handful of so-called "infidels" along the way.
We know words are powerful. After all, we attacked Iraq for a mere acronym: WMD. So those of us concerned with accuracy should use our mightier-than-the-sword pens and keyboards and get the word "hiraba" out there.
Someday, I hope, "jihad" will find its way back into our lexicon, used properly, in sentences like "she's on a jihad to achieve the American dream."
In the meantime, people like me, performing jihad in our own ways - being patient with our kids, volunteering in our communities, practicing our professions to the best of our abilities - can walk free of guilt by association with those engaged in hiraba.
This is a picture of me and Natasha in a liquor store in Clarksdale, taken at about eleven a.m.
Natasha is now back in Australia--she left from Newark airport on May 16th. I left Jersey by train the day before, which allowed for a positively cinematic farewell at the station.
I feel like a giant scab--something thick, hard, and brittle over top of something raw, pink, and very soft...something that will heal, but by no means overnight. I still can't listen to
the Sleepy Jackson or AC/DC. All I want to listen to is
this and I don't want to talk about a damn thing.
By the Pound, not the Inch
The little club was shaking in six dimensions like a giant maraca—the wholel place moved to one hectic rhythm while people at individual tables were all over the place, standing to shake themselves, shrieking with laughter, high-fiving, hugging and ripping out spontaneous dance steps by their tables…
Sometimes there’s only so much excitement I can take before I just need a cheeseburger. I made my way through the band toward the kitchen at the back of the house, stepping gingerly over snaking guitar cables and winding past the blasting band while trying to put more shake in my step for their sake.
The kitchen was a brief oasis of quiet calm occupied only by me and the chef, as seen below:
He savored a quiet cigarette between waves of orders in a way that only experienced cooks can…he took no notice of me for a few moments as he leaned against the reach in, eyes closed, smoke curling up from the lit stick in his hand to commingle with the slow gust of smoke seeping dragon-like from his flared nostrils. I could see his consciousness lazily swimup from the deep and quiet place where all cooks go for a few blessed moments every night until his eyelids trembled and he coolly stepped up, refreshed and ready for action and said “Hey m’man…what can I getcha?”
With one deft move, he gently cradled the still-burning cigarette into an ashtray kept conveniently on the counter, a four-inch hop from his other hand busily sawing a generous portion of burger meat.
We chatted idly, until a pack of women from outside exploded into the room, cackling, slapping backs and lovingly squabbling over who got to use the bathroom first.
One woman flung herself into a plastic chair and sighed a massive sigh, exclaiming to the world at large, “OooohLOrd I am tired as hell…”
Then she poked me in the leg. As I looked down she caught my eyes in hers and said “”scuse me, but I was wondering…Is you about to thow up? “Cause I am…”
Everyone in the kitchen blew up laughing. I almost puked from laughing so hard. This woman here (see previous post for a bigger pic)
turned to the cook saying, “You know, I like the look of your cheeseburgers. But what I want, what I reeeally want, is a big, brown, spicy sausage. Can you give me one of those instead, mister?” Her eyes twinkled as her friends howled with laughter. Without even looking up from the counter, the chef said “I got one, baby, but you might wanna be careful. I measure it by the pound, not by the inch…”
Everyone screamed…I laughed so hard my eyes were wet.
Here’s a picture of one of the onlookers:
Tash and I left to check out some other jukes afterwards, but nothing was really happening. Some Japanese guys and Canadians were trying hard to push it out at Red's but the show was over. The night before had been a big one, and all the local talent had been drinking and playing all day--everybody was at home or in bed, if not both.
I've learned that the secret to a good night is knowing when it stops. Sometimes the peak of the evening comes early, and the best way to ruin an evening is to race around all damn night trying to find the fun until three am. You got to just let it go and get to bed...so we did.
The Night was Short and Endless
Apologies for the copied content--it just works better here.Anyone who has ever learned anything from a proudly misspent youth can tell you that some nights last for years. Each ten-minute increment s a massive .zip file of memories and lessons that the mind spends months unzipping and processing. If it so happens that the night works well asa s tory, the story grows and changes with each retelling, inching closer and closer towards legend status in the teller’s heart with each repetition.
Our last night in Clarksdale was just that sort of night. I’m going to try and sum up the night in words and photos, but I know I’m going to be disappointed…nobody can absorb second hand the sort of life-affirming excitement I got from being right in the thick of it, and I’m going to have to resort to the coda for all lame stories to fill in the cracks: you just had to be there.
Right before Natasha and I caught the School of Rock-style blues band (at Sarah's Kitchen, proudly offering Food for the Body, Blues for the Soul,) we made a quick pass-through of yes,
that Morgan Freeman's Ground Zero Blues Club, where Super Chikan and the Cocks were giving their sweat-soaked all in front of what looked like a Sigma-Kappa reunion. Here's the Chikan himself:
Super Chikan is well-worth checking out any night of the week, but the white-ball-hat vibe was seriously sickening me...
A barefoot man was standing on the streetcorner trying to hawk cds to any and all passersby. This being Clarksdale, he didn't radiate the kind of vibe or fragrance that a barefoot street salesman here in DC would give off. We bought a CD and asked directions to Sarah's (as mentioned before.) He totally quit the sales pitch, dropped everything and personally escorted us down the street and around the corner, asking where we were from, politely playing "guess-the-accent" with Natasha, dropped us off and said good night--then resumed business right out in the street.
After we quit Sarah's, we checked out this one juke joint whose name I completely forget--I don't need that joint's name because it will forever be known as the place where my mind got blown and dented into a whole new shape.
Big T and his band were exploding all over the damn place when we went in, Big T howling into the microphone and then sprinting away from the stage (or stage portion of the floor as the case was) and soloing in front of a group of wildly appreciative women.
Here's Big T:
And here's an impressive solo:
Here's one of the women he was wooing with his guitar and nimble teeth and tongue:
While Big T took a break, this guy got up onto the floor to sing...prerecorded keyboard music dripped from the speakers in a Southern Soul style, and the man sang his silky heart out. Big T's lady friend
really liked this singer:
More to come...
School of Blues
Anyone who has ever learned anything from a proudly misspent youth can tell you that some nights last for years. Each ten-minute increment s a massive .zip file of memories and lessons that the mind spends months unzipping and processing. If it so happens that the night works well asa s tory, the story grows and changes with each retelling, inching closer and closer towards legend status in the teller’s heart with each repetition.
Our last night in Clarksdale was just that sort of night. I’m going to try and sum up the night in words and photos, but I know I’m going to be disappointed…nobody can absorb second hand the sort of life-affirming excitement I got from being right in the thick of it, and I’m going to have to resort to the coda for all lame stories to fill in the cracks: you just had to be there.
Clarksdale public schools actually teach the blues in music class—children are taught blues riffs, drum rhythms, all the ingredients that it takes to play the blues. The photos below are of the end-of-year project: a kid-run blues band playing a real show at a juke joint during the Juke Joint Blues Festival…
These kids were incredible…I defy any five of you to start a band of any kind and have a battle of the bands with them after six months’ practice.
I went up to the drummer after the show and shook his hand. I told him “I came all the way from Washington, D.C. to see this band, and you guys were fantastic. You are one of the most amazing drummers I have ever seen…” He turned his head and looked at the floor, digging an imaginary hole with his shoe. As soon as I let go of his hand he ran off into the back of the juke joint.
Crossroads
You don’t have to be a diehard blues fan to know about the legendary crossroads. For those that don’t the intersection of Highways 49 and 61 in
Clarksdale, Mississippi is
Robert Johnson, blues legend, sold his soul to the devil in exchange for the ability to play the blues guitar better than anyone else on earth. Whether or not Johnson actually stood at the crossroads at midnight and jammed with a large pitch-black man in a black suit is debatable, but the fact that Johnson became a blues legend is a fact.
Robert Birdsong is a man who has been marinating in Clarksdales’ rich social and cultural history his entire life, and gives customized tours of the town rich on both factual and personal anecdotal evidence. He took us by the actual crossroads in old Clarksdale, pictured below:
Here’s an aerial view, courtesy of GoogleMaps:
The roads changed sometime in the 50’s—the above picture is the legendary crossroads, although the current junction of 61 and 49 has a great big monument lit up by massive lights. Locals told us that one can occasionally see Japanese and Scandinavian tourists furtively playing their guitars by that brightly lit monument some midnights, hoping for a dance with the devil of blues legend.
Birdsong himself downplays Johnson’s legendary status…he feels that while Johnson is certainly a musician of merit, he happened to be in the right place at the right time, while there were other, much better musicians than he performing in town that didn’t make it onto record. He might be right, he may not—it’s a sort of Delta-blues ko-an: if a bluesman could out-play Robert Johnson but went unrecorded, did he ever really exist?
We learned from Birdsong that whether or not Clarksdale’s crossroads were the home of a nefarious satanic pact, Clarksdale was a metaphorical crossroads in a similar sense to a lot of musicians. Audiences at Clarksdale’s juke joints are said to have been the toughest in America, and if a bluesman could rock a Clarksdale juke joint, he could succeed in Chicago, Saint Louis, and the world at large.
