Procrastination is a fine art. All of us are experts in this form to some degree or the other. By and large, I consider myself to be an expert; but I dare say that there are people who may consider me to be a novice. If there are people out there who consider themselves past masters at this on-going art please share your thoughts by commenting on this blog, or make a committment that you maybe someday get around to it. You know what I mean, someday????
NOT TODAY
Some day,
I am going to shake the world:
some day, but not today.
Some day,
I am going to fix that roof.
I am going to get the nails and shingles;
work right through until it is over.
They will look at it, my neighbors.
It was easy, I will say, with a shrug of my shoulders.
You can do it too.
Pontificating is so much fun, isn't it?
Someday, but not today.
Someday,
I am going to preach the brotherhood of man.
from the minarets of every mosque,
from the pew of every church.
Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism,
and maybe, just maybe, even atheism,
I am going to trumpet it.
Sing high; sing low; but sing out, I will.
Someday, but not today.
Someday,
I am going to flood the world,
with earth-shattering ideas,
something - I know not what,
but I have them within me.
Let me out they cry;
powerful drill bits driving
through the protective layers of the subconscious.
Time and opportunity, yes, that is what I want.
Don't we all?
Some day, but not today.
Someday,
I am going to approach him,
the person I hate most in the world,
my enemy.
Across a crowded room,
I am going to stretch my hand to him.
Wrapping him in a warm embrace.
I will call him brother,
cauterizing centuries of ignorance,
with the cleansing power of love.
Someday, but not today.
Someday,
when I have more time:
no living to make, no bills to pay,
free from the mundane:
stop at the market to buy eggs,
appointments made, or promises broken.
That day I will leave my mark on the world:
find the answers to all the wars;
find the serum to that incurable disease.
NIRVANA!!
I am not making excuses, I swear I am not.
You watch and see -
Someday,
but not today.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
What sportsmanship?
What sportsmanship?
Recently, I heard a conversation of radio personalities that decried the absolute horrendous state of sportsmanship in the entire United States, particularly so, on the playing fields of our universities. It appears that at a certain university in the Southeast, during games, visitors were showered with plastic bags full of urine. Shocking, you say. What’s so shocking about this? In the United States, we are conditioned to revile and debase the enemy. Whether the enemy is competing against us in sport, business, or anything else for that matter, we must not only put them down; we must crush, demolish, and annihilate them. Then we must rub their faces in the dirt and give them a final contemptuous kick to punctuate it all. We must not just win; we must humiliate. Anything else would not be ‘macho’ enough; and that dear reader, is the bottom line. For Pete’s sake, even golf, which was so far perceived as a game for sedate seniors has got into the act? Look at the ads for Nike extolling raw power. Am I missing something here? This sort of mentality is already having a tremendous affect on the individual, the community, and ultimately the very essence of our societal psyche.
This reminds me that about twenty-five years ago, I coached tennis to young adults. One day, while teaching a potentially budding prospect, I witnessed an exhibition that was nothing short of obscene. I had volleyed back a hard hit forehand shot to my erstwhile student, which he could not retrieve. The young man went bonkers. He threw his racket, cursed worse than any prostitute bilked of money for services rendered, and stomped in rage. Finally, he stopped to catch his breath. Quietly putting my hand on his shoulder, I asked whether he thought that he was so good, that he should return every ball, or whether there was just an inept dummy across the net from him.
“I am sorry coach,” he said. “It’s just that I was mad at myself.”
“Setting high standards is understandable, but not at the cost of making an idiot of yourself or your instructor.”
From childhood, we have been taught to win at all costs. If you cannot come first, if you cannot earn gold, if you cannot win the big one, you are a loser. Thus, out of ten athletes in a track event, only one is a winner, the others are all losers. Extending this analogy further, we are saying that the majority by far, in this as in other things, are losers. Am I missing something here? Are we saying that since we had to pull out of Korea or Vietnam, that we are a nation of losers?
Another case in point is that of The Buffalo Bills. By reaching the Super Bowl four times in consecutive years, a plateau that to my knowledge has not been achieved by anyone in either the American Football League or the National Football League, they showed consistency, determination, and an inexorable drive to win seldom matched by any professional team. They proved themselves winners many times over. However, through either bizarre circumstances or that on that day the other team played better, the Buffalo Bills lost all four times. Today, they are perceived the biggest losers in football. By labeling them as losers, we are sending a wrong message to the people, particularly our younger generation. The message emphatically states, “You must win at all costs.” Is it any wonder that a significant number of teens, either drop out of college or are stressed out? Ultimately, they find their niche with gangs or become social pariahs.
Maybe, my education was wrong, since I was taught to respect the dictum, “To honor while you strike him down the foe that comes with fearless eyes.” Nevertheless, it was the principle of a European nation that did not do too badly over the past two hundred years. It was a principle that underscored the absolute necessity of giving it your best effort. Then, and then only, could you walk away with your head held high, without whining, without crying, maintaining your dignity at all costs. In life, most often than not, we are going to face adversity. These are the times, when we need the solidity of learned stoicism. This is the real essence of survival. That when the going gets tough, our survival depends on how well we can suck it up and continue. We need to hold up the image of an Ajax, who knowing that death was imminent on the morrow, since he was going up against the gods, begs the night to go away, so that the world could see what he was made of. Again, the image of a Macbeth knowing that his world was in ruins hurling his defiance at life:
Blow wind; come rack.
At least we will die with armour on our backs.
This is what we need to emphasize to the younger generation, an indomitable spirit that defies anything life can throw at it. Certainly, a part of it is that winning is important. However, though reaching the goal is the dream, the dream should not be at the cost of lying cheating, and other underhand means, which appear to be the bible of most coaches in our schools and universities. We need to emphasize the principles and personal deportment of a Dean Smith, a John Thompson, a Pat Summit, John Wooden and other like-minded coaches. We need to stress that winners are not just those who win the fight; rather, winners are those who show how much fight is in them.
Riaz Sahibzada
Recently, I heard a conversation of radio personalities that decried the absolute horrendous state of sportsmanship in the entire United States, particularly so, on the playing fields of our universities. It appears that at a certain university in the Southeast, during games, visitors were showered with plastic bags full of urine. Shocking, you say. What’s so shocking about this? In the United States, we are conditioned to revile and debase the enemy. Whether the enemy is competing against us in sport, business, or anything else for that matter, we must not only put them down; we must crush, demolish, and annihilate them. Then we must rub their faces in the dirt and give them a final contemptuous kick to punctuate it all. We must not just win; we must humiliate. Anything else would not be ‘macho’ enough; and that dear reader, is the bottom line. For Pete’s sake, even golf, which was so far perceived as a game for sedate seniors has got into the act? Look at the ads for Nike extolling raw power. Am I missing something here? This sort of mentality is already having a tremendous affect on the individual, the community, and ultimately the very essence of our societal psyche.
This reminds me that about twenty-five years ago, I coached tennis to young adults. One day, while teaching a potentially budding prospect, I witnessed an exhibition that was nothing short of obscene. I had volleyed back a hard hit forehand shot to my erstwhile student, which he could not retrieve. The young man went bonkers. He threw his racket, cursed worse than any prostitute bilked of money for services rendered, and stomped in rage. Finally, he stopped to catch his breath. Quietly putting my hand on his shoulder, I asked whether he thought that he was so good, that he should return every ball, or whether there was just an inept dummy across the net from him.
“I am sorry coach,” he said. “It’s just that I was mad at myself.”
“Setting high standards is understandable, but not at the cost of making an idiot of yourself or your instructor.”
From childhood, we have been taught to win at all costs. If you cannot come first, if you cannot earn gold, if you cannot win the big one, you are a loser. Thus, out of ten athletes in a track event, only one is a winner, the others are all losers. Extending this analogy further, we are saying that the majority by far, in this as in other things, are losers. Am I missing something here? Are we saying that since we had to pull out of Korea or Vietnam, that we are a nation of losers?
Another case in point is that of The Buffalo Bills. By reaching the Super Bowl four times in consecutive years, a plateau that to my knowledge has not been achieved by anyone in either the American Football League or the National Football League, they showed consistency, determination, and an inexorable drive to win seldom matched by any professional team. They proved themselves winners many times over. However, through either bizarre circumstances or that on that day the other team played better, the Buffalo Bills lost all four times. Today, they are perceived the biggest losers in football. By labeling them as losers, we are sending a wrong message to the people, particularly our younger generation. The message emphatically states, “You must win at all costs.” Is it any wonder that a significant number of teens, either drop out of college or are stressed out? Ultimately, they find their niche with gangs or become social pariahs.
Maybe, my education was wrong, since I was taught to respect the dictum, “To honor while you strike him down the foe that comes with fearless eyes.” Nevertheless, it was the principle of a European nation that did not do too badly over the past two hundred years. It was a principle that underscored the absolute necessity of giving it your best effort. Then, and then only, could you walk away with your head held high, without whining, without crying, maintaining your dignity at all costs. In life, most often than not, we are going to face adversity. These are the times, when we need the solidity of learned stoicism. This is the real essence of survival. That when the going gets tough, our survival depends on how well we can suck it up and continue. We need to hold up the image of an Ajax, who knowing that death was imminent on the morrow, since he was going up against the gods, begs the night to go away, so that the world could see what he was made of. Again, the image of a Macbeth knowing that his world was in ruins hurling his defiance at life:
Blow wind; come rack.
At least we will die with armour on our backs.
This is what we need to emphasize to the younger generation, an indomitable spirit that defies anything life can throw at it. Certainly, a part of it is that winning is important. However, though reaching the goal is the dream, the dream should not be at the cost of lying cheating, and other underhand means, which appear to be the bible of most coaches in our schools and universities. We need to emphasize the principles and personal deportment of a Dean Smith, a John Thompson, a Pat Summit, John Wooden and other like-minded coaches. We need to stress that winners are not just those who win the fight; rather, winners are those who show how much fight is in them.
Riaz Sahibzada
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Is the World Wacky?
Is the World Wacky, or am I Upside down?
Of “Accaints” and Color
In 1971, I landed at JFK airport, New York. As I exited Immigration, I heard the lady say to a colleague, “Boy, do these foreigners have strange accents, don’t they?”
I shook my head and kept on moving, after all, what else was there to do? I had heard that Americans were funny that way. I hurried to the taxi stand, and approached one of the taxi drivers.
“Excuse me sir,” I said, “Could you guide me to the American Airlines ticket counter?”
The man was kind enough to give me the correct directions. As I walked briskly to the terminal, I shook my head. Boy, I thought, smiling at the rather pleasant black man, these West Africans certainly have a heavy accent. What most probably I did not hear was the taxi driver talking to one of his mates. Had I done so, I would have found that they probably were saying the same thing about me.
Puffing a little, since I am not in the best of shape, I finally arrived at the American Airlines counter and asked whether I was in time for the shuttle to Baltimore/Washington International. The white man, from what I dare say, some part of the Deep South, looked at me seriously, and in a rather loud voice, slowly explained that I was in time, and that the plane would be leaving in half an hour. He than asked me to take a seat in the lounge. To add to the rather loud voice, which was grating enough, was the very slow way he enunciated each word. I was dying to tell him that I might be a foreigner, but I did understand the English Language; indeed, I had taught it to the English. It was not his fault. After all, don’t we all talk a little slowly and very loudly to people who are not native speakers of the language? I guess, in his own way, he was trying to help me as much as possible. It was just that I was different from his normal cup of tea.
What is it about an accent that seems to make us pass an unconscious judgment on each other? Why do people assume that as long as they talk slowly and loudly, the message will get across? The person at the receiving end is not deaf, nor is a person of a perceived accent, a total moron. It is just that they have an “accaint.” From quaint Irish, Scottish, and Welsh, to tonal Far Eastern and pidgin flavored West Indian, to any other country or region that the British came in contact with, we all have an “accaint.” And, I must add, thank God for accents; otherwise, the world would be stiflingly same, like the beige fashion that was very much the “in” thing in the better part of the eighties.
Maybe, I look at the world through colored glasses and colored thinking; thus, I see before me a kaleidoscope of color that people would like to put in tight compartments of whites, blacks, browns and grays. I would like to look at the world as a gigantic impressionist painting full of life: of horror and beauty, of debilitating sorrow and enervating joy, of depth not superficiality, and of life as it is meant to be lived and enjoyed like an old fashioned medieval feast.
That reminds me, for almost thirty years we were known as colored, until one fine day, just as reestablishing certain political boundaries, we were given the joyous news that we were no longer colored. The powers that be probably expected us to go jumping for joy, screaming, “Hallelujah!” Funny, nobody ever did, or not to my knowledge. Maybe, it was not such a big deal after all. By the way, there was a strange interpretation of this new freedom, depending on the country we resided in, we were now either white or Asian-Americans. All of a sudden, it was decided that if they have an “accaint,” and they come from the same continent, they must be the same people. Euphemism, after all, is a wonderful blanket that covers up for a lot of nothing. Unless of course, somebody had a bit too much liquor, and then we quickly reverted to the “bleeping wogs who steal our jobs and our women.” Suffice is to say, I still say I am colored, and I can prove it by the many shades I have. At least, it is easier to prove color, than the lack of it. After all, if you have a little black and a whole lot of white, you are still colored.
Talking of color takes me back to another era. Maybe I dreamt about this, but years back, there were constant references, quite contemptuously, to people with part Native American ancestry as “breeds.” Time and the systematic elimination of the Native American have now taken a different turn. Today, most white men, whether they have any red blood in them or not, will proudly introduce themselves as part Cherokee or Cheyenne. As I said, time certainly changes one’s perspective, doesn’t it? The color bar is also flexible in some cases. I mean, in South Africa, under apartheid, the Japanese were given temporary white citizenship!!! Business can be a strong motivator for changing principles. And, look at the new classification of the Arabs and the Israelis as white, talk about the Emperor wearing no clothes.
I mean, did I miss something here, or is the world wacky?
Riaz Sahibzada
Of “Accaints” and Color
In 1971, I landed at JFK airport, New York. As I exited Immigration, I heard the lady say to a colleague, “Boy, do these foreigners have strange accents, don’t they?”
I shook my head and kept on moving, after all, what else was there to do? I had heard that Americans were funny that way. I hurried to the taxi stand, and approached one of the taxi drivers.
“Excuse me sir,” I said, “Could you guide me to the American Airlines ticket counter?”
The man was kind enough to give me the correct directions. As I walked briskly to the terminal, I shook my head. Boy, I thought, smiling at the rather pleasant black man, these West Africans certainly have a heavy accent. What most probably I did not hear was the taxi driver talking to one of his mates. Had I done so, I would have found that they probably were saying the same thing about me.
Puffing a little, since I am not in the best of shape, I finally arrived at the American Airlines counter and asked whether I was in time for the shuttle to Baltimore/Washington International. The white man, from what I dare say, some part of the Deep South, looked at me seriously, and in a rather loud voice, slowly explained that I was in time, and that the plane would be leaving in half an hour. He than asked me to take a seat in the lounge. To add to the rather loud voice, which was grating enough, was the very slow way he enunciated each word. I was dying to tell him that I might be a foreigner, but I did understand the English Language; indeed, I had taught it to the English. It was not his fault. After all, don’t we all talk a little slowly and very loudly to people who are not native speakers of the language? I guess, in his own way, he was trying to help me as much as possible. It was just that I was different from his normal cup of tea.
What is it about an accent that seems to make us pass an unconscious judgment on each other? Why do people assume that as long as they talk slowly and loudly, the message will get across? The person at the receiving end is not deaf, nor is a person of a perceived accent, a total moron. It is just that they have an “accaint.” From quaint Irish, Scottish, and Welsh, to tonal Far Eastern and pidgin flavored West Indian, to any other country or region that the British came in contact with, we all have an “accaint.” And, I must add, thank God for accents; otherwise, the world would be stiflingly same, like the beige fashion that was very much the “in” thing in the better part of the eighties.
Maybe, I look at the world through colored glasses and colored thinking; thus, I see before me a kaleidoscope of color that people would like to put in tight compartments of whites, blacks, browns and grays. I would like to look at the world as a gigantic impressionist painting full of life: of horror and beauty, of debilitating sorrow and enervating joy, of depth not superficiality, and of life as it is meant to be lived and enjoyed like an old fashioned medieval feast.
That reminds me, for almost thirty years we were known as colored, until one fine day, just as reestablishing certain political boundaries, we were given the joyous news that we were no longer colored. The powers that be probably expected us to go jumping for joy, screaming, “Hallelujah!” Funny, nobody ever did, or not to my knowledge. Maybe, it was not such a big deal after all. By the way, there was a strange interpretation of this new freedom, depending on the country we resided in, we were now either white or Asian-Americans. All of a sudden, it was decided that if they have an “accaint,” and they come from the same continent, they must be the same people. Euphemism, after all, is a wonderful blanket that covers up for a lot of nothing. Unless of course, somebody had a bit too much liquor, and then we quickly reverted to the “bleeping wogs who steal our jobs and our women.” Suffice is to say, I still say I am colored, and I can prove it by the many shades I have. At least, it is easier to prove color, than the lack of it. After all, if you have a little black and a whole lot of white, you are still colored.
Talking of color takes me back to another era. Maybe I dreamt about this, but years back, there were constant references, quite contemptuously, to people with part Native American ancestry as “breeds.” Time and the systematic elimination of the Native American have now taken a different turn. Today, most white men, whether they have any red blood in them or not, will proudly introduce themselves as part Cherokee or Cheyenne. As I said, time certainly changes one’s perspective, doesn’t it? The color bar is also flexible in some cases. I mean, in South Africa, under apartheid, the Japanese were given temporary white citizenship!!! Business can be a strong motivator for changing principles. And, look at the new classification of the Arabs and the Israelis as white, talk about the Emperor wearing no clothes.
I mean, did I miss something here, or is the world wacky?
Riaz Sahibzada
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Sickly Weeds
Sickly Weeds?
Without fail, every morning I wake up, grasp my cup of coffee and sit on my deck. As the first gulp of scalding hot mocha hits my system, from a grouchy pachyderm, I become a tolerable human being. Then, stretching out in a deck chair, I enjoy the lover-like kisses of the early morning zephyrs and the smell of the lush greenery -- although, for a while, last summer, the lawns looked as if they had taken the brunt of a major brushfire. The powerful effect of the summer morning troika: time, place, and coffee, speeds up the metamorphosis from the early morning caveman syndrome into the final product that is Sahib.
Now I can look at my neighbors on both sides without a shred of malice or an iota of envy. Their lawns are thick, luscious, and so beautifully manicured. It is an obsession with them, but you know what the psychologists have to say about that! Anal fixation, right! They invest time, money, and backbreaking effort in trying to maintain the façade of a beautiful lawn. Why is it that humans always have a love affair with the weak and the useless? Grass is green; I give you that. However, how is it any better than weeds? First, weeds are survivors; they are tough. One can try as hard as possible, but weeds can take a licking and keep coming back for more. You would think that humans would be proud of weeds; they are inexpensive, green, and tough as all-get-out. Perhaps, more than anything else, it is their toughness that seems to irk us so much. After all, we do not go out into the woods and simply destroy the weeds. No! Looking at the beautiful natural landscape of the world around us, we savor every moment of it. In nature, everything is lovely. We never say to ourselves: Man! That bright yellow flower does not go very well with that purple colored one. But, get us to talking about clothes and decorating ideas, and we are adamant that reds would not do, or any other color that appears to raise the flag for us. Am I missing something here? What makes a decorator say that one color will do, and another will not. I do not seem to see them question God (Or maybe, I am not privy to their conversation with Him).Without fail, every morning I wake up, grasp my cup of coffee and sit on my deck. As the first gulp of scalding hot mocha hits my system, from a grouchy pachyderm, I become a tolerable human being. Then, stretching out in a deck chair, I enjoy the lover-like kisses of the early morning zephyrs and the smell of the lush greenery -- although, for a while, last summer, the lawns looked as if they had taken the brunt of a major brushfire. The powerful effect of the summer morning troika: time, place, and coffee, speeds up the metamorphosis from the early morning caveman syndrome into the final product that is Sahib.
Pardon me Master, but I do not think it was right to have made the sky azure blue. Shouldn’t there have been a touch more of aqua to it, or even a hint of cobalt? And the desert, definitely more camel beige! There is too much pink in it, too Victorian; it clashes with the skin of the people. Come on!
So why do we have this thing against weeds? I say, let them remain and it will be easier on everyone’s pocket. Besides, they do grow everywhere; maybe they will grow on us also.
When I read this to my wife, she had a real chuckle over it. Then putting her hands on her hips, she looked me in the eye and said: “Write what you want, but I want my lawn like the neighbors.”
Ah! Well! You can’t win them all.
Riaz Sahibzada
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