Anything at all

A lot of people in Berlin lament the fact that their city has now been “discovered” by the international artistic community - that you are more likely to meet an Israeli or an American on a night out than an actual Berliner. Mention the construction of the new airport that will accommodate Trans-Atlantic flights, and they visibly cringe. I don’t blame them. If people discover Berlin, then Berlin will become more expensive, and if Berlin becomes more expensive, the singers, performance artists and writers who have come here in droves will have to get day jobs…and then Berlin will be just like where they came from.

Since nobody in Berlin really works, there is a lot of nightlife which means you are never far from a party, or at least a warm place to drink. The fact that there are thousands of artists trying to escape from themselves means that these places are always full. It is, however, important to know at least one person with a real job - if only to buy you a beer from time to time.

I consider myself extremely fortunate because not only do I know someone who is gainfully employed, he is a friend of mine from High School. Ming Vu (not his real name) and I were the only out gay kids in school, and while you may think this would have been a big deal in the mid 90’s, it wasn’t for us. You see, my parents - in an act of atonement for their bourgeois existence - decided to send me to the worst school in Winnipeg. Actually, it was a wonderful place and I received an excellent education, but when half of the student population is strung out on glue from the art room and the other half has just gotten out of juvenile detention, the sexual preferences of a couple of nerdy kids with glasses is not front page news. At the very least, nobody is going to care whose picture you put on your locker. In my case it was an artful collage of Matthew McConaughey. I have better taste now.

I am still amazed at our brazenness back then. When we were 16, Ming and I used to go to the gay bar, which was precisely 1 block from school – a fact that amused us to no end. (To this day I don’t know where I learned more.) Where the straight boys stole porn from the smoke shop on Donald Street, Ming and I bought ours outright – even though we were clearly under age. I guess we figured the cashier would be too shocked and uncomfortable to tell us we weren’t allowed to buy Mandate. We were right.

Of course, I never thought I was going to see Ming again.

After High School we went our separate ways. Ming became a pharmacist and I became a handful, but after seeing him I am happy to report that we have both become more like ourselves, which is an achievement and a victory of sorts. Last night, we met for a beer with some of his friends in Prenzlauer Berg and I asked him how he had the energy to go out clubbing every night and still get up for work in the morning. He told me that his job was pretty boring – mostly reading spreadsheets and compiling reports. He said that he had quite a pleasant life and enjoyed his work, but that it didn’t define him.

“Be thankful you’re not creative” - I said - “it’s hell!”

My witticism elicited some knowing looks from the assembled crowd, for it was “word fag night” – a weekly gathering of literary folk who translate and teach and interpret. John, a doctoral student in Victorian history, clutched his artfully tied kaffiyeh to his breast and pretended to faint. I thought it was an appropriate gesture, given his field of study.

Ming just smiled and told me that if I ever needed anything - anything at all that I could just call him up.

I think I might just do that.

Thesis Statement

For Deb….Long may she reign!

Last night I had dinner with a couple of German academics. No, I was not forced. I was, however, relieved: it was one of the few evenings I have spent with intellectuals where they did not try to eat me. One of the academics studies the cultural implications of public service announcements in the Weimar Republic, and the other the cultural implications of keyboard music in Restoration England. Together, they explore the cultural implications of their relationship, which last night meant groping each other under the table.

I love how academics find an obscure atoll of expertise and seize it. Like modern-day conquistadores, they plant their flag on the shores of knowledge and shout to all and sundry in the full refulgence of their superior intellect: “Now know this: I hereby claim post-colonial feminist readings of Milton in perpetuity.” I would tell them that nobody’s listening, but that would be rude.

Like most people, have listened to academics on occasion – sometimes out of politeness, sometimes because I paid for the privilege, but mostly it was in the absence of an accessible fire escape. I have heard highly developed minds expound on a wide variety of subjects, none of which I remember presently. What I do know is that I have never heard an academic discus his or her thesis. By this I mean that I have never heard an academic actually tell me what their thesis was about. I find this peculiar, as one’s thesis usually has to with 1) oneself or 2), one’s field, and I have rarely met an academic who shies away from discussing either. Don’t get me wrong - they talk about their theses all the time, but the discourse is usually couched in phrases like “when I wrote my thesis I took lithium” or “my thesis destroyed my marriage” or the perennial favorite - “My thesis adviser is a cross between Machiavelli and Hitler”.

All of this makes me wonder if academic studies are not really the pursuit of higher learning for the general advancement of society, but rather some form of self-inflicted torture. Of course, there are many academics who do not consider the completion of a doctorate to resemble the trials of the damned, but they are usually straight men or scientists - and who cares about them? In truth, I think many academics don’t talk about their theses (rhymes with…) because they are traumatized by the experience of writing them. In fact, when I was young, I actually thought that The Thesis was some form of disease - like The Flu or, The Plague. You see, my mother decided to move to a remote Aboriginal community in northern Manitoba, have two children and then compose a 1000 page treatise exploring the relationship between cubist art and modernist literature.

We are still asking each other why.

In my experience, The Thesis has recognizable symptoms: long periods spent at a desk followed by a curious kind of mania which results in an exquisitely clean house and experiments in Indonesian cooking…tears… The Thesis skews logic: Many evenings - before going out - my mother would calmly inform the babysitter that if there were a fire….that if there were a fire, the first priority would be to save the green bag that contained her research. The second priority would be to see to the children. I wondered what could possibly cause my own mother to value the welfare of a sack of papers above my own. Then I remembered: The Thesis. In the still small voice of a child, I prayed to a benevolent God: “Please, deliver us from The Thesis…let us know peace once more.”

My prayers were soon answered. One day, after working for a year without a single day off, my mother emerged from her makeshift basement office ringed by a halo of cigarette smoke. I would say she looked like a prophet, but I have the feeling that my mother would be offended by a description based in androcentric patriarchal hegemony. On the other hand, she might see the use of the word prophet as a reclamation of sorts. It is hard to tell . It would also be apt to say that she resembled Joan Baez on Quaaludes.

In any event, I knew something special was happening because I was allowed to have any toy I wanted at Woolco. Even better, I got to ride in the shopping cart as mom danced with it in the aisles- humming along with the muzak and emitting a strange form of guttural laughter.

It was at that moment I knew we were free.

Our freedom was short lived, however. A few months later, mom decided to enter Academia. For those of you who don’t know, Academia is a network of institutions designed for people whose theses have gone into remission, only to come back a few months later in a more virulent strain….but that’s another story.

Postscript:

I still remember the day The Thesis arrived at the cottage. It was a pleasant summer afternoon, and we were sitting on the patio – drinking. The Thesis was stunning - bound in a deep hunter green with gold writing. Being a scholarly work, it was suitably heavy – but it also had an elegant slimness which I still find appealing. In fact, I think The Thesis would look lovely in a wood-paneled library with a fireplace and overstuffed club chairs. Mom’s friend Nancy picked up a copy and slurred

“Debbie, what the hell is this about?”

My mom started laughing and replied

“Nancy, I have no fucking idea”.

WIEEEEE HEISSSSEEENNNN SIE?

It is funny how each time you go back to school, the shine on the apple wears off a little earlier than the last time. I realized this at my very first German class a couple of weeks ago....There I was with my newly purchased notebook and color-coded flashcards (green for grammar!). I felt sort of chic because I had chosen a language school that was chiefly populated by refugees. I was eager to decline verbs with my fellow citizens of the world...we could help each other with our homework....they would invite me to their homes where I would listen to their stories and apologize for my bourgeois colonializing existence.

It was 8:59 and my teacher - appropriately named Herr Fundament - entered the room.
I had a feeling that something was wrong when he introduced himself....

"ICH.....HEEEEIIIISSSEEE (he is pointing to himself and writing on the blackboard in giant block letters)....HERRRRR TORRRRRSTEN FUUUUUNDAMENT..... Okay - he must think that we're really dumb, because this is supposed to be the intermediate class.... I even took a battery of tests to make sure I was in the right place. I got 52 percent, which meant that I was at the very bottom of the cut off score for intermediate, and the woman made me take the test AGAIN so she could be sure to put me in the right place. She just wasn't sure, you see, and it would have been impossible for her to make a decision that was not based on empirical data.....

So if I am in the intermediate class, why do I feel like I am in kindergarten?

"WIEEEEEE.....HEEEISSSSEEN...SIEEEEEE? " Her Fundament gestures to a woman in a burqa:

"Ich ....ch....ch...eise......Maryam"
"GUUUUUUTTTTT.....WOOOOOHHHEERRRRR....KOMMMEN SIE?
"Ich komme ....aus Palestine"
"AAAAHHHH....PALESTINA....GUUUUUUUT" - intones Herr Fundament.

I am in a German class with Palestinians.

Her Fundament points to a nervous looking man eating chocolate....
"WIEEEEEEEEEEEE....HEEEEISSSSEN....SIEEEEEEEEEEEE"
"Ich heisse Pavel....komme aus Polen"
"GUUUUUUUUUUT"

I am in a German class with Palestinians and Poles.

Herr Fundament points to me..... "WIE.....HEEEEIIIIISSSEEN....SIE?"
"Ich heisse Ben"
"AAAHHHH...GUUUUUT.....NACHNAME?"
"Schnitzer"
"AAAAH....SCHNITZER....DAS IST EIN RICHTIGES DEUTCHES NAME!!! GUUUT!"

I am in a German class with Palestinians and Poles. The teacher thinks I am German. Is this a joke?

In a way, it was. It turns out that the administration had placed me in the beginner class by mistake. When I asked them (in German) why they had done this, they indicated that the adjudicator of the placement exam had clearly marked on the registration form that I was to be placed in course A1. When I explained to them that I had used complete sentences and several verb tenses to register for a course that was designed for people who had no prior knowledge of the German language -- that this might have been a clue that the adjudicator had made a mistake, they told me that it was not their place to ask questions: If the adjudicator thought it was appropriate for me to be placed in the beginner's course she must have had her reasons. Punkt.

One wonders aloud how history might have been different if the Germans had asked questions....like "where are the Silvermans going?".

But let's not dwell on the past. The administration duly registered me in the intermediate class, and I began my studies in earnest the next day. They did not apologize for their error, but I didn't mind. I was just happy they didn't make me take another test.

A few days later I was in the lobby of the conservatory waiting for my lesson. I bumped into Patrick - a fellow tenor. We study with the same teacher. He is very nice and personable, but understated-- qualities you find in a lot of German people. I find this rather unnerving. I am suspicious of how well adjusted they are...why aren't they self-deprecating, sarcastic and cagey like I am?

"What is your last name?" asks Patrick....
"Schnitzer"
"Ah, so you are German"
"No"
"But someone in your family is German"
"No"
"But somebody in your family must have taught you German, because you speak German pretty well....and then there's your name."
"My family is from Poland"
"So you are Polish?"
"Yes...and no..."

And then Patrick gets it

"Ah...are you, perhaps, from a Hebrew family?"
"Yes"
"Ah...I see, but your family - they obviously survived..."

etc.

And therein lies the answer. If you had to go through this every time you introduced yourself you would be a little cagey yourself. Sometimes I just want to have a card - like the blind people who sell pens at the mall... I could hand it out to people:

"Hello, my name is Ben Schnitzer. I am not German, even though my name is German. Funny, right? You are probably wondering if I am....you know....Jewish. I am. My family comes from Poland, and I am Polish too, but not a Pole. And no, my family did not survive the war. Well, obviously some of them did because otherwise I would not be here. How are you?"

...or I could just wear a burqa...

Present Perfect

I have decided to learn German. Finding myself presently situated in Berlin, it would seem like a prudent idea to do so. Actually, my friends consider me to be pretty good with languages - truth be told. Why only this summer I ordered dinner for a party of eight in Italian at a restaurant in Rome and everybody got exactly what they ordered. Don’t laugh – this is a major accomplishment in Italy. My proficiency was duly remarked upon, and I responded that I was not really fluent in Italian, but rather spoke “restaurant” – a sprinkling of different languages that lends you an air of sophistication when dining out and prevents you from being served something odious - unless you ordered it. In my case, I think my particular skill was due to my obsession with food rather than any aptitude for Italian.

However, I must remark that ordering a meal in a language which you didn’t grow up speaking presents several challenges, for you must make yourself understood without employing those embarrassing gesticulations which encourage the locals to think that you are in some way mentally incapacitated, or worse, a tourist. (I am speaking here of obstacles encountered by non-native speakers of any particular language: If you cannot order a meal nicely in your mother tongue, stay home.)

For example, say you find yourself in a civilized restaurant and you see something that you absolutely must try. To point at the menu and blurt out “I want that” would be rude. Rather, you should consider such an occasion the perfect opportunity to employ your nuanced understanding of the conditional tense, like so:

I would very much like to order the fricassee of infant.

Doesn’t that sound better? Now, if you were unclear or imprecise in your speech, you may not receive what you ordered. When confronted with this unfortunate situation, it is useful to know the past perfect – as well as the imperative:

Excuse me, but I believe there has been a mistake. I ordered the fricassee of infant, but this is clearly an adolescent stew. Please bring me what I ordered.

If you still have not received what you have ordered, or they tell you they are out of that particular dish – in this case fricassee of infant - it would be wise to familiarize yourself with both the past conditional and the future perfect:

I would have liked to have ordered the fricassee of infant, but it appears you are all out of it. In that case, I will have the barbequed toddler surprise…with a nice glass of Chianti.

If you apply these few simple suggestions to the language of your choice, you will soon find yourself possessing all the skills you need to eat well in any country. As your comfort grows, so will your confidence, and you will soon find yourself engaging in scintillating conversation with vital people the world over. At the very least, your waiter will be grateful for your efforts.

At this point it must be said that one of the frustrating things about studying languages is learning grammar. This is especially true these days as we live in an age where grammar of any sort is no longer taught in school. The time which was once spent on teaching children to spell properly and compose sentences is now used to teach them “creative writing”. I believe the results speak for themselves. In any event, many of the terms I have used may be unfamiliar to you. For this reason I am including a lexicon of grammatical terms of my own design for your reference.

Present tense: Current state of anxiety

Past tense: Before yoga and therapy.

Conditional tense: Tension which is dependant on proximity to one’s mother

Future tense: This is conditional

Future perfect: Hindered by an excess of the present tense.

Past perfect: This does not exist. It never did. Get over it.

Simple past: Wasn’t it though?

Simple perfect: Yes it is.

Now what does any of this have to do with learning German? I don’t know. I just started talking about languages, and now I find myself completely off topic – a complaint which has been made about my “creative writing” since I was in Grade 2. I remember my report card quite clearly: “Ben has a very active imagination, but his work is rather nebulous. For example, he wrote a composition about space which lacked clarity and detail”. I was – even then – quite offended. Of course I wrote a non-specific composition about space because space by its very nature lacks clarity and detail. That is why it is called space.

Another time I thought it might be fun to write a series of public service announcements from farm animals asking readers not to kill them. The other kids thought I was weird. I was. One day I taped the name tag from the Wandering Jew plant to my shirt and spent the morning walking around the school asking the teachers where I should go. I was seven. When the other children called me a nerd, I just told them they were being anally retentive. I didn’t know what it meant, but that’s what my mom said about people she didn’t like. I got to go to the guidance counselor for that one.

My finest moment was in Grade 5 when I dressed up in drag for Halloween. I wore white high heeled shoes and a lovely hat, but my feet were killing me. Seeing that I was in pain, one of my friends asked me if I was okay. My reply: “You have to suffer to be beautiful”.

This adage, by the way, does not only apply to shoes, although pretty shoes do hurt more. It has to do with having the courage of your convictions come what may. And so I guess this is all about learning German after all, or learning anything for that matter.…the present perfect comes to mind.

“You Gotta Fight… for your Right… to Party”

One of the exciting new developments at the Komische Oper in Berlin is that you can now view the surtitles on the back of the seat in front of you. This means that you do not have to strain yourself to view the running commentary projected onto the top of the proscenium arch. This is the case at most other opera houses, and accounts for the preponderance of stiff-necked people at the opera.

The Komische Opera – one of Berlin’s 3 fully functioning opera houses – performs everything in German, the idea being that the work - to be rendered accessible - should be sung in the language of Das Volk.

Presumably this artistic decision would make surtitles redundant. However, opera – regardless of the language in which it is sung – is incomprehensible at the best of the times. This is a good thing: most opera libretti are embarrassingly bad.

This was not the case with last night’s offering – a newly composed operatic version of Hamlet by Christian Jost. Shakespeare offers the opera composer an immunity of sorts – even if the music and production values are horrible at least you cannot fault the text. Perhaps this explains the fact that there are literally hundreds of operas based on the Bard’s works, but only a handful performed on a regular basis. Of these precious few, only two are acknowledged as equal to the original plays – Verdi’s settings of Otello and Falstaff.

So where does this leave Hamlet by Christian Jost? - Somewhere in the vast middle, not that it matters. I will probably never see this piece again, which is in no way a reflection of its artistic value. Last night the number of people performing the work outnumbered the audience by a significant margin. Not so long ago, the premiere of a new opera was often greeted by mass euphoria, or at the very least general interest. Nowadays the best that can be hoped for are polite applause followed by some earnest discussions in the remotest circles of intellectual bohemia – where I now find myself.

In Berlin I often feel as though I am one of those people who got to the party just a little bit too late…sure, there are people milling about and the vibe is still pretty good, but you get the definite sensation that things are on the downswing – that in an hour’s time the DJ will have packed up and you will find yourself waiting for a cab in the cold.

For now at least, on this island, the party is still going strong. The DJ is spinning and there are lots of interesting people to meet. You can call up your friend and go to a different opera every night of the week. You can wear a tux or a pair of jeans – or a combination of the two. You can dye your hair green and wear leather chaps and nobody will care. This cultural bounty and this tolerance – Berlin’s greatest gifts to the world - have been hard won and have only come about after years of brutality and repression.

It is up to us to ensure that art and tolerance continue. It is up to us to ensure that there will always be a party to go to, and more importantly, that we will all be able to attend.