Of course, this being Berkeley, two elder women, white with gray hair, exited ahead of me, talking loudly:

“Well, there were so many problems…with the wardrobe. I mean, really! First, Irina’s dress wasn’t pressed.”

“No, really?”

“Yes, not pressed since the last performance. Second, the soldier’s leather straps were all twisted up. A top notch performance would not let the soldiers go on stage, with their straps all twisted like that…”

I crossed the street to avoid them and shivered in the cool East Bay night, savoring the chilled air and the opening lines to Pushkin’s poem Ruslan and Ludmila that Masha repeatedly cites.

A green oak grows by a curving shore.
And on that oak a gold chain hangs;
And on that oak a gold chain hangs.

I woke up this morning with a burning desire to go to Moscow.

So, the play by Chekhov takes place in a rural Russian town, circa the mid-1800s. Rachel Steinberg, in the program notes to Berkeley Rep’s production, explained that Chekhov probably modeled his story on Perm, an industrial center based on metal and salt mining, some 800 miles north of Moscow. She goes on to provide a historical context for the play.

Three Sisters begins at the dawn of a new era following half a century of Russian history marked by upheaval and change. In 1855, in the middle of a Crimean War stalemate that was draining Russia’s troops and economy, Nicholas I died, leaving his son in power. Alexander II soon admitted defeat in the war, losing land, rights, and, as many thought, the nation’s dignity. After the treaty was signed, Alexander II set out to quash a rumored peasant uprising and to quell fury in the city over the high price of goods due to his father’s wartime taxes. These Great Reforms were intended, most of all, to restore Russia’s reputation as a great and powerful empire.

Perhaps none of these reforms was to shape the course of the century (and the fate of his Romanov descendants) more than the 1861 emancipation of the serfs. Prior to emancipation, the 23 million serfs, who made up a third of the population and half of the peasantry, were bound to serve the owners of the land they occupied. Landowners had a variety of significant powers. For instance, they could restrict a serf’s movement or forbid his marriage. If a serf had a child, that child was to obey the same restrictions and share the same loyalties as his or her father.

Theoretically, the emancipation was a landmark ruling. In practice, however, the former serfs experienced anything but freedom. They inherited the least fertile of the land—and that’s only when they could afford it. Having no savings of their own, the peasants were forced to accept mortgages to be repaid over a period of 49 years. Furthermore, land was sold not to individual peasants but to communities that would then distribute the land to their inhabitants based on household size. Because of this distribution policy, the peasant population grew tremendously, from 50 to 79 million between 1861 and 1897. Freed from their landlords, the peasant class was instead similarly indebted and tied, only this time to a community rather than to an individual.

This sounds a lot like the experience of freed slaves, post Civil War, who lacked ownership and access to means of ownership, that the amazing Mistinguette Smith and Danyelle O’Hara talked about in the Black/Land Project.

So, lots of social and political changes were afoot during this time. The landed gentry had their privilege and entitlement challenged by a rising middle class, some former peasants, who would later, as the century went on, find work in factories in the industrial cities.

Before leaving work yesterday, I whispered to a colleague that I was going to see a Chekhov play. She replied, “Oh!” with a knowing inflection. I wondered if she was making a remark on Chekhov as a chronicler of the Russian bourgeoisie, their love lives and tribulations. This play was no exception. We learn about the yearnings of the three sisters—Olga, Masha, and Irina—all fluent in at least three languages, an “unnecessary luxury”, as Masha put it, or “unnecessary addition, like a sixth finger”. This family of three sisters and one brother (who inspired nothing but contempt in me in how he cowed to his wife Natasha) with their “great deal of superfluous knowledge”, what place is there for them in this new Russia?

Irina, the youngest, is obsessed with labor and right livelihood.

We must work, work and work. The reason we are unhappy and look on life so gloomily is that we don’t know how to work.

The Baron, infatuated with Irina, echoed her sentiment.

I intend to work. Just for one day of my life to work so wholeheartedly that I can come home in the evening, tumble exhausted into bed and fall asleep there and then. Workers, surely, must sleep soundly!

As far as I can make out, the lot of them in this play subsist off of pensions or military salaries, drink vodka and cognac during the day, and dance to carolers at night. And, “philosophize.”

None work. Not having obligations to subsist from, Chebutykin (the doctor) questioned whether he even existed, because of his lack of a livelihood, or the pressing need for one.

God damn the whole lot of them. God damn them. They thought, because I am a doctor, I can therefore treat all ailments, but I know absolutely nothing, I have forgotten everything, which I knew, and I don’t remember a thing, not a single thing. God damn them. Last Wednesday I was treating a woman in Zasip – she went and died, and I was responsible that she had died. Yes… I knew something or other twenty-five years ago, but now I don’t remember anything. Nothing. It may be that I do not exist as a man, that I just give the appearance of having arms and legs and a head; it may be that I do not exist at all, but it only appears to me that I walk, eat and sleep.

Vershinin, the self-appointed “philosopher” and Masha’s love interest, does finally say something quite profound towards the end.

You know, if we could only add education to a love of hard work, and a love of hard work to education.

Funny, I remembered him saying “if we could only add art to a love of hard work, and a love of hard work to art” last night.

I am recalling a conversation I had with Julie Henly of the University of Chicago on how work is defined and what is excluded from that definition. This was in the context of attending a UCLA Labor Center conference on long-term unemployment and the need for job creation. So, as progressives, we advocate for full employment and job creation, especially during this time of recession, when certain populations (people of color, women, those without a college degree, and the formerly incarcerated) have a harder time finding sustainable livelihoods. But, what work are we advocating for?

Julie talked about how carework isn’t paid work, like parents raising their children or adult children helping their elder parents. Early feminists like Nancy Folbre, she said, wrote about revaluing unpaid carework as a strategy to create new demand in our labor market.

What about arts, music, poetry, dance, and writing? If we compensated everyone and anyone who had a passion to create, how much more beauty would we have? How many more young people would grow up, aspiring to be a poet or a sculptor or a butoh dancer? Can we expand paid work to include artistic labor?

Across cultures, fairy tales and myths are used to teach children the normative values of a society. Stories follow a similar template: the main character is a child that listeners can identify with. There are fantastical creatures, some good, others evil. There is a moral challenge of some sort, a test of a child’s adherence to values, which may threaten the sanctity of the world in an epic battle of good versus evil. Hansel and Gretel leave home and risk being dinner for a witch. The Little Red Riding Hood learns not to talk to strangers or grandmothers with big teeth. Poor, orphaned Cinderella can marry the prince, as long as the shoe fits.

Harry Potter is no different. But, it’s the values it preaches that begs for a closer look. This is the most popular book and movie series of our times, engaging both children and adults globally, and making J.K. Rowling a very rich lady. I’ve always been struck at how dark its view of childhood is, seen through Harry’s eyes. He is orphaned as a child, his parents killed by an evil wizard who threatens to bring the wizarding world into the Dark Side. His Muggle relatives—a delightful poke at the British bourgeoisie—force Harry to live in a crawl space under the stairs. This is the universal child of all fairy tales: unloved, alone, and neglected, but a true king/princess/wizard/genius hidden within.

Saved by Dumbledore and whisked away to Hogwarts, the world gets more menacing. Portals to the alternative universe are everywhere but hidden to humans. The wizarding world has odd creatures, magicians cloaked in dark shawls whispering incantations, and there’s always an edge of danger mixed in with the fantastical. Even at school, the castle is filled with hidden rooms, mirrors that show truths, memories captured in capsules, portraits that talk back, and staircases that constantly shift like an M. Escher print. The feasts of ice cream, cookies, and cake are grotesque, a childhood fantasy gone terribly wrong, and a stomachache soon to follow. In the forests, at the periphery of the school’s grounds, live giants, centaurs, and shadows of the evil Lord Voldemort.

So, there’s the genre of myths and cautionary tales that Harry Potter falls into. The other is boarding school narrative. These are coming of age stories, usually of an outsider plucked out of her surroundings (colony or poverty), and sent to the center of empire to be schooled to become imperial technocrats. I’m thinking about Gandhi traveling alone to England to study law, uncertain of his English, and ashamed to eat in the dining hall because he didn’t know how to use a knife and fork. What do the aspiring wizards at Hogwarts do upon graduation? I doubt it’s to return to the Muggle world to work as dentists. What order of wizardry are they employed to serve?

Once a month, a movement courses through the streets of Los Angeles. Moving together, in solidarity, Black cyclists are spurred forward by the revolutions of their wheels. Each individual coming together to join the flood that takes over the streets. Their momentum stirs the air, setting in motion a gale that blows clear across the Internet to other locales like Brooklyn, New York. Biking will never be the same.

Freedom Rides, as the organized bicycle rides for the Black community are known, was started by James Spooner. The rides draw about a dozen riders of varying ages and backgrounds; women outnumber the men. Controversy also flares around the ride, as members of L.A.’s fixed gear community attacked the “segregated bike rides” as “racist”, asking if “this ride is a joke”.

James is no stranger to asking difficult questions about race and racial identity. “Race is a complex issue and you have to break some eggs”, he explained recently, over the phone. He authored the documentary Afropunk about Blacks in the punk scene and a semi-autobiographical narrative, White Lies Black Sheep, about a Black youth in search of himself in the white rock and roll world. Both films explore the double consciousness people of color experience in a predominantly white subculture.

The only Black or Brown person at a rock show. You sense that you are estranged, within yourself, from the language and culture you were raised in, as well as from your white peers, who consider you as their token friend of color. You are still the Other.

White kids have a ride. So do women. Why can’t we? Join the fifth Freedom Ride this Sunday at 1pm. The starting point changes monthly so the riders can explore different parts of the city. This Sunday’s ride starts at the Vons parking lot at the corner of Fairfax and Pico, pays homage to Michael Jackson at the dead pop star’s house, and ends with a meal at a Black-owned restaurant. Check the Freedom Ride’s Facebook Group for details.

FREEDOM RIDES 2009 (Los Angeles) from Tara Conley on Vimeo.

A dissertation should be written on the sociology of board games, if there hasn’t been one already.

Recently, I had to do some research on board games for a report.  I studied two games: LIFE from the 1990s and MONOPOLY, bubble economy version from 2006.  It was VERY interesting the social norms enforced in both.  LIFE assumed that your goal was to die rich and retire at Millionaire Estates, along the way you may encounter troubles like contracting Moo-shu flu, etc.

Monopoly, the mega edition, from two years ago was bigger, badder, and faster.  Why be limited to buying railroads, when you could get the whole depot?  Money starts at $1000 bills.  Instead of modest, square green plastic houses, you can upgrade to a shiny, silver skyscraper.

I also saw themed Monopoly, one based around M&M’s, another around dogs, and yet another around Disney characters.  I can’t possible imagine what that is supposed to socialize one to be.

The game that I would write?  Tent City!  You, a young person of color, screwed over by the public school system, unable to find a job.  Out of money.  Out of alternatives.  Desperate.  Roll the dice and see if you can land yourself land to pitch a tent.  Or, hack your way into a foreclosed property and tap into electric lines and water systems.  Extra points for players who start their own community of squatters or who refused to be moved.

In our domestic universe, this web of energy flow was replicated in our caravan that steadily made its way from New York City to the Bay Area.  The animals were not represented, in our case, two by two other than the felines, but our food chain was complete with primary producer – a friend’s son’s hamster – and larger consumers, including said felines and large white dog.  No one was hurt, except one busted tire on the Interstate 80 two miles outside of Salt Lake City, no bodily part was missing nor eaten.  We all emerged, weary but unscathed, on the other side of the country after six days of journeying across the highways and rest stations of America.

Some random observations from our six-day trip:

• Driving sucks.
• Driving a 15-year old Volvo doubly sucks.
• Driving with a hamster entrusted in your care, two felines, and a large white dog makes for an, erm, interesting trip.
• Cheyenne, WY is worth a closer look.
• As well as Salt Lake City, UT. Never knew there were so many tattooed ski bums there.
• A good balanced meal filled with primary producers can be had, if one must, at Taco Bell.

We made it.  Rather, we have made it.  This is a two-month too-late post, as we’ve now arrived, settled, and prospered in our new domicile in Berkeley, California.  Perhaps I’m too ambitious in saying prospered.  Adapting is more like it.

Aspects of our adaptation:

• We are wearing fitness clothes more, everywhere, especially when not engaged in physical activity.
• I spend a fortune on Bart daily, which is IMHO not affordable nor publicly subsidized transportation.  I have learned a trick for avoiding the queue to enter the train: act apologetically surprised.  “Oh, I didn’t realize you were all waiting on line!”  This is a city of passive aggressives, they will be politely dismayed at you, but you still score a seat during rush hour.
• I am encountering persons of the hippie persuasion, and developing an allergic reaction to the dominant ethic of white liberalism here.
• I lack knowledge and a framework for how to understand the poverty, racial tensions, gentrification and displacement that I see here.
• I love the farmers’ markets, despite the preponderance of afore-mentioned white hippies.
• I am in love with the flora and fauna out here. I love that lavender and dahlias grow and thrive under my care.

I’m sure more will follow on my attempts to ingratiate myself into my new surroundings.  For now, I leave you with my current obsession: strategic essentialism.  I’ve been thinking about this, a lot, lately.  Michael Omi and Howard Winant write in Racial Formation in the U.S.: From the 1960s to the 1990s (Routledge, 1994):

Members of subordinate racial groups, when faced with racist practices such as exclusion or discrimination, are frequently forced to band together in order to defend their interests (if not, in some instances, their very lives).  Such “strategic essentialism” should not, however, be simply equated with the essentialism practiced by dominant groups, nor should it prevent the interrogation of internal group differences.