Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Saturday, October 13, 2007
What a lifelong passion can do
Cofounder of Equipo Argentino de Antropologia Forense
receives MacArthur Genius Grant
From the NY Times:
"I was almost in tears," said Mercedes Doretti, 48, co-founder of the Argentine Forensic Anthropology Team, which in 1984 began to investigate cases of people who disappeared in Argentina during the former military dictatorship [1976-1983] and which has expanded its work to 30 countries.
(Do the math: She started her life's work at the age of 25. How lucky to discover such a passion, and to have a lifetime to build on it.)
Some history from the EAAF website:
EAAF members Fondebrider and Bernardi working at a mass grave, Sector 134, Avellaneda, Argentina. Photo by M.Doretti/EAAF.
In early 1984, CONADEP and the Grandmothers of Plaza de Mayo, a non-governmental human rights organization searching for children that disappeared with their parents, requested assistance from Mr. Eric Stover, then-director of the Science and Human Rights Program at American Association for the Advancement of Science (AAAS).
Stover organized a delegation of forensic experts to travel to Argentina, where they found several hundred exhumed, unidentified skeletons stored in plastic bags in dusty storerooms at several medical legal institutes. Many bags held the bones of more than one individual. The delegation called for an immediate halt to exhumations.
Among the AAAS delegation members was Dr. Clyde Snow, one of the world's foremost experts in forensic anthropology. Dr. Snow called on archaeologists, anthropologists and physicians to begin exhumations and analysis of skeletal remains using traditional archaeological and forensic anthropology techniques.
EAAF is among the groups that pioneered the application of forensic sciences to the documentation of human rights violations.
In 1986, the team began expanding its activities beyond Argentina and has since worked in nearly thirty countries throughout the Americas, Asia, Africa and Europe.
A guiding principle for the team since its foundation has been to maintain the utmost respect for the wishes of victims' relatives and communities concerning the investigations, and to work closely with them through all stages of exhumation and identification processes.
We are keenly aware that the identification of remains are a great source of solace to families suffering from trauma caused by having a loved one "disappeared."
From the site's press release:
Doretti believes the prestigious award will give more legitimacy to the forensic scientists working in human rights investigations worldwide.
In addition, Doretti believes that the distinction supports the right of families of victims of human rights violations to independent forensic investigations in their search for truth and justice.
receives MacArthur Genius Grant
From the NY Times:
"I was almost in tears," said Mercedes Doretti, 48, co-founder of the Argentine Forensic Anthropology Team, which in 1984 began to investigate cases of people who disappeared in Argentina during the former military dictatorship [1976-1983] and which has expanded its work to 30 countries.
(Do the math: She started her life's work at the age of 25. How lucky to discover such a passion, and to have a lifetime to build on it.)
Some history from the EAAF website:
EAAF members Fondebrider and Bernardi working at a mass grave, Sector 134, Avellaneda, Argentina. Photo by M.Doretti/EAAF.
In early 1984, CONADEP and the Grandmothers of Plaza de Mayo, a non-governmental human rights organization searching for children that disappeared with their parents, requested assistance from Mr. Eric Stover, then-director of the Science and Human Rights Program at American Association for the Advancement of Science (AAAS).
Stover organized a delegation of forensic experts to travel to Argentina, where they found several hundred exhumed, unidentified skeletons stored in plastic bags in dusty storerooms at several medical legal institutes. Many bags held the bones of more than one individual. The delegation called for an immediate halt to exhumations.
Among the AAAS delegation members was Dr. Clyde Snow, one of the world's foremost experts in forensic anthropology. Dr. Snow called on archaeologists, anthropologists and physicians to begin exhumations and analysis of skeletal remains using traditional archaeological and forensic anthropology techniques.
EAAF is among the groups that pioneered the application of forensic sciences to the documentation of human rights violations.
In 1986, the team began expanding its activities beyond Argentina and has since worked in nearly thirty countries throughout the Americas, Asia, Africa and Europe.
A guiding principle for the team since its foundation has been to maintain the utmost respect for the wishes of victims' relatives and communities concerning the investigations, and to work closely with them through all stages of exhumation and identification processes.
We are keenly aware that the identification of remains are a great source of solace to families suffering from trauma caused by having a loved one "disappeared."
From the site's press release:
Doretti believes the prestigious award will give more legitimacy to the forensic scientists working in human rights investigations worldwide.
In addition, Doretti believes that the distinction supports the right of families of victims of human rights violations to independent forensic investigations in their search for truth and justice.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
How We Learn How to Learn
I am four years old and finally, finally four feet tall. That’s really tall for a four-year-old.
I have no doubt that, if I thought I could get away with it, I probably rose up on my toes a bit as my mother was measuring me. I have no doubt that, even if my mother noticed, she pretended not to.
Why all the fuss over four feet? That’s how tall you had to be to join the summer swim program: lessons in the morning, free swim in the afternoon.
I was Sibling Four-of-Six. All I wanted was to swim. All my mother wanted was a few hours of peace and quiet.
That’s how I found myself standing in the shallow end of the pool…
… where the water is four feet deep. I am hardly four feet tall at the top of my head, which puts my nose well under water.
I hang onto the side of the pool as long as I can. When the instructor lines us up in rows, I join everyone else at the center of the pool. They stand, awaiting further instruction. I hop up and down, grabbing sips of air.
This is odd, I think, but hey! I am in the water, and it feels great!
The instructor wants us to blow bubbles underwater. This is easy! I hop, sip, sink and blow. The instructor thinks I’m an old hand.
Next the instructor calls out, “Dead man’s float!”
I look over at my sister, do what she does. This is a talent little sisters have.
Now, the instructor says, we are going to learn the sidestroke. We get out of the pool and lay on the cement to practice.
“Pick an apple from a tree, exchange hands and throw it away.” We lie on our sides, chanting together, picking our apples and throwing them away. Throw! is the power stroke, where we kick and whoosh our arms and shout.
Very odd, but great fun! We work our legs like scissors, kicking each other and getting a little bloody cement burn on our hips.
Then we put it all together. The instructor walks among us, poking at us with her feet to correct our strokes. Finally it is time to do it for real.
We swim across the pool, two by two. I watch my sisters. I watch the other girls. In my head I am chanting. “Pick an apple from a tree... throw!
This is easy! This is fun! On solid ground I am a hopeless clutz, pulling and hauling around a body with a rebellious mind of its own.
Now I see: I was not born for earth. I was born for water.
I think maybe I am a mermaid.
Now it is my turn to show my stuff. I jump in, roll onto my side and push off, just like my sisters.
.
I reach for my apple--and sink like lead. That doesn’t stop me! I blow out bubbles as I throw it away.
I am on my side on the bottom of the pool, so I push off quick. When I surface, I sip air and pick another apple. This is easy! This is fun!
Sip pick sink push-and-throw sip pick sink push-and-throw! Who knew swimming would be so rhythmic and lovely? I am a mesmerized mermaid.
I am spending more time below the surface than I am above--again, very odd--but I don’t care. I’m nearly across the pool and finally when I reach up, I don’t find an apple but the cement wall.
I made it! I swam across the pool!
The instructor is waiting for me. She bends down. “How old are you?” she asks.
“I’m four feet tall!” I say.
“Are you an advanced beginner?” she asks suspiciously.
“I’m four feet tall!” I say.
“Do you have your advanced beginner card?”
I have no clue what she is talking about.
“Do you have your beginner card?”
“This is my first day,” I say.
“This is intermediate swimming,” she says. “Are you sure you belong in this class?”
“I can swim!” I say. I know I can, I just did.
The instructor calls the next girls into the pool. For the rest of the hour, I swim and swim and swim. We swim on our backs and our fronts and our sides. I do a lot of bouncing off the bottom of the pool.
I have found my place in the world. I was born to swim.
When the hour is over, the instructor crooks her finger at me.
“This is intermediate swimming,” she says. “You need to get signed up for beginners.”
“Oh yeah,” says Three-of-Six. “My mom told me to tell you.”
The instructor puts her arm around my shoulders and walks me to the locker room.
“You’re a great little swimmer,” she says. “You just went through intermediates on your very first day.”
She tells the other instructors, and somehow my mother hears of it too, and she tells the neighbors and they are all amazed.
I am a swimming legend!
***
I have no doubt that, if I thought I could get away with it, I probably rose up on my toes a bit as my mother was measuring me. I have no doubt that, even if my mother noticed, she pretended not to.
Why all the fuss over four feet? That’s how tall you had to be to join the summer swim program: lessons in the morning, free swim in the afternoon.
I was Sibling Four-of-Six. All I wanted was to swim. All my mother wanted was a few hours of peace and quiet.
That’s how I found myself standing in the shallow end of the pool…
… where the water is four feet deep. I am hardly four feet tall at the top of my head, which puts my nose well under water.
I hang onto the side of the pool as long as I can. When the instructor lines us up in rows, I join everyone else at the center of the pool. They stand, awaiting further instruction. I hop up and down, grabbing sips of air.
This is odd, I think, but hey! I am in the water, and it feels great!
The instructor wants us to blow bubbles underwater. This is easy! I hop, sip, sink and blow. The instructor thinks I’m an old hand.
Next the instructor calls out, “Dead man’s float!”
I look over at my sister, do what she does. This is a talent little sisters have.
***
Now, the instructor says, we are going to learn the sidestroke. We get out of the pool and lay on the cement to practice.
“Pick an apple from a tree, exchange hands and throw it away.” We lie on our sides, chanting together, picking our apples and throwing them away. Throw! is the power stroke, where we kick and whoosh our arms and shout.
Very odd, but great fun! We work our legs like scissors, kicking each other and getting a little bloody cement burn on our hips.
Then we put it all together. The instructor walks among us, poking at us with her feet to correct our strokes. Finally it is time to do it for real.
We swim across the pool, two by two. I watch my sisters. I watch the other girls. In my head I am chanting. “Pick an apple from a tree... throw!
This is easy! This is fun! On solid ground I am a hopeless clutz, pulling and hauling around a body with a rebellious mind of its own.
Now I see: I was not born for earth. I was born for water.
I think maybe I am a mermaid.
Now it is my turn to show my stuff. I jump in, roll onto my side and push off, just like my sisters.
.
I reach for my apple--and sink like lead. That doesn’t stop me! I blow out bubbles as I throw it away.
I am on my side on the bottom of the pool, so I push off quick. When I surface, I sip air and pick another apple. This is easy! This is fun!
Sip pick sink push-and-throw sip pick sink push-and-throw! Who knew swimming would be so rhythmic and lovely? I am a mesmerized mermaid.
I am spending more time below the surface than I am above--again, very odd--but I don’t care. I’m nearly across the pool and finally when I reach up, I don’t find an apple but the cement wall.
I made it! I swam across the pool!
***
The instructor is waiting for me. She bends down. “How old are you?” she asks.
“I’m four feet tall!” I say.
“Are you an advanced beginner?” she asks suspiciously.
“I’m four feet tall!” I say.
“Do you have your advanced beginner card?”
I have no clue what she is talking about.
“Do you have your beginner card?”
“This is my first day,” I say.
“This is intermediate swimming,” she says. “Are you sure you belong in this class?”
“I can swim!” I say. I know I can, I just did.
The instructor calls the next girls into the pool. For the rest of the hour, I swim and swim and swim. We swim on our backs and our fronts and our sides. I do a lot of bouncing off the bottom of the pool.
I have found my place in the world. I was born to swim.
***
When the hour is over, the instructor crooks her finger at me.
“This is intermediate swimming,” she says. “You need to get signed up for beginners.”
“Oh yeah,” says Three-of-Six. “My mom told me to tell you.”
***
The instructor puts her arm around my shoulders and walks me to the locker room.
“You’re a great little swimmer,” she says. “You just went through intermediates on your very first day.”
She tells the other instructors, and somehow my mother hears of it too, and she tells the neighbors and they are all amazed.
I am a swimming legend!
***
.
But that doesn’t change anything. The next week, I am busted down to beginners, where we spend most of our time putting our face in the water and blowing bubbles and learning the flutter kick without ever letting go of the side of the pool.
I look longingly out to the center of the pool and across to the other side. I may be washed up for now, but I am planning a comeback.
I look longingly out to the center of the pool and across to the other side. I may be washed up for now, but I am planning a comeback.
***
.
Two years later, I am back!
I have aced beginners and advanced beginners. I have my cards to prove it.
I stride into intermediates. I ace the warm-up. I pick apples and scissor my legs and throw--and my feet never touch the bottom.
I have aced beginners and advanced beginners. I have my cards to prove it.
I stride into intermediates. I ace the warm-up. I pick apples and scissor my legs and throw--and my feet never touch the bottom.
.
Yes! This is the first day of the rest of my life!
Tango Music on the Menu in Fargo (yes THAT Fargo!)
Restaurant pairs nuevo tango music and Argentine (well, sort of, if you squint and imagine) food for dinner in Fargo, ND.
http://www.in-forum.com/articles/rss.cfm?id=180397
http://www.in-forum.com/articles/rss.cfm?id=180397
Monday, October 8, 2007
For all the Gray-Haired Guys and Soon-to-Be-Gray-Haired Guys in Tango Colorado
From Better Nutrition Magazine
No Guts, No Glory
By John Monahan
The vibrant man on our cover this month is 65-year-old Murray Moore, a prostate cancer survivor we’ve chosen to represent men of good health.
You’ll notice that Murray still has his shirt on. We’ve abandoned the convention maintained by virtually all men’s health and muscle magazines that the cover hero must, at the very least, bare his washboard abs. We’ve also dispensed with the admiring busty blonde.
I know from personal experience that it’s easy to define yourself as a man solely by the definition of your muscles. But as a man ages—and his beard turns gray, like Murray’s—he understands that manhood is not vanity. Nor is manhood begrudgingly feminine.
As Joe Lewandowski writes (“Just Do It,” p. 34), men today are awash in ideas about who they should be, without much anchor to who they truly are. Indeed, the very words “male bonding” are now the stuff of insipid sitcoms where men are portrayed as frightened dimwits, even as women are encouraged to run with wolves.
Something is very wrong when a man’s personal power comes from the gun in his hand or the money he’s amassed or the cant he expounds.
The most powerful men I know have become that way through suffering for a purpose other than themselves. The pains of life they’ve endured have dampened their narcissism and steeled their inner strength—and this, rightly so, has allowed them to express genuine moments of joy.
It turns out that the cliché that high school football coaches used to spout—“No guts, no glory”—is true. Except the glory isn’t in trouncing an opponent—including oneself—but in self-disinterested knowledge and the compassion that results, otherwise called love.
Love like this knows no gender—nor bounds, for that matter. And it’s that wisdom you can see in the face of Murray and other old guys who, though they may have lost their hair, have found their spirit.
No Guts, No Glory
By John Monahan
The vibrant man on our cover this month is 65-year-old Murray Moore, a prostate cancer survivor we’ve chosen to represent men of good health.
You’ll notice that Murray still has his shirt on. We’ve abandoned the convention maintained by virtually all men’s health and muscle magazines that the cover hero must, at the very least, bare his washboard abs. We’ve also dispensed with the admiring busty blonde.
I know from personal experience that it’s easy to define yourself as a man solely by the definition of your muscles. But as a man ages—and his beard turns gray, like Murray’s—he understands that manhood is not vanity. Nor is manhood begrudgingly feminine.
As Joe Lewandowski writes (“Just Do It,” p. 34), men today are awash in ideas about who they should be, without much anchor to who they truly are. Indeed, the very words “male bonding” are now the stuff of insipid sitcoms where men are portrayed as frightened dimwits, even as women are encouraged to run with wolves.
Something is very wrong when a man’s personal power comes from the gun in his hand or the money he’s amassed or the cant he expounds.
The most powerful men I know have become that way through suffering for a purpose other than themselves. The pains of life they’ve endured have dampened their narcissism and steeled their inner strength—and this, rightly so, has allowed them to express genuine moments of joy.
It turns out that the cliché that high school football coaches used to spout—“No guts, no glory”—is true. Except the glory isn’t in trouncing an opponent—including oneself—but in self-disinterested knowledge and the compassion that results, otherwise called love.
Love like this knows no gender—nor bounds, for that matter. And it’s that wisdom you can see in the face of Murray and other old guys who, though they may have lost their hair, have found their spirit.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
Thursday, October 4, 2007
She Wants to Learn How to Tango...
Dascha Jayne Wright, 4, practices ballroom dancing with her instructor, Sergey Nekrasov ... Wright won first place in the US National DanceSport Championship in the 10-and-under category....Wright and Nekrasov practice the waltz, quickstep, jive, rumba and cha-cha four to six times a week.
.
Katia Zakhardoff, manager and choreographer, said Wright is eager to learn other dances.
"She wants to learn how to tango, but it's too early," she said.
Monday, October 1, 2007
Gardel Tango Song Saves Lives in Burma
From the blog of Martin Varsavsky,
I just want to tell the story of how my Argentine school buddies Diego Wainer and Raul Chevalier and myself were detained in Burma in 1988, and how we got out.
... After the Jefe gave our passports to a colleague and we thought we were headed to Burmese jail or worse, I could hear Diego rumbled something about us being "locos de mierda", stuck in a "jungle de mierda" and "metidos en un lio de mierda".
Raul and I were only slightly more positive at this point. The Jefe then asked each of us what we did.
Diego said he was an architect which the Jefe found boring, I said I was a real estate entrepreneur, which then I was and the Jefe found that even more boring, and then it was Raul´s turn and Raul said he was a musician and that made the Jefe happier.
"A musician" he said and turned to his troops and said something in Burmese that made them all laugh. He then looked back at Raul and still pointing at him with the rifle said "sing something!".
Diego and I glanced at Raul and our stare said it all "sing or we are dead".
And Raul, who used to be the bass player and singer at Zas, then the leading rock band in Latin America, chose the most appropriate song to sing at that moment.
It was not a rock song, it was a tango, "Adios Muchachos" the famous Gardel song that is basically one long good bye of a friend to his buddies:
Adios muchachos compañeros de mi vida (good bye my dear life long friends).
The song was very appropriate for the moment. Diego and I did not know if we should laugh or cry. But we chose the former, and it worked. Because as Raul sang everyone seemed to relax and enjoy his tango.
When he was done the Jefe clapped and his troops followed suit. So did Diego and I.
And then the Jefe much to our surprise said to us "now we sing" and he again addressed his troops in Burmese and we were very pleased to see that they started laying down their weapons and sat on the floor, in a circle.
We sat as well and the Jefe and his troops started singing to us.
We were pleasantly shocked. A few seconds before it looked like I was going to follow the faith of my cousin David Horacio Varsavsky who was murdered by the Argentine military and moments later the Burmese military were singing for us!
And they sang, and we sang, and then they took out a bottle of a liquor that tasted like pure alcohol to me and I could not stomach, but Raul with his Rolling Stone habits of course could. The singing marathon went on for hours.
... As I read the papers these days and think of the Burmese quiet revolutionaries who are confronting the military with chants and I remembered how we managed to get the Burmese soldiers to sing to us, I felt like telling this story.
Will the Burmese soldiers go on killing or join in the singing? The outcome is still uncertain.
In the meantime I want to dedicate this story to Kenji Nagai who died trying to alert to us that there is a peaceful revolution going on in Burma. My heart is with him and his family in Japan.
Read the full story at Singing in Myanmar
I just want to tell the story of how my Argentine school buddies Diego Wainer and Raul Chevalier and myself were detained in Burma in 1988, and how we got out.
... After the Jefe gave our passports to a colleague and we thought we were headed to Burmese jail or worse, I could hear Diego rumbled something about us being "locos de mierda", stuck in a "jungle de mierda" and "metidos en un lio de mierda".
Raul and I were only slightly more positive at this point. The Jefe then asked each of us what we did.
Diego said he was an architect which the Jefe found boring, I said I was a real estate entrepreneur, which then I was and the Jefe found that even more boring, and then it was Raul´s turn and Raul said he was a musician and that made the Jefe happier.
"A musician" he said and turned to his troops and said something in Burmese that made them all laugh. He then looked back at Raul and still pointing at him with the rifle said "sing something!".
Diego and I glanced at Raul and our stare said it all "sing or we are dead".
And Raul, who used to be the bass player and singer at Zas, then the leading rock band in Latin America, chose the most appropriate song to sing at that moment.
It was not a rock song, it was a tango, "Adios Muchachos" the famous Gardel song that is basically one long good bye of a friend to his buddies:
Adios muchachos compañeros de mi vida (good bye my dear life long friends).
The song was very appropriate for the moment. Diego and I did not know if we should laugh or cry. But we chose the former, and it worked. Because as Raul sang everyone seemed to relax and enjoy his tango.
When he was done the Jefe clapped and his troops followed suit. So did Diego and I.
And then the Jefe much to our surprise said to us "now we sing" and he again addressed his troops in Burmese and we were very pleased to see that they started laying down their weapons and sat on the floor, in a circle.
We sat as well and the Jefe and his troops started singing to us.
We were pleasantly shocked. A few seconds before it looked like I was going to follow the faith of my cousin David Horacio Varsavsky who was murdered by the Argentine military and moments later the Burmese military were singing for us!
And they sang, and we sang, and then they took out a bottle of a liquor that tasted like pure alcohol to me and I could not stomach, but Raul with his Rolling Stone habits of course could. The singing marathon went on for hours.
... As I read the papers these days and think of the Burmese quiet revolutionaries who are confronting the military with chants and I remembered how we managed to get the Burmese soldiers to sing to us, I felt like telling this story.
Will the Burmese soldiers go on killing or join in the singing? The outcome is still uncertain.
In the meantime I want to dedicate this story to Kenji Nagai who died trying to alert to us that there is a peaceful revolution going on in Burma. My heart is with him and his family in Japan.
Read the full story at Singing in Myanmar
Nice and timely, too
Hey, wait a minute...
Revisions on my third book are due today.
That means the editor and a handful of reviewers have read the book and suggested improvements. Of course, their suggestions always target the places I have tried to skate, hoping no one would notice.
Revisions are BORING. All the creative work is done; this is mop-up stuff.
Revisions were due July 1. I have an extension until today. For editors, deadlines are always 5 p.m. For writers, they are always 11:59:59 p.m. Today I am a writer. A seriously unmotivated one.
At the stroke of 5 p.m., I get an email from my editor, congratulating me on my previous book's award. (see below)
Wow! These revisions are a cakewalk! Why have I been dragging my feet? I'll be done in a jiffy. And as soon as I'm done, I'll propose the next book in the series!
Hey, wait a minute ... Could there be something to my editor's timing?
For a minute, I am my editor self again, remembering: The middle name of every good editor is Machiavelli.
Revisions on my third book are due today.
That means the editor and a handful of reviewers have read the book and suggested improvements. Of course, their suggestions always target the places I have tried to skate, hoping no one would notice.
Revisions are BORING. All the creative work is done; this is mop-up stuff.
Revisions were due July 1. I have an extension until today. For editors, deadlines are always 5 p.m. For writers, they are always 11:59:59 p.m. Today I am a writer. A seriously unmotivated one.
At the stroke of 5 p.m., I get an email from my editor, congratulating me on my previous book's award. (see below)
Wow! These revisions are a cakewalk! Why have I been dragging my feet? I'll be done in a jiffy. And as soon as I'm done, I'll propose the next book in the series!
Hey, wait a minute ... Could there be something to my editor's timing?
For a minute, I am my editor self again, remembering: The middle name of every good editor is Machiavelli.
Nice
The Voice of Youth Advocates just named my second book to its "5-Foot Bookshelf" of works recommended as "...so essential that it would be difficult to serve teens without having read them."
It's nice to serve teens.
It's nice to receive awards.
It's nice to get royalty checks.
This recommendation ought to bring in enough royalties to cover the Julio/Corina workshop this fall--and a couple of private lessons to boot.
Nice!
It's nice to serve teens.
It's nice to receive awards.
It's nice to get royalty checks.
This recommendation ought to bring in enough royalties to cover the Julio/Corina workshop this fall--and a couple of private lessons to boot.
Nice!
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