Uncomfortable

The night of the World Cup Final, I biked down to Arrecife’s main beach, where they had erected a big screen to view the game. The atmosphere was electric. It was lowtide and spectators were scattered between the tide pools out to the low water mark. A pulsing hush descended over the crowd in the first overtime while red flags floated lethargically, almost mockingly in their ambivalence, in the wind. I whipped out my recorder – great moment to get on tape!
When Iniesta scored the goal in the final minutes, the beach erupted. Cold Play’s Vida thumped from the stage. I jumped and screamed along with everyone around me…and my recorder plunged into a tide pool. There was a split second of remorse – the little bugger recorded nearly 600 recordings this year. It had documented, witnessed even, a year of my life. I picked it up and the screen blinked a few times before going blank. And then I realized – Some things are meant to be lived. Not recorded. I smiled and continued dancing. My arms had goose bumps, and I spun glossy-eyed as spectators began to race into the sea.

It’s a struggle I’m familiar with. An inner battle I’ve waged this entire year. Many of my favorite memories and moments went unrecorded – some by chance, others with intention. I worried at times that the recorder was somehow screening the interactions I was having with people – that in recording I was stilting the relationship between me and the person with whom I was talking. Often I wanted to establish a trust with the person I was interviewing, particularly if they had something sensitive to say. And then sometimes if I was recording I felt like I was exploiting our friendship, our relationship.

There were days and interviews when all this seemed silly – a palm-sized recorder doesn’t bother anyone – in fact many people are honored to be listened to, to have their thoughts valued. Occasionally I regret not having recorded conversations. I keep them with me, rays of memories that float in and out of consciousness in flashes, moments seen through rose-colored glass. But the sound is muted, hollow. I wish I could have recorded Susan’s deep belly laugh, the fortune a friend told me one night on the floor of an apartment in Maldives, the way Jeannette described the funeral of her father – when the rain stopped and the sun emerged to let him go in peace, the tension that crossed the deck when we first heard the tsunami warning on the canoe, Ginés’ poem, Día.

There were other times that I worried I wasn’t recording enough. As I moved from one place to another I often thought about what I was missing. I felt as though I was only skimming the surface, the superficie. In the first few weeks in a new place, I would write frantically in my journal at night, plumbing my senses to describe what I had experienced.

I come home with no answers, no formulas, or prescriptions. I hope I never lose this ambivalence towards recording, this connection to humanity. Journalism and documentary often suppress emotion - employing a "get-in-get-out" philosophy that strips stories of their potentially emotional under layer. Last week I had a great conversation with a new friend about the importance of "remaining uncomfortable." I hope I never have an answer, that I remain perplexed, uncomfortable through this life journey.

Taking flight - overlooking Alegranza, Canaries

But if I have learned one thing, it's the importance of telling my own story.

Initially I tried to assimilate myself to the interview, shedding my personality and biases, to remain neutral and open to new ideas, even if they lay contrary to my own. Was it possible to be objective? Could I separate myself from the voices I was hearing?

“Good luck to those who can keep their distance from the howl, the yell of things.” William Carlos Williams

I ultimately realized that I can be culturally sensitive to any situation, but it is impossible to be objective in documentary work, in storytelling. My mind and my experience are shaped as much by my mother tongue as they are by the craggy coastline of Maine, the trials and triumphs of my ancestors. Each consecutive moment informs my future reactions. Who I am also affects the interviews I conduct. I am me, and that, I have come to realize, is important to recognize in my journey, in my writing. The singularity of experience is a wonderful thing, and to deny this fact is false and an injustice to those I am interacting with.

I mentioned in an earlier post that my favorite question to ask in an interview is "Who are you?" So I suppose it’s time to pose the question to myself: Who am I?

(silence, rambling, steadying gaze):

I am a young woman who believes in the power of listening, who believes in humanity, that every person has a story to tell, something to teach us. That history is best told from the horse’s mouth. That it is stories, our history, that drives us forward, that helps us to maintain our identity in a sea of change. I am optimistic. Someone who believes in confronting one’s fears, in stepping into someone else’s shoes, who draws energy from the sea, who believes in the power of the "uncomfortable," and who is ready for the journey ahead.