Category — SLynam

When my boss first told me that I was going to be working at Citi Field, I did not know what to think. I had never had an interest in sports and had never even seen the inside of a stadium. My coworkers who had worked the stand there before warned me that it was pretty boring. However, as the start of the season approached, I felt myself growing more and more excited. I started tuning in to all the talk of baseball, whether in school or on the news, and wanted to experience this sport that so many people seemed so passionate about.

The first few days at the stadium were a blur to me. I was introduced to many new people, intimidating men dressed in suits and my supervisors in their green uniforms. There were complicated cash registers to get used to and long forms to fill out at the end of every game and food prices to remember. However, after the first home stand, I had really settled in and started to feel comfortable in my new job. The most interesting part of working at Citi Field was the customers. I would see the same faces all the time. There was the young guy who would come every Tuesday and Thursday, grinning as I would go prepare his usual turkey sandwich exactly the way he liked it. There was another man who would be there every Wednesday and announce his presence each time by shouting to me, “Let me see the brightest smile in the stadium!” There was the elderly woman I would see almost everyday, buying a salad and going off to sit on a bench alone. What all these people had in common was their intense love for baseball. One of my teachers once told me that sports are like a religion, and that is the way that many people seemed to treat the Mets games, something sacred reserved for a certain day of the week.

To be honest, I still don’t have a great interest in sports. I still do not know any baseball terms or players, despite having watched the games a countless number of times. However, I do have a greater respect for sports fans and their passion. Though I no longer work at Citi Field, I have returned a few times, just for that uplifting atmosphere of excitement that you cannot find anywhere but at a sports stadium.

As I was going up in the elevator of the library building, a man stepped in who looked vaguely familiar. I realized that he was Richard Price from the videos we had watched earlier in class and I whispered this excitedly to my friend. I stole a glance at him and was not too impressed. He looked very serious and aloof as he leaned against the back wall of the elevator with his arms crossed. He did not look excited to be at Baruch and I feared a boring and dispassionate lecture ahead. However, when Richard Price got up on stage my impression almost immediately changed as he cracked the first of many hilarious jokes to come. Richard Price did not laugh, or even smile, at his own jokes, which made them so much more effective. He was funny without particularly trying to be. When he started to read from Lush Life, I was surprised at how engaged he was in the reading. He delivered the lines of the characters perfectly and the way he read them helped me catch on to humor that I had not noticed when reading Lush Life on my own. Price was just as passionate and engaging in his second reading about a prophetess preaching to God, revealing his talent for role-playing. During the talkback session, Richard Price answered the questions in a very straightforward manner. He did not try to “spice up” his method of capturing the voices of the characters in Lush Life but rather answered the questions about how he researched for the book by simply saying, “I just hung out with the cops.” Though this answer did not seem to please some people who kept bringing up the topic of his research, I think this was yet another impressive aspect of Richard Price, as someone who can capture the essence of a certain group of people in his writing just by “hanging out” with them.

Everyone looks up in anticipation as the sparkling chandeliers in the theatre rise and the lights dim. When the golden curtains pull open, the stage fills with a flurry of color and music. It is the scene of a ballroom, the men and women dressed in luxurious, intricate costume. A man in a deep red suit steps forward and the theatre fills with his rich, powerful voice. It is the duke, played by Francesco Meli. His presence fills the room as he shares his amusing but demeaning views on women. His confidence as he makes advances on the countess, right in view of her husband, charms the audience as well as the duchess.

Rigoletto, played by George Gagnidze, contrasts sharply with the elaborate people of the court as he hobbles onto the scene. He joins the duke’s tenor with his deeper baritone voice. The husky quality to Rigoletto’s voice assists in his image as a lonely deformed man, separated from the people that surround him. The audience is even more impressed by Gagnidze when, during the first intermission, it is announced that he has a cold but has consented to continue as Rigoletto for the remainder of the show. After intermission, I felt myself playing closer attention to his performance to see if the cold had any effect on it but his voice and passion remained strong and steady.

One powerful scene in Verdi’s Rigoletto takes place in the courtyard of Rigoletto’s house. The audience is introduced to his daughter and learns how close their relationship is since all they have is each other. Rigoletto’s daughter, Gilda, is played by Christine Schafer. Her soprano voice was light and beautiful, however it was hard to follow sometimes. Her voice did not project as well as that of the other singers and therefore seemed weaker. This may have been an issue with the sound system, but this is not likely since all the other voices came across clearly. I nevertheless enjoyed the range of Schafer’s voice, a change from the men’s voices. When Gilda performed duets with Rigoletto and later with the duke, the fusion of the deep and high notes created a beautiful harmony.

The plot of Rigoletto was interesting and exciting. The set was beautifully constructed, from the rugged stone walls of Rigoletto’s courtyard to the duke’s luxurious ballroom. The bright colors and intricate designs of the costumes were eye-catching and engaging. There was not a dull moment during the performance. The story began at the carefree duke’s ball and progressed to reveal Rigoletto’s daughter and her short love affair with the duke. The ending of Rigoletto was surprisingly tragic, with poor Rigoletto left suffering while the immoral duke continued to happily live his superficial life.

I would definitely recommend seeing Rigoletto, especially as a beginner’s first opera. It was not too long and appealed to the audience in many aspects, such as costume, set, and plot. The different singers covered a wide range of vocals and this diversity led to an exciting and engaging performance, both visually and aurally.

“Where’s the shower Dad?” We had arrived on our farm in Costa Rica late the night before and I had gone straight to bed without having time to explore the place. Now I had just eaten breakfast after being given a tour of the farm. I had seen everything, from the outhouses to the ponds to all the animals; everything except a shower. Though it was still early, the sun was burning intensely and I sat down in the shade, unsuccessfully trying to cool off.

“I already showed it to you,” my dad said, pointing towards the bathroom. I checked through the door again and saw what my dad had meant by a shower, a drooping hose sticking out through the wall. I turned the tap and water trickled out slowly.

“I can’t wash my hair in that!” I told my dad.

“Well Pedro and Gustavo usually wash themselves in the river,” my dad said and told me to walk up the road and down into the valley where the river lay. I set off on the dusty path with my sisters and an armful of colorful shampoos and soaps. After trekking up a steep hill and sliding down a muddy slope we arrived at the river, overheated and exhausted. The river ran down from the mountain and had formed a clear pool of water where the path had taken us. It was a peaceful place, closed in by a leafy emerald canopy. I stripped down to my bikini and dipped my toe in the water. I pulled it out immediately with a shriek, struck by the icy cold. I hardened my resolve and walked in up to my ankles, waiting for several minutes to adjust to the cold temperature. As I started to take my next step, I slipped and fell on a slimy rock, submerging my whole body in the pool. After a few seconds of shock my body adjusted to the freezing temperature. From that moment on, I learned that diving right in without any hesitation was the easiest and least painful way to get in the water.

My sisters and I would go wash our hair in the river every morning, sometimes joined by Pedro and Gustavo. We would lather up, then dive down and swim along the rocky bottom, allowing the flow of water to wash the suds from our hair. These were the most fun, relaxing “baths” I have ever taken and those mornings at the river are one of the things I miss most about our time in Costa Rica.

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The theatre fills with a strange groaning sound as graceful dancers glide onto the stage. There is an awkward break in the noise, during which the dancers continue to move as if to their own internal soundtrack, and then an unpleasant moan disrupts the silence. These sounds seem like a strange introduction to a song but instead they are the song. What the audience is hearing is the work of John Cage, a very influential musician of the 20^th century. “Xover,” choreographed by Merce Cunningham of the Merce Cunningham Dance Company, is a tribute to Cage. The dancers moved beautifully and powerfully, yet the routine seemed to drag on, likely due to the blend of Cage’s “music” and the bland choreography. The uniform white leotards also did not contribute to catching the audience’s attention.

The mood changes immediately as the upbeat and catchy music of the band Balkan Beat Box blasts through the speakers. People straighten up and lean forward in their seats as the dancers of Gallim Dance prance out on stage to perform “I Can See Myself in Your Pupil.” The women were dressed in short, flouncy dresses in bright colors and the men were wearing casual business attire. The dancers moved in a way that did not seem rehearsed. Their arms and legs were flying everywhere in a seemingly natural manner. The happy beat and the carefree, joyous movement of the dancers made me want to run up on stage and join them. The dancers seemed so comfortable with themselves and each other and their bright smiles throughout the routine conveyed their love and passion for what they were doing. They were able to pull the audience along with them into their animated world of joy and spirit.

Now the stage is dark but for a light shining on a table with a vase full of white flowers. Exotic music fills the air as choreographer Mudhavi Mudgal dances out with her four students. They all wore elaborate, traditional Indian dress, embroidered with shiny thread and flowers. Though the dance was beautiful, I felt much of it was lost for me sitting in the balcony of the theatre. The movements were subtler than those in the other dances since they were focused on the women’s hands and feet and you needed to be closer to the stage in order to observe and appreciate these steps.  The dance was obviously well rehearsed as the women remained in near perfect synchronization with each other, throughout the entire routine. The music and the movement were slow, making “Vistaar” a sweet but not very memorable piece.

The last performance of the night, “The Golden Section,” was another burst of energy, resembling but not reaching the level of enthusiasm in the Gallim Dance performance. Miami City Ballet did a ballet routine, choreographed by Twyla Tharp, to the music of David Byrne. They leapt around the stages in perfect jumps and turns. Though the dancing was beautiful and lively, the dancers did not have the personality you would expect from performers in such a dance.

Though the four routines of the night were not equally enjoyable, they were all interesting and original. Somehow four completely different types of dance managed to fit together into one entertaining show. This Fall for Dance was a great way for a person new to the world of dance to expose themselves to different styles and discover what they like.

This year I discovered the Swedish midsummer festival in Battery Park. I had celebrated midsummer in Sweden every year up until the age of 10, when I became too old to miss the last two weeks of school. I did not have high expectations of this New York festival, thinking it would never measure up to the true Swedish ones. When I arrived, I knew immediately I was in the right place by all the blonde and blue-eyed people milling about. The adults sat squeezed together on the grass while rosy-cheeked children raced around in traditional blue-and-yellow dress. My friends and I were handed leafy, supple branches and some twine to make wreaths for ourselves. We were then given a bouquet of native Swedish wildflowers, in purple and yellow and white, to slip in among the leaves. After helping my friends, I made my way back to the main area, just in time to see the maypole being raised to loud cheers. The traditional midsummer music started and I was brought back to cool summer evenings in Sweden. The hostess was an American-born Swede whose loud voice and heavy accent ruined the soft lyrical words of the song she was trying to sing. However her voice was soon drowned out by everyone joining in as we got up to dance around the maypole. I joined hands with the strangers at my sides and skipped around, laughing as the song required us to jump around like frogs or collapse into an imaginary ditch. Despite the childish nature of these dances and songs they are something that everyone participates in, no matter what their age. There was a short break, during which I ate a typical Swedish lunch of waffles with jam and cream, and then everyone got together again for more dancing. Even after the festivities were over people hung around. I met a lot of young Swedes, just a few years older than me, who had recently moved to New York and had come to the festival hoping to allay their feelings of homesickness. I left the festival already looking to forward to the one next year.

Eight years ago, when I was in fifth grade, I was in the library searching for a book to read. I picked up a thick, heavy book; the title of which I cannot recall. What had drawn me to the book was the pictures of animals on the cover. I had recently decided that I wanted to become a veterinarian and figured that reading this book would be a great start. When I got home and started paging through the chapters, I was shocked by what I saw. Instead of the cute pictures of cats and dogs that I had been expecting, the first image I encountered was that of a bloody calf being dragged into a slaughterhouse. As I read through the book, the stories and pictures got worse and worse. I wanted to stop but somehow I was pulled into this horrible, foreign world. What struck me the hardest was the section on slaughterhouses. I had been eating meat my whole life and had never stopped to consider where it really came from. Those hot dogs I loved to get in Central Park were actually made from pigs, the charming, social creatures that I used to love to visit down the road from my grandpa’s house. From that moment on I was a vegetarian. This book did more than just change my eating habits. It took away some of my childhood innocence. I hadn’t realized up to that point how cruel humans could be. I did not understand how, in a country like the United States, where a dog is often valued as a member of the family, such horrendous treatment of animals could be allowed. This book encouraged me to become involved in the animal rights movement. It has led me to great experiences, from volunteering at the animal shelter to running the Students Against Animal Cruelty club in my school. Though I am no longer positive I want to become a veterinarian, I know that I definitely want some kind of career working with animals in my future.

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One thing that struck me when I walked into the seminar room at the Macaulay building yesterday was the relaxed atmosphere of the space. Rather than delivering a stiff account of his life and work, Howard Greenberg’s tone was friendly and conversational. I could see that students were listening to him out of interest rather than just politeness. I have been to talks before where the speaker has not been able to hold my attention and I have often attributed this to the fact that I am not interested in the subject. Photography is yet another subject that has never been of real interest to me, yet I found myself engaged in everything Greenberg was saying. His obvious passion and love for photography drew in everyone in the room. I liked that Greenberg made the photographs he had displayed more personal by revealing the stories behind them. He especially interested me in the photograph, “American Girl in Italy,” to the point of encouraging me to look up the photographer, Ruth Orkin, when I got home. Greenberg told us how Orkin had set up the photograph, by telling her friend to walk past a group of Italian men. She had an idea of the scene this encounter would create and thus succeeded in capturing what would be the most renowned image of her career. Though taking a good photo isn’t especially hard, as Greenberg himself said, this story made me realize that a true photographer needs a deep understanding of his or her subject in order to capture a meaningful image. Having recently been to Italy, I recognized that Orkin really had a feel for the culture and personality of Italy which was necessary in order to produce such a rich and expressive image. Greenberg’s talk taught me several new things about a subject I knew little of, but most importantly in my eyes, it gave me a greater appreciation for photography and the creativity and deliberation that lies behind each image.

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Most places have some kind of tourist appeal. In New York, it’s the skyscrapers and diversity. In the Bahamas it’s the sandy white beaches and bright blue water. In Sweden, it’s the moose. A few years ago, my aunt’s brother-in-law, Leif, decided to open up a moose park. I laughed at this idea, wondering why anyone would pay to see a moose.  I had seen them in the wild several times and didn’t think of them as much more than overgrown deer. I didn’t give Leif’s plan much more thought, assuming nothing would come of it. However the next summer Leif had already bought two moose and had opened a moose café. My family and I went on a tour, just out of curiosity. We were pulled around a fenced-in area by a noisy tractor. I did see the moose but I had come closer to them walking my dog in the woods than I did at the park. I left feeling sorry for Leif and his wife after all the time and money they had put into this project, just to have it fail. A few weeks later, to my surprise, Leif proudly announced that he had had visitors from over 350 different countries. Every time we passed his farm the lot would be filled with cars. I am still surprised now, years later, to see how busy the moose park is every time I’m visiting my aunt. It is interesting how something so common in one country can be a source of joy and wonder to people from other cultures.