Category: Letter

I hope the writer who penned the concert announcement for Paul McCartney’s appearance at the Xcel Energy Center [The Broken Clock, September] was able to attend the event. A rare opportunity was available for the writer to broaden his/her horizons. If the writer attended, s/he would have heard three songs from a new album written by the performer in the last year; songs that equal in energy the lyrical and melodic qualities of McCartney’s music from throughout decades past. The writer would have seen a man in his 60s perform with the stamina of his 20-something-aged band members, even continuing solo while those band members were allowed an intermission break. Not only did McCartney perform a three-hour concert non-stop, he did so with a voice that resonated as clear and strong as when the music was originally recorded. The writer would have witnessed a man expressing his sorrow at the personal loss of people dear to him, courageously in front of a room filled with strangers—an audience of thousands who responded in support with displays of respect, not with rude and insensitive rumors. Alone, or with a partner, the body of work created by Paul McCartney is international in scope, timeless in relevance to life, can and is performed by anything from a polka band to full orchestra, and most of all, contributes to the betterment of people. There are few individuals today who come close to matching these accomplishments. Paul McCartney is an exceptional talent and true artist who deserves a better description than what was provided in The Broken Clock. Readers deserve a better announcement notice too.

—Cynthia Marotteck
Cottage Grove

I’m sitting on the dusty steps of a Kodak camera shop on Bai Se Road, just down the street from my apartment, looking through some black and white photographs. They’re the first pictures I’ve taken in China and I’m so excited to see them that I can’t be bothered with getting on my bike and making the five-minute trip back home.

After a couple minutes, a shadow passes over me. I look up and I’m face to face with a woman in her mid-30s, barefoot, dressed in a short yellow skirt. She mutters something in Mandarin and positions herself behind me to look over my shoulder at the photographs. Her eyes are glowing with fascination—a look I’ve seen many times before, mostly from disbelief that blue-eyed Americans exist and are walking around suburban Shanghai.

In a gesture of modesty, I shuffle through the rest of the photographs and put them in my backpack. The woman steps down to the street and leans even closer, like she wants to kiss me. I can taste her breath and her short hair brushes my face. A barrage of Mandarin emanates from her mouth, like she’s trying to feed the words to me, and I can’t seem to slow them down, no matter how many times I fill the spaces in between her sentences with “Wo bu dong” (I don’t understand). For the moment, I can’t say anything to her that she’ll understand, and I can’t look her in the eye because she’s only a few inches from my face.

Once she determines her one-sided conversation is leading nowhere, she takes a pen out of my hand and begins writing Chinese characters all over my hands. Once she’s filled up the space on my skin, she tears a few scraps from a newspaper and continues to write. I gather as many of these scribbles as I can carry, stuff them into my backpack, silently excuse myself, and make my escape down Bai Se Road in the direction of my apartment.

Half an hour later, I walk into the office of my friend Arnold and show him my hands. At first, he can’t read the sloppy characters, but slowly a smile of recognition crosses his face and a story emerges. The sentences on my hands are mostly questions: “Do you speak Chinese?” “Are you married?” And then, the most mysterious, an invitation: “When you’re happy, come over to my house.” Finally, an address—not enough information for me to determine whether or not I was just propositioned for sex.

Most Chinese women tend to be much more modest with their body language, because they live in a predominantly non-touching culture, where couples are the only people permitted to hug each other in public. (Try to hug a casual female friend in China and you’ll get a cold, stiff-bodied response as though you’re an incestuous uncle instead of a friend.) Moreover, prostitution, while considered a perfectly acceptable profession in China, is nevertheless officially illegal. Consequently, brothels must thinly disguise their true purpose by fronting as “hair salons,” to avoid occasional visits from police arbitrarily enforcing the law.

Though I agree with Clinton Collins’ main point, that often blacks use the “Uncle Tom” accusation too broadly [Free the Jackson Five!, September], I think his analysis of why it occurs is too crude. Mr. Collins errs greatly by using Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas as an example of someone who was called out by blacks, unfairly, only for thinking differently than us. Our determined shunning of Thomas is more reasonable than that. Though he opposes affirmative action, he accepted the top position held by an African American solely on the basis of his race. Unlike Colin Powell, who is a Republican and supports affirmative action, Thomas is a hypocrite. No intelligent person ever argued that he was the best candidate for that job. He was too young, he had left the EEOC with warehouses of backlogged cases, and his tenure as a judge was unremarkable. Yet, he was black and right-minded, and just what the white right needed to fill the shoes of a black justice. If that isn’t selling out then nothing is. What should concern us most as African Americans is what our people do with the power bestowed upon them. Unfortunately, it’s all too common for some of us to find a source of “enlightenment” that pays us to denounce our own. There is a literary anti-nigger machine that employs countless pundits to detail why black people are wrong about everything. Former liberal David Horowitz is making a killing being a venomous one-trick pony exposing in detail our political ignorance. It’s too bad many of us are following suit: Larry Elder is paid handsomely to constantly chastise us from his vantage point, as is Denver radio host Ken Hamblin, Armstrong Williams, Alan Keyes, and the list could go on. It’s important for blacks to keep tabs on those who constantly detract from our conventional wisdom. People like Justice Thomas are black as a euphemism, but they are paid by our moneyed white opposition for their work detracting and dividing us. Is it a coincidence that most of them find greater comfort in white neighborhoods, white churches, white think tanks, and white work places? Further, what should we make of the weird universal that they all have white wives? Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but… I appreciate Mr. Collins point that we shouldn’t hate on each other as much as we do, that we shouldn’t be so quick to stifle free speech, and that it could be dangerous to carelessly participate in our character assassination. I would just ask that he explain at what point should we call a spade a spade?

Rev. Christopher Rahelio Soleil
Minneapolis

I found Jon Zurn’s recent article on the state of the arts and opportunities for artists in this area very much on-the-mark. There are so many talented persons in the Cities that are not being shown or collected and might be if more of the public would take time for a closer look at what local artists have to offer before going off to buy art in other cities or states (or countries). I salute the efforts of those artists and galleries that have been able to keep their resolve in the face of what can often seem to be a disinterested general public. One venue that comes to mind when thinking about galleries that are dedicated to the promotion and exhibition of local artists—one that takes great risks at times by showing artists working from a wide range of stylistic idioms as well as mediums—is Flatland Gallery. Robyne Robinson has proven, during the two years Flatland has been in existence, her rock-solid commitment to both local artists and local art. The bottom line at Flatland (as with many other small galleries in the Twin Cities) has always been to bring artists to the public’s attention that might not get the opportunity otherwise. The fact that so many local galleries/owners are willing to keep going and stay open in spite of more and more collectors turning to large venues while collecting art should be loudly applauded!

James Michael Lawrence
Minneapolis

When reading your article on Ken Pentel, the Green Party candidate for governor [“It Ain’t Easy Being Green,” September], I felt a deep sense of envy and awe for Minnesotans. Out here in California, we don’t have public policies which encourage desperately needed third parties to participate in government. Third-party candidates in California don’t have the blessing of public financing or candidate forums. Our current governor, a corrupt, corporate yes-man known as Gray “Rolling Blackouts” Davis, refuses to acknowledge that our third-party candidates even exist. Davis is so unpopular that he has agreed to only two debates with his equally repulsive Republican challenger, Bill Simon. One of these debates will be on Spanish language television at 12 in the afternoon on a weekday. Both major party candidates are so despised that their disapproval ratings are significantly higher than their approval ratings. Minnesotans should be proud that they live in a state that believes in democracy and allows people like Ken Pentel to exist.

Matthew Stewart
Palo Alto, CA

I graduated from St. Thomas Academy in 1984, and while I appreciate Tom Bartel’s observations on the benefits of private schools [“Is Private School Right for You?”, August], I cannot get past the fact that for four years I wasted my time taking mandatory and contradictory religion and military classes in which the primary goal was clear: conformity. As my nephew recently said on his way out the door, after a dreadful freshman year at STA filled with priests, haircuts, neckties and military inspections; “They may teach you about Martin Luther King, but they don’t want you to be anything like him.”

Arnie Hamel
Minneapolis

Wow. In one article, Jon Zurn manages to put the lid on and pound the nails into the coffin for the Twin Cities arts scene [“State of the Arts,” September]. “Small collectors are an endangered species”… “visual arts coverage in the local press has been little more than an afterthought.” I’m sorry Jon, but where do you live? There was a little something that ran for 8 years on local TV called “The Buzz.” It spawned other stations to cover the arts in different ways: “Newsnight Minnesota” (TPT 2), “Whatever” (KARE 11), “Round Town with Rusty” (KSTP 5). Although many high-end commercial fine art galleries have come and gone in the last 10 years, there is a thriving alternative gallery presence here that is thriving in part on the support of the small collector. That’s because it’s the small collector that’s causing St. Paul’s Lowertown Art Crawl and northeast Minneapolis’ Art-a-Whirl to grow. Galleries like Rogue Buddha and my own Flatland carry the works and the flag for emerging artists and participate in visionary projects like Yuri Arajs’ “Visible Fringe” festival, now in its second year. “Struggling valiantly for every penny…” Who? Certainly not the 18 galleries who bought ads in the very same issue of The Rake for the Twin Cities Fine Arts Organization’s “Art on the Town” event in September. Yes, times can be lean. And we’ve all taken a hit from the economic slowdown resulting from the tragedies of 9/11 and a rollercoaster stock market. But how many galleries did you talk to? Flatland can boast great sales dating from its first exhibit two years ago, which sold out—a rare feat. Our artists have been hired for commissioned works by Northwest Airlines and the Plymouth Music Series and had works acquired by the Minneapolis Institute of Arts and the Walker Art Center. And we work hard to not only make sales but get something for artists that’s just as valuable—exposure to the public, other galleries, and critics. We’ve been featured in Art News, Travel and Leisure, and Elle Decor—all national publications. Did you visit Rosalux—one of the newest co-op galleries? Or DiStillo? How about Weinstein gallery? Gallery 360? All of these have found great ways to work a niche, or as a specialty gallery for local artists. Where’s your interview with Minneapolis City Councilman Paul Ostrow, who’s working so hard with the city and the artists’ community to lay the groundwork for neighborhood art parks, an arts corridor in northeast Minneapolis and to stop encroaching development that displaces working artists from their affordable homes and studios in Northeast? I don’t see any quotes from Sheila Smith, Minnesota Citizens for the Arts. Or Jennifer Haugh with the Minneapolis Arts Commission, who’s working with the city on plans for a multicultural arts fair. Articles such as yours not only reinforce negativity towards our arts community, they send discouraged artists and gallery owners packing and tell an already supportive community their purchases and programs don’t matter much.

Robyne Robinson
Minneapolis

Jeannine Ouellette reverts to simplistic name-calling in her column about Promise Keepers [Wife, Interrupted, August]. Ms. Ouellette states that Promise Keepers has “misogynistic, homophobic, racist underpinnings.” If we examine these labels a bit more, Ms. Ouellette’s charges come up woefully lacking. First, PK has made racial reconciliation a cornerstone of the organization. One of its “Seven Promises” is the promise “to reach beyond racial… barriers.” Six out of seven of its key U.S. Ministries staff are people of color. Two out of three PK sources that she quotes are people of color. To call PK “racist” is, at best, irresponsible journalism. At worst, it borders on slanderous libel. Ms. Ouellette’s “misogynistic” label fares no better under scrutiny. If Ms. Ouellette actually listened to more than just a few sound bites, she would hear a recurring PK mantra exhorting men to stop acting like selfish jerks and start loving their wives and families with faithful, persevering, sacrificial, Christ-like love. Ms. Ouellette’s final charge of PK being “homophobic” is based on the same tactic of persuasion through name-calling. “If you don’t endorse my lifestyle, my beliefs, my sexual preferences, my whatever, then you’re being hateful.” I don’t buy it. We are allowed to take sides in politics, academia, sports, art, and business without our opponents labeling us as hateful. Why is it that civil society is not allowed to have diversity of opinion about the GLBT platform? PK is about strengthening marriages and families. From their perspective, that means one husband and one wife. Substantial social research does indicate that kids do best when raised in loving, intact families with their original father and mother. If nothing else, just think of the upcoming PK conference as a two-day “Celebrate Monogamous Heterosexuality” event. And if Ms. Ouellette has a problem with that, she should consider taking some diversity training.

Jeffrey Swanson
Minneapolis

In his column, “Pick that trash up, homeboy!” [Free the Jackson Five!, May] Clinton Collins wrote, “Oh, I can hear the apologist now…” Well, Mr. Collins, if you step out beyond your own back yard into the community, you can see the institutions that those apologists have built: Pilot City, Father Project, Turning Point, StairStep Foundation. For every social ill you depict in your columns—poverty, oppression, teen pregnancy, white racism—there are dedicated individuals and institutions committed to the front lines, combating these problems daily. Now, newcomer, let me offer you that apology: Sorry, homeboy, we haven’t gotten around to lawns yet! There are black families on the Northside who have owned homes for over 40 years. There are successful black small-business owners in the area. Community support organizations, community representatives, politicians, and community activists deeply dedicated to the neighborhood. I was equally troubled by your most recent column, “How I became a supporter of the MPD” [August] in which you wrote, “In the last 10 years, rising home prices in the nicer parts of town and decreasing crime in the area has given these homes a well-deserved second wind. And the Minneapolis Police deserve much of the credit for the turnaround.” No, sir, you have it wrong. Historically on the Northside the Minneapolis Police have been part of the problem, not the solution. Residents are more familiar with heavy-handed policing which is more indicative of an occupying force than a crime-fighting partner. The true credit for the turnaround should be given to the community neighborhood associations, homeowners, increased political involvement, mothers and fathers, black people who have refused to move to Richfield and remained committed to the preservation of the community. What I’m writing about is community pride. Yeah, it still exists, get on the bandwagon. Your “Brother Card” is hereby revoked!

Rod Martens
Minneapolis

At 17,582 feet above sea level, the Taglang La is the world’s second highest motorable pass. It’s the highest point on the 300-mile “highway” that connects the northern cities of Leh and Manali. On a bicycle, getting to the top of the pass from the southern side requires a 3-hour, 12-mile climb that takes you up 2,000 feet. Without the zig-zagging switchbacks typical of other Himalayan passes, the road is visible all the way up the pass—an ash ribbon snaking up and around the canyon wall.

Given Minnesota’s flatland topography, training for the ride up the Taglang La required some creative adaptation. In the months before the trip, I sweated up and down the High Bridge and Ohio Street in St. Paul hundreds of times. That helped with general fitness, but nothing in my neighborhood could prepare me for the long, gradual, and oxygen-deprived slog up northern India’s mountain passes. Mostly the Taglang La was an artless and obstinate ascent characterized more by a sore rear-end than any of the profound spiritual truths that mountains supposedly provide.

When we reached the top of the pass, the sky turned darker and big snowflakes began to fall. It wasn’t snowing hard, and the bragging value of riding through snow (“and then it snowed on us!”) far outweighed the discomfort. The pass marker was emblazoned with the curious but grammatically correct English of India’s military sign painters: “You are passing over second highest pass of the world. Unbelievable, is not it?”

Unbelievable it was. The worn and beaten Buddhist prayer flags that decorate all mountain passes in this part of the world were flapping in the breeze. To the south, glaciers were melting under broad patches of direct sunlight. I was euphoric, and the trip was all downhill from there.

But there were more adventures below. Descending down the road on the northern side, the road led us into the valley of the Indus River. We soon encountered a road crew kicking up dust clouds as they cleared a landslide, and beyond that, the fiery and smoky world of the Bihari road builders. Citizens of one of India’s poorest states, these road builders work for $2 a day in what look like post-apocalyptic conditions. Entire families are bivouacked by the side of the road. The cold and rocky landscape is punctuated with burning barrels of pitch, the smoke from which blackens the Biharis’ faces and their clothing. Dazed by sand and soot and spattered by paving oil, seven riders stopped to catch our breath at a rural dhaba—a tea shack playing solar-powered disco music.

Back on the bikes, we descended gradually through the magic land of Ladakh, a semi-autonomous region inhabited by people of Tibetan ancestry, who cultivate and irrigate terraced fields the way they have for centuries. In the late afternoon, the shadows were getting long, but the scenery was still stunning: a high desert of striated hills and strange rock formations with splashes of red, gray, and green reminiscent of the American Southwest. To the children of the roadside villages, we were hilarious spandex-clad astronauts, and we laughed with them as they chased after us, yelling for chocolates.