basal rosette
1.
the director disapproves of the grant proposal. she thinks it should include details that paint a more vibrant picture of poverty. “why don’t you write something like they didn’t even have toilet paper in the bathrooms before our help,” she suggests, without thinking it twice.
2.
after the graduate seminar, the students gather at the bar. as each one trickles in, they are vetted for their political affinities and beliefs. over rounds of beers, each member of the group engages another in debate, and every response is measured carefully against an unspoken moral code. the next afternoon, a debriefing takes place. the students treat the ritual with utmost seriousness. institutional success can take different forms.
3.
regardless of what is happening in the world, the literature professor does not change his lectures. again and again, come what may, he is sustained by revealing to his students the peripatetic indifference of the visitor to the Musee des Beaux Arts, who watches others’ historical suffering with as much interest as the peasants regard Icarus’ fatal fall.
4.
when abroad, the scholar has a hard time concealing his expertise. he knows, for example, that the young boy selling peanuts, with their shells still on, for 50 cents per plastic cup is lying when he says he will go to get change for his bill. he knows it’s an old trick, he can’t be fooled simply because he’s a foreigner. so he demands his change – also 50 cents— and yells after the boy as he disappears behind a door. when the boy returns with change for his bill, the scholar is smug. he’ll probably try his hand at haggling at the market later that evening. next to him, his companions discuss marx, smoke cigarettes and order another round of shots. it’s the middle of summer, and the nights are long.
5.
the anonymous reviewer submitting comments for the year-end evaluation writes “not good under pressure. how does she expect to move up the ladder?” that’s corporate ethics disguised as non-profit proactiveness, which is the word another manager always loves to use: be proactive with your projects, be a team player, be a part of the organizational family. if you love your work, it won’t feel like work. if the work starts to love you back, remember that lay-offs are done in the name of the family, the collective good.
6.
sitting next to the famous writer, i’m invisible. the line of people wanting her autograph is long. most are bashful, but the brave try to sell her something. pathetic small talk giving way to pathetic self-promotion. who could blame them? those years, human resource professionals recommended networking and informational interviews and elevator pitches. sell yourself in the time this elevator takes to go to the fifteenth floor. divided into small groups, we sat in circles and practiced our pitches. we applauded the most succinct, punchy ones. summarizing yourself should be celebrated. that’s what the autograph accomplishes.
7.
the war was not waged at home.
8.
why did we sit silently? make the world our enemy? exculpate ourselves? the trees were cut, the birds were shot, people went hungry, our homes were warm, we were “haunted” and “moved,” “speechless” and “stunned,” but “aware.” the evidence was found in the text.
9.
the student says, “who cares if they were tortured, they were terrorists.” the class is made uncomfortable. hands are raised. the passive voice does a lot of work. we look at the text again: all of them were innocent. someone brings up morality. tap tap tap, he taps his foot. like the NSA agent did at the talk hosted by the literary nonprofit. “if you aren’t doing anything wrong, why worry about your privacy?” he mocked the audience member challenging him. the room was made uncomfortable. hands were raised.“i’m learning russian because i want to do intelligence,” the young woman says, “it was either that, or arabic, and it’s too dangerous in the middle east.” the CIA does recruitment talks in the dorms. time to practice your elevator pitches: language is always an accomplice. i check my email, the library advertises a new database: Human Rights Studies Online. a neat row of squares arranges photographs from different wars into organized selections ready for the analysis of the sympathetic academic. if you didn’t do anything wrong, why worry about your privacy? give yourself over to the scientific method, to the work of the passive voice.
10.
on the low hill, an olive tree stands alone. below it, a tractor digs up the soft earth. olive trees have shallow roots, it will take some time before the metal reaches them. each year, early spring plants grow out in basal rosettes, the structure a circular crown. close to the soil, dandelions form circles of leaves—a plural inside the singular—that, before mowers or pesticides get to them, break up the homogeneous, one-note green lawns. “if you pick a flower in america,” our relatives warned us, “the police will fine or arrest you.” they wanted to help us assimilate, but also highlight the level of order and safety in our new country. the anecdote about the flowers was meant to evoke surprise and awe, because such a quotidian act was so heavily regulated, ostensibly to preserve the beauty of public spaces for everyone. the meaning of their words, of course, functions on exclusion— “everyone” means the beneficiaries of that american dream who accumulated wealth through genocide and enslavement and capitalism. after assimilation, comes naturalization—citizenship as long as you pass the test, swear you aren’t a communist. joining the feast of exploitation is the american dream of immigrants whose whiteness makes them feel superior, like they belong in the landscape of manicured, homogenous lawns, reeking of the decay of conformity they cherish. on walks, i pick leaves of dandelion and mugwort and press them between the pages of books, those relentless plans that grow under subway tracks, the sides of highways, in shitty urban gardens, at the precipice of cliffs, in abandoned lots heavy with pollution. a sprig of mint grows out of a hole in the plastic pot in the balcony. i pick that, too, before it rots like the others.
Genta Nishku
Genta Nishku lives in New York and was raised in Tirana. Her writing and translations can be found in various journals. She tweets sporadically at twitter.com/gentanishku.