A Year of Soviet Studies

      Teaching at North Park University has a lot of benefits. I love being in the classroom. Being around young people keep me young at heart and gives me a wonderful perspective on what young folks are really like. I really enjoy the schedule that provides for lots of free time. I am free to improve my courses, do research, and to write. I am also “free” to squander that time. It has been a lifelong and constant struggle to use this free time productively.
     This year, I have been using said free time to read and watch some film. I did not start out with this in mind, but the theme has been the Soviet Union. I have read two books and watched the HBO miniseries on Chernobyl. This experience provided an insight on an aspect of the dysfunction of the Soviet system that I had not been truly aware of: the push for productivity to the point where corners and quality were cut to give the illusion of achieving goals.
     Secondly, I watched a wickedly delicious and dark comic film, The Death of Stalin, which provided another perspective on Beria, Khrushchev, Molotov, and Zhukov in the passing of Stalin and ascension of Khrushchev. I also watched the very well-done Steven Spielberg film, Bridge of Spies, that documented the story of about the exchange of Soviet Spy Rudolf Abel for Francis Gary Powers the US U2 pilot.
     I was not planning on reading more on the Soviet Union during this winter break between terms. I planned on reading a few books but had not queued up any titles. I saw a book, Stalin’s Children by Owen Matthews, on one of our bookshelves and started reading it. It was a book that my wife actually picked up thinking it might contain an Armenian connection. I assumed it was about Stalin’s actual children Svetlana and Vasily which is why I started to read it. I was definitely wrong and there were very few Armenian references in the book.
     The subtitle of the Stalin’s Children is: Three Generations of Love, War, and Survival. The book is a telling of the Bibikov family saga starting with the author’s grandfather Boris. Boris Bibikov was too young to have participate in the Bolshevik revolution but certainly was swept up by the fervor in the 1920s. From the book:

I don’t believe that my grandfather was a hero, but he lived in heroic times and such times brought out greatness in people large and small. The slogans of the Bolshevik Revolution were Peace, Love, and Bread; and at the time this message must, to ambitious and idealistic men, must have seemed fresh, vibrant and couched in the language of prophesy.

     Boris was young and ambitious to took to the Bolshevik slogan. He became a party member in the Ukraine and rose quickly in the ranks. By the early 1930s he was a central figure in building the giant Kharkov Tractor Factory that was one of the great achievements of the first Five Year Plan.
     Boris married and had two daughters Lenina and Lyudmilla. The family was doing well and living the Soviet dream, if there was such a thing. As it seems that most happiness in the Soviet Union was temporal, it didn’t last. Boris was swept up in the Stalin’s purges and was killed or died in prison. His wife was banished to Central Asia to a gulag and the daughters, stayed together, but were bounced around in the Soviet orphanage system where they were considered Stalin’s Children.
     Lyudmila was to become the authors mother. His father, Mervyn Matthews, hailed from a coal mining town in Wales. Mervyn raised himself out of his humble beginnings, developing an interest in all things Russian and being educated at Manchester University and Oxford. Circumstances and career moves took him to Moscow where he worked at the British Embassy. This is where Mervyn met the equally well-educated Lyudmila who was working at Institute of Marxism and Leninism. They fell in madly in love and decided to marry. During this same time, the KGB tried to recruit Mervyn. He turned them down and as a

result their application to marry was rejected and he was summarily deported. The remainder of the book is how Mervyn spent five years trying to get reunited with Lyudmila. He worked every angle of PR and subterfuge to achieve the goal. He ventured, illegally, to the Soviet Union a few times to see her and was lucky that he was only arrested and not jailed. Finally, he prevailed in an exchange akin to another great movie of the era, The Bridge of Spies, involving the same East German lawyer from the movie, Wolgang Vogel.
     When finally, together, Mervyn and Lyudmila settled into a life where the passion and desires when separated were never equaled in married life. I was kind of hoping what we all hoped would happen if Lara and Zhivago had ever reunited. But that would have been more Hollywood and this true story was definitely more Russian.
     I am not sure if my Russian studies will continue in 2020 or if I will gravitate to a new subject of study. Rest assured, I will blog about it.

Christmas 2019

Our Home - Ready for Christmas Eve

     I like to write a Christmas letter each year. When I can, I prefer to start when it is still dark out and there is that “not a creature is stirring” kind of quiet. It is a time for reflection and thinking about family and friends that I will see later today but more so, those I will not being seeing today and those that have passed.
     For today’s edition, there is not quite that pre-dawn ambiance. Our Christmas Eve celebrations were wonderful and ran later than usual. As a result, I awoke after dawn. I have texted Christmas greetings to folks hither and yon including a bantering exchange with the inimitable Ara Topouzian. I am on my second cup of coffee and it is a rather late 9:05 am here in Chicago.
     This later hour, in the daylight, has me in a less reflective mood than normal. Maybe, this is just the result of already having texted or called many folks I would otherwise be thinking of right now. It could also be that in previous Christmas letters, I have already expressed what I would want to express now… again. Last year’s letter sums it all up better than this meandering attempt.
     Yet, I am still sitting in front of the keyboard typing whatever this is. I might have even started this later or perhaps not even gotten to it all but for a text from a friend: “I am assuming you are writing or have written your article. Have a wonderful Christmas.” Well, that got me to pour that second cup of coffee and to fire up the computer!
     Christmas and this season, the twelve days of Christmas, that begins with the Christmas most celebrate on December 25th and ends with Armenian Christmas on January 6th. In between, there is New Year’s Day which for some is a time to reflect on the past year and resolve what to do and how to behave in the new year. This year, 2019, we are closing out the second decade of this century. I really wasn’t paying much attention to this until I started reading a few retrospectives of which more are sure to follow in the next week.
     The past few years, I have lost two close friends. RK Jones passed in 2015 and Angel de la Puente at the end of 2018. Flat out, I miss these fellows. They were great friends who influenced my thinking and world view. I assumed it would last forever. Of course, the sentiment, love, and friendship never goes away. But the seeing and talking to them did come to an abrupt halt. I miss the latter. I miss them both but feel blessed to have known them and they are forever on my mind as are my sister Laura, my dad, my father in-law, our grandparents, uncles, and aunts.
     The beauty of life is while we lose family and friends, we meet and embrace new friends and family. First and foremost, in this case, are my grandchildren: Aris, Vaughn, Lara, Sasoun, and Haig. As they live in DC and LA, we do not see them nearly enough but thank FaceTime and WhatsApp for being to see and speak with them as often as we like. They are a joy that is immeasurable.
     Also, for some reason, Chirstmas time and the New Year make me reflect on

Service Award at North Park with
President Surridge and my North Park
mentor Leona Mirza

my work colleagues more than I might normally. I see them often appreciate them regularly at least in thought. This letter always seems like the time and place to do so more formally. I used to write a Christmas morning email to my colleagues in Latin America when I was at Colgate-Palmolive. Today, I am thinking of and valuing my friends and colleagues at North Park University and the wonderful folks I have performed music with this past year in the University of Chicago Middle Eastern Music Ensemble and the various Armenian groups I play with. Making new acquaintances at North Park with both students and colleagues has been a true blessing. The students keep me young, well, young at heart at least. And my musician colleagues? There is no description for nailing a performance with good and valued friends. Along with family, you all enrich my life.
     The closing to this letter has become standard. I see no reason to change it this year.

I know I will not see most of you this year. I am not sure if this is an Armenian or American tradition, but consider this my making the rounds, knocking on your door, wishing you the best of the season, and you inviting me in to meet you and yours over a cup of Christmas cheer. If I could do that in Detroit, Los Angeles, Boston, San Jose, New York, Wilton, Caracas, Mexico City, Yerevan, Istanbul, Buenos Aires, Montevideo, Guatemala City, Panama City, or Ocala, that would be something. Heck, it would be something if I could do that with everyone I know in Chicagoland!

I close this letter the same way I did last several years. The sentiment is exactly the same with only the year updated. I am delighted to reach out this very quiet moment to friends and family all over the United States and all over the world to convey our warm Christmas wishes to you and yours. Even more so, I hope that 2020 is a year of health, happiness, and prosperity for you and yours.

Fatbergs?

     As I noted in my previous posting, The Problem with Mental Notes, there are plenty of topics around me to write about. All that is required is to pay attention, be alert, and write down the topic idea when they bubble to the surface.  Shortly after I posted that, a topic just fell in my lap.

     I learned about a consequence of our overpopulation and throwaway society: The Fatberg.
     What the heck is a fatberg?

At their core, fatbergs are the accumulation of oil and grease that's been poured down the drain, congealing around flushed nonbiological waste like tampons, condoms and—the biggest fatberg component of all—baby wipes. When fat sticks to the side of sewage pipes, the wipes and other detritus get stuck, accumulating layer upon layer of gunk in a sort of slimy snowball effect. Newsweek 3-14-19

     These things, these fatbergs, when they accumulate can weigh tons (or tonnes if the occur in the UK). They cause sewer backups and are costly to dislodge.

Fatbergs are placing an increasing financial burden in cities throughout the world. Clearing "grease backups" costs New York City more than $4.65 million a year. The U.K. spends about $130 million annually clearing roughly 300,000 fatbergs from city sewers. Even a smaller city like Fort Wayne, Indiana, shells out $500,000 annually to get grease deposits out of sewers. And the cost is usually passed along to customers through their water bills. Newsweek 3-14-19

     The pressure makes these fatbergs dense as stones. They emit all kinds of noxious gases when removing and are laden with bacteria that includes listeria and e-coli. Workers need to be in the sewers in hazmat suits to work on them.
     London, with an old and overwhelmed sewer system, is the most susceptible to this modern phenomenon. The largest fatberg recorded there was in 2017, it got its own name, Fatty McFatberg, and weighed an incredible 130 tons. In this country, Baltimore had one the size of a city block while Detroit had one six feet in height and a hundred feet long.
     There is a bit of bright side. Fatbergs can be converted to biodiesel. It is not clear how cost effective this is but it seems to be a relatively clean way to dispose of these disgusting masses. Researchers are looking at developing bacteria that prevent these fatbergs from forming. It is not clear when or if there will be a solution in this regard. One of the promising methods was reported in 2018:

[University of British Columbia]… scientists heated their experimental fatbergs to between 194 and 212 degrees Fahrenheit before adding peroxide to force the organic matter to break up. Bacteria then turned the fatberg remnants into methane. The process is less costly than the alternative—excavating the sludge before converting it to fuel. Newsweek 8-23-18

     The best solution is for restaurants to stop disposing of grease down the drain and for people to stop flushing wipes away. This will require a massive marketing and advertising campaign to influence behavior. Such campaigns have started in the UK but I have not seen any evidence of such in the US. Furthermore, we have to get away from our disposable habits. Disposing gets trash and biowastes out of sight and out of mind quickly and easily. But, where does these massive amounts of trash and wastes go and how do we deal with them. It is apparent that our growing population have overwhelmed our sewers, waterways, landfills, air, and planet. 

     The question is do we have the governmental and individual wherewithal to make effect such changes. A related question is if we really have a choice?

The Problem with Mental Notes

https://www.totally-tiffany.com/tip-4-from-goc-3-write-a-mental-note/

     People often ask me where I get the topics I write about. The answer is simple, actually. The topics are all about me. There are countless topics in the news. There are topics in the people I interact with and all the various behaviors they exhibit. There are topics I see with my colleagues and students. And… there are topics in my head, many of them, which are often lacking focus and definition. 
      There are the times when I have to pick, choose, and prioritize what I want to write about. No being paid for any of this, I basically pick and choose what I feel like writing about. Though I do not get paid, I feel an amazing sense of accomplishment for doing this. All payment, all reward, is not necessarily monetary. 
     There are other times, like the past few weeks, where the topics don’t come so easily or frequently. Sometimes, it is just because. I liken it to drought of topics or maybe a batting slump which I think I this case would be better called writer’s block. Other times, it is because my day job gets takes precedence. It is, after all, the end of the semester which is a busy time with final exams, final projects, and grading. 
     The other day, in the course of my long teaching day, I had a topic. It was a middle of the road kind of topic and nothing very special. I was looking forward to expounding on the topic later that evening. When I finally got home and grabbed my computer, I had no idea what the topic was. I started laughing at myself. I should have written it down. I know that. I didn’t. I relied on my memory having made a mental note. My mental notes? They are post-its that no longer stick very well. I am sure the cellar of my mind is littered with countless numbers of these mental notes. I know better. If it is something important, I need to jot it in my notebook that is never far from hand. I did not do that, and I am still unaware what the heck the topic was. 
     At my age, I do pay some attention to the frequency of such forgetfulness. As far as I can tell, this has been a lifelong occurrence in which the frequency has been relatively stable. This last incident reminded of a similar event in 1983. I wrote a poem, tucked it away somewhere, and promptly forgot where I put the scrap of paper. I was kind of proud of the poem and thought it be one of my better ones. I hoped it would turn up. Months later, it did. I open a textbook and it fell out. I felt relieved to have found it and read it right away. Immediately, I was disappointed at how much I had inflated the quality of the ditty. But, I did write another poem about it, which I am happy to present here.
     Who knows, I might actually remember what the forgotten topic was and blog about it tomorrow.

The Lost Poem Poem

It was a paragon
In its natural state
All scribbled,
Erased and scratched:
Pure symmetry in rough draft.

Now its gone without a trace
And I've got egg upon my face
For instead of typing up excellence
I'm reduced to this:
Lyrical nonsense.

It' the fish that got away,
Seventy-four miles per gallon,
The check that's in the eternal mail
And all those sex act lies.

Yet, this poem was different.
It had class.
It coulda been a contentda...
It coulda been champeen...

Really though, it's basking,
In the glow of lost poem heaven.
Waiting patiently until
Its resurrection in some nook,
Some crevice overlooked.

Upon finding it, 
I praised my serendipity,
It harmonized: mediocrity.

September 1983