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robertogreco : thirdculturekids   7

The 18-year-old rapper bold enough to just be MIKE - YouTube
"MIKE and the sLUms crew are changing the model for internet-bred rappers.

Listen to MIKE’s music here: https://mikelikesrap.bandcamp.com/ "

[See also:
"The 18-Year-Old Rapper Bold Enough to Just Be MIKE: MIKE and the sLUms crew are changing the model for internet-bred rappers."
https://theoutline.com/post/2420/the-18-year-old-rapper-bold-enough-to-just-be-mike

"The rapper MIKE [https://twitter.com/t6mikee ] is carving a different kind of path for himself as an internet rapper [https://mikelikesrap.bandcamp.com/music ]. While many Soundcloud [https://soundcloud.com/t6mikee ]and Youtube musicians are focused on chasing fast fame, MIKE, whose given name is Michael Jordan Bonema, says he’s more interested in creating a lasting community where he, his collective of friends (which goes by sLUms [https://soundcloud.com/wastedareas ]), and his fans can communicate and feel comfortable. After his well-received full length album from earlier this year, May God Bless Your Hustle [https://mikelikesrap.bandcamp.com/album/may-god-bless-your-hustle ], MIKE is poised to blow up and he plans to bring everyone along for the ride." ]

[More:

MIKE's YouTube channel
https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCiXfXIX2s6MKt4N2KkBdg2Q

sLUms YouTube channel
https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCVPti_6jZhRsDIi7Fhz-6wA/videos

"MIKE - 40 STOPS (PROD SIXPRESS)" (from the Outline video)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mEE6VHXQy-Q

"MIKE Should Be Your New Favourite Teen Rapper"
https://noisey.vice.com/en_uk/article/j5gwjg/mike-wait-for-me-video-premiere-by-water

MIKE on Instagram
https://www.instagram.com/mikelikesrap/

MIKE's music:
https://lnk.to/MIKE-ByTheWaterEP
https://open.spotify.com/artist/1wlzPS1hSNrkriIIwLFTmU
https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/by-the-water-ep/id1275512315?app=music&ign-mpt=uo%3D4
https://soundcloud.com/t6mikee ]
music  oddfuture  mike  edg  soundcloud  bandcamp  thirdculturekids  earlsweatshirt  identity  communication  nyc  michaeljordanbonema  internet  web  rap  ofwgkta  2017  hiphop  thebenerudakgositsile 
october 2017 by robertogreco
There's a translation joke for Korean-Americans in the subtitles of Okja.
"There are many excellent jokes in Okja, Bong Joon-ho’s genre-mashing movie about the titular GMO super-pig and its kid caretaker Mija, which is now streaming on Netflix. There are poop jokes; there are Tilda Swinton’s braces; there are references that run the high-low gamut, including a re-creation of the Obama war-room photo and Andrew Lincoln’s poster-board confessional from Love Actually. But there’s another joke buried in the subtitles, a little gem reserved for that special group of people who can speak both Korean and English.

The moment happens when the radical animal-rights group ALF (the Animal Liberation Front), headed by Jay (Paul Dano), ostensibly rescues Okja from the Mirando corporation. But what they’re really trying to do is use Okja as a mole to expose Mirando’s animal-rights abuses. To do this, they would have to hack into Okja’s monitoring system and allow the super-pig to be taken back to the lab. Jay won’t go through with the plan without Mija’s (Ahn Seo-hyun) consent, but the only way to communicate with her is through fellow ALF member K, a Korean-American character played by Steven Yeun. When they ask Mija what she wants to do, she says that all she wants is to go back to the mountains with Okja, but K lies and says that she agrees to the plan, much to the delight of his comrades.

[screenshot]

With that, each ALF member jumps out of the truck into the Han River below, with K the last to go. According to the subtitles, his parting words to Mija are “Mija! Try learning English. It opens new doors!” In an earlier version I watched, the subtitle read, “How’s my Korean?” What he actually says is “Mija! Also, my name is Koo Soon-bum.”

[screenshot]

It’s a flagrant mistranslation—but one that would only be apparent to those who can speak both languages. Moreover, the mistranslation is a clever subversion of the supremacy of English. The subtitle is a command to learn English—something that every Korean student has heard throughout her life—but to actually understand what K is saying, you would have to know Korean. There’s an added layer of comedy to the name itself, which has the whiff of the old country about it: “Koo Soon-bum” is sort of like a white man saying his name is “Buford Attaway.” As Yeun told me, “When he says ‘Koo Soon-bum,’ it’s funny to you if you’re Korean, because that’s a dumb name. There’s no way to translate that. That’s like, the comedy drop-off, the chasm between countries.”

Bong wrote the character of K specifically with Yeun in mind, because he’s a character that only a Korean-American could play. Yeun’s performance itself is a nod to that gap; it reads differently if you know Korean. While it’s obvious that he’s a bit of a dolt, if you have the ear for the language, his failures are more apparent, because he speaks with the stiltedness of a second-generation speaker (Yeun’s actual pronunciation is a lot better). He’s not quite sure of himself, and is trying to fit into both spaces, but can’t. (This is also why the other subtitle joke that I saw, “How’s my Korean?” works in a subtler way.) Yeun said the character “speaks to the island we live on”: He was a character written for Korean-Americans.

Throughout Okja, Bong plays with the idea of translation, both its necessities and inherent limitations, and the inevitable comedy that arises out of that space. When Jay learns that K deliberately lied, he starts to beat him up, telling him to “never mistranslate!” Toward the end of the movie, K pops back up with a fresh tattoo that reads, “Translations are sacred.”

[screenshot]

Part of what makes Okja so remarkable is that Bong Joon-ho has found ways to make jokes that track across both cultural spheres. Unlike the wave of male Korean directors who crossed over into Hollywood around the same time, Park Chan-wook on Stoker or Kim Jee-woon with The Last Stand, Bong never let go of his roots. He cast Korean actors Song Kang-ho and Ko Ah-sung and had them speaking Korean dialogue alongside Hollywood stars Chris Evans and Octavia Spencer in his dystopian train ride thriller Snowpiercer. He furthers the Korean-American dynamic in Okja, centering on a young Korean girl and pitting her against the forces of an American corporation headed by Tilda Swinton’s knobby-kneed CEO. Just as the dialogue shifts seamlessly between both languages, Bong easily trots around the world, from the Korean countryside dotted with persimmon trees to the underground shopping malls of Seoul to the streets of New York City.
“Director Bong is probably one of the few, if not the only, people I’ve seen so far, that’s been able to bridge the two together,” said Yeun. “I don’t mean being able to do an American movie—a lot of directors could probably do that—but bridging the two cultures together in a cohesive way. That’s a tall order, and somehow, he accomplishes that.”"
language  translation  korean  film  okja  bongjoon-ho  stevenyeun  subtlety  via:sophia  culture  thirdculturekids  liminalspaces  2017 
july 2017 by robertogreco
Hayati - Fabrica
"Hayati, “my life” in Arabic, is an intimate photographic diary created entirely on a smartphone by Karim El Maktafi, in which the author reflects on his own identity as an Italian born from Moroccan parents. The photographer chose a smartphone, a medium he considers less intrusive than a camera. With this tool he creates suspended, enigmatic images that capture the sense of uncertainty, doubt and disorientation of those who live between two seemingly incompatible realities. Embracing a single status is not easy; feeling like an odd cultural hybrid happens often. Yet, while trying to define this identity, one understands the advantage of “standing on a doorstep”. One can decide who to be or where to belong, or else create new ties, keeping everything learnt along the path: more languages, more cultural taboos and references, more prohibitions to withstand and explain. Hayati explores some of these realities, using the photographer’s own life, family and friends as a case study, sometimes concealing their faces to respect their wish for privacy.

Born in Desenzano del Garda, Karim El Maktafi graduated from the Italian Institute of Photography in Milan in 2013. He has collaborated with several photographers in various fields and has then explored the concept of identity through reportages and portraits. His work has been presented in exhibitions such as the Brescia Photo Festival, the Festival of Ethical Photography, and YES Collective in Auckland. Hayati was realised between 2016 and 2017, during El Maktafi’s residency at Fabrica. It was awarded the PHM 2017 Grant – New Generation Prize, and is shortlisted for the CAP Prize 2017 – Contemporary African Photography Prize."
photography  smartphones  karimelmaktafi  fabrica  classideas  privacy  intimacy  hybrids  thirdculturekids  uncertinty  doubt  immigration  migration  identity  disorientation  incompatibility 
may 2017 by robertogreco
On Having Roots in More than One Place | The American Conservative
"I’m reading Rushdie’s memoir Joseph Anton right now, and in a particularly interesting passage he — writing in the third person, as he does, annoyingly, through the book — explains why he wrote The Satanic Verses:
The strange truth was that, after two novels that engaged directly with the public history of the Indian subcontinent, he saw this new book as a much more personal, interior exploration, a first attempt to create a work out of his own experience of migration and metamorphosis: To him, it was the least political book of the three.

(The other two books being Midnight’s Children, set in India, and Shame, set in Pakistan.) The Satanic Verses is, in its author’s view, “a personal, interior exploration” in this very important sense:
It was unsettling not to understand why the shape of life had changed. He often felt meaningless, even absurd. He was a Bombay boy who had made his life in London among the English, but often he felt cursed by a double unbelonging. The root of language, at least, remained, but he began to appreciate how deeply he felt the loss of the other roots, and how confused he felt about what he had become. In the age of migration the world’s millions of migrated selves faced colossal problems, problems of homelessness, hunger, unemployment, disease, persecution, alienation, fear. He was one of the luckier ones, but one great problem remained: that of authenticity. The migrated self became, inevitably, heterogeneous instead of homogeneous, belonging to more than one place, multiple rather than singular, responding to more than one way of being, more than averagely mixed up. Was it possible to be — to become good at being — not rootless, but multiply rooted? Not to suffer from a loss of roots but to benefit from an excess of them? The different roots would have to be of equal or near-equal strength, and he worried that his Indian connection had weakened. He needed to make an act of reclamation of the Indian identity he had lost, or felt he was in danger of losing. The self was both its origins and its journey.

There’s a lot to unpack here, and maybe I’ll get a chance to unpack it as I continue reading the book. But let me just note two things right now:

1) Nothing is more important to the modern self that to possess, or to feel that it possesses, authenticity. This manifests itself in a lot of ways, including, most obviously and perhaps superficially, choices about food. For many people there’s no higher commendation of a restaurant than to call it “authentic.” (This used to, and probably still does, drive the great food writer Calvin Trillin nuts. To the claim that a restaurant is “authentic” he would typically reply “No it isn’t.” But then he would ask, “Who cares? What matters is: Was it good? Did you clean your plate?”) A deeper problem is that nothing could be less authentic than thinking about authenticity, as Lionel Trilling noted forty years ago when he wrote a book on this topic that’s still deeply incisive, Sincerity and Authenticity.

2) The question of whether it’s possible to be “multiply rooted” — not rootless, but rooted in different places — is an increasingly insistent one not just for immigrants but for all kinds of people in a transient and mobile world. I have lived in Illinois for much longer than I lived in Alabama, but don’t feel rooted here: is that inevitable? Is that my fault? Have I somehow failed to put down the roots that I should have? Is just being an American, whether in Alabama or Illinois, a sufficiently rooted identity? (Few would say yes. Why not?) Can online identity provide roots? (Some people surely believe that it does.) And why does a felt lack of rootedness bother people, including me?

Things to think about…."
salmanrushdie  writing  identity  culture  authenticity  rootedness  roots  2012  lioneltrilling  food  thirdculturekids  belonging  unbelonging  modernity  alanjacobs  calvintrillin  sincerity  unrootedness  online  web 
october 2015 by robertogreco
Pico Iyer: Where is home? | TED Talk Subtitles and Transcript | TED.com
"And if "Where do you come from?" means "Which place goes deepest inside you and where do you try to spend most of your time?" then I'm Japanese, because I've been living as much as I can for the last 25 years in Japan. Except, all of those years I've been there on a tourist visa, and I'm fairly sure not many Japanese would want to consider me one of them.

And I say all this just to stress how very old-fashioned and straightforward my background is, because when I go to Hong Kong or Sydney or Vancouver, most of the kids I meet are much more international and multi-cultured than I am. And they have one home associated with their parents, but another associated with their partners, a third connected maybe with the place where they happen to be, a fourth connected with the place they dream of being, and many more besides. And their whole life will be spent taking pieces of many different places and putting them together into a stained glass whole. Home for them is really a work in progress. It's like a project on which they're constantly adding upgrades and improvements and corrections.

And for more and more of us, home has really less to do with a piece of soil than, you could say, with a piece of soul. If somebody suddenly asks me, "Where's your home?" I think about my sweetheart or my closest friends or the songs that travel with me wherever I happen to be.

And I'd always felt this way, but it really came home to me, as it were, some years ago when I was climbing up the stairs in my parents' house in California, and I looked through the living room windows and I saw that we were encircled by 70-foot flames, one of those wildfires that regularly tear through the hills of California and many other such places. And three hours later, that fire had reduced my home and every last thing in it except for me to ash. And when I woke up the next morning, I was sleeping on a friend's floor, the only thing I had in the world was a toothbrush I had just bought from an all-night supermarket. Of course, if anybody asked me then, "Where is your home?" I literally couldn't point to any physical construction. My home would have to be whatever I carried around inside me.

And in so many ways, I think this is a terrific liberation. Because when my grandparents were born, they pretty much had their sense of home, their sense of community, even their sense of enmity, assigned to them at birth, and didn't have much chance of stepping outside of that. And nowadays, at least some of us can choose our sense of home, create our sense of community, fashion our sense of self, and in so doing maybe step a little beyond some of the black and white divisions of our grandparents' age. No coincidence that the president of the strongest nation on Earth is half-Kenyan, partly raised in Indonesia, has a Chinese-Canadian brother-in-law.

The number of people living in countries not their own now comes to 220 million, and that's an almost unimaginable number, but it means that if you took the whole population of Canada and the whole population of Australia and then the whole population of Australia again and the whole population of Canada again and doubled that number, you would still have fewer people than belong to this great floating tribe. And the number of us who live outside the old nation-state categories is increasing so quickly, by 64 million just in the last 12 years, that soon there will be more of us than there are Americans. Already, we represent the fifth-largest nation on Earth. And in fact, in Canada's largest city, Toronto, the average resident today is what used to be called a foreigner, somebody born in a very different country.

And I've always felt that the beauty of being surrounded by the foreign is that it slaps you awake. You can't take anything for granted. Travel, for me, is a little bit like being in love, because suddenly all your senses are at the setting marked "on." Suddenly you're alert to the secret patterns of the world. The real voyage of discovery, as Marcel Proust famously said, consists not in seeing new sights, but in looking with new eyes. And of course, once you have new eyes, even the old sights, even your home become something different."
picoiyer  2013  place  belonging  culture  japan  california  migration  international  thirdculturekids  global  roots 
july 2015 by robertogreco
Episode 32: KIDS | The BitterSweet Life
"We meet three American girls in Orvieto, Italy. Giulia (age 13), Paloma (age 11), and Viola (age 8) have been expats their whole lives. How do they view the United States from afar? Do they feel like they fit in with the local kids their age?

WATCH: The girls perform with travel guru, Rick Steves: http://vimeo.com/67059881 "
children  thirdculturekids  2014  travel  expats  kids  unitedstates  thebittersweetlife  ricksteves  education  schools  learning  belonging  katysewall  tiffanyparks 
february 2015 by robertogreco
How I Learned To Stop Erasing Myself
"There’s a type of inborn initiative that comes from having never been obligated to answer questions about the meaning of one’s name that I was always envious of. Now, at 28, I’m slowly becoming myself."



"To be first generation means acquiescing to a lasting state of restlessness. It’s as if you’ve inherited not just your family’s knotted DNA, but also the DNA acquired from their move, from veritable mileage, from the energy it took your parents to reestablish their lives. I grasped early — perhaps one February morning as I warmed my feet inside the car while my mother scraped snow off her windshield, her rosy cheeks emerging through icy diagonals on the glass — that my parents were not from here but from there: Kolkata. There she was, removing snow with great purpose and rhythm as I spasmed with chills until I was toasty and warm. There she was, my Anglo-Indian mother, Dolores. She from there but now living here, wearing winter boots and a puffy coat. And me, her daughter who is from here, but also in some conveyed manner, from there too.

That distinction is one that accompanies me every day but one that I have been careful to never overly indulge. There’s only so much difference I can sustain without gutting all of my confidence. Without feeling lost. What tethers me to my parents is the unspoken dialogue we share about how plenty of my character is built on the connection I feel to the world they were raised in but that I’ve only experienced through photos, visits, food. It’s not mine and yet, I get it. First generation kids, I’ve always thought, are the personification of déjà vu.

While in some ways my name is one of the smallest kernels of who I am, I now know that something far more furtive is at play when one’s name is misheard, that the act of mishearing is not benign but ultimately silencing. A quash so subtle that — and here’s what I’m still working out — it develops into a feeling of invalidation I’ve inhabited ever since I was a kid. Nothing will make you fit in less than trying, constantly, to fit in: portioning your name, straightening your hair, developing a wary love-hate fascination to white moms whose pantries were stocked differently than yours.

And swapping between the varied pronunciations of your name: When I was growing up in Montreal, my French teachers would sputter the D with a tsk and at home, my father’s Bengali accent would round the Dh-oor sound. In my mind I always imagined his articulation written in felt marker, in bubble letters too. But the North American way of saying my name is the one I’ve come to know and use. Durrrr-gah. Like the hum of a machine capped by the gleeful sound a baby makes after knocking over her bowl of Cheerios.

The first-person essay is not one that comes naturally to me. Who is this “I”? Am I entitled to her? Is she my voice or is she the voice that is expected of me? One editor has urged me to claim the “I” instead of exhausting my rhetorical crutch: “One might say…” When I have a point to make, I’m tempted to sideline it or deceive myself of its ownership. To delight in anonymity. The way I see it, while all of these admissions sound grim they are everyday to anyone who was born accommodating — who’s read enough “I’s” in enough essays, but has never seen “me.”

To want and to write in the first person are two actions that demand of you: you. But this long and lanky “I” has never arrived at me freely. How can an “I” contain all of my many fragments and contradictions and more so, all of me that is undiscovered? Is this “I” actually mine to own? If you’ve ever been someone whose first self is what intrigues others, writing in the first person necessitates that you grow fascinated with yourself, which is exceedingly uncomfortable and wobbly territory for me.

More so, the very desire to write it all down, to trust that my experience and what I might share of it has merit, is a certainty that is a foreign prerogative. Often, I’ll be thinking aloud with friends or deliberating on ideas that have been simmering or on luckier occasions, ideas that have been connecting, and a friend will excitedly chime in, “You should write about that.” But the impulse to write it all down is at most secondary or tertiary, and generally, not even on my radar. “Everything is copy,” Nora Ephron famously said. Those three words toll and do inspire, but in my case, being held accountable for a voice that is perhaps not my own but is inferred because of my name or the color of my skin can be stifling. Not everything is copy — that’s what my parents would likely say. My first inclination is to let ideas sit and to overthink and wrestle with them. And then maybe, just maybe, draft an email to a friend where I blunder the original purpose of my note: to seek out a single person audience."
identity  names  immigrant  immigration  identities  2015  restelessness  migration  thirdculturekids  voice  durgachew-bose 
january 2015 by robertogreco

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