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The Modern Architecture Pandemic

By Cher, Tufts 1+4 Participant

Standing upon a simple yet elegant mansion, I was awed when I first saw how architects were able to transform white walls and wide pane glasses into such an aesthetic building. Walking through the rows of mansions by the lake, I always admired the modern houses the most. I admired how architects are able to turn such a simple shape like boxes and triangular prisms using the colors of whites, grays, and black to establish grand and beautiful houses. To me, these homes represent wealth, elegance, and power. As an immigrant, these qualities are part of the dream that my family and many other families had dreamt of when sacrificing our blood and sweat. To live in such a house meant that you worked hard to get there.

As my host brother walked me through the traditional houses and the shops, we came to a halt at a big intersection. At first glance, I noticed all the sleek and beautiful modern houses across the road. This road is where the vacation homes for the rich intersect with the homes of the people whose ancestors have lived here long before it became a destination for tourists. I admired how beautiful they were, but questions popped up in my head. Why do these beautiful houses feel so out of place? What was here before them? As I explored my new home, I noticed that these houses were by the beaches, on top of mountains, and in perfect places for houses to be located with amazing views. Everywhere I go, there is always a white boxed house with beautiful details. They all begin to look the same to me. A house that I used to admire so much now became so common, basic, and identity-less.

Modernist architect designs became popular after world war two. It was a form of design to embrace the beauty of simplicity, function, and rationality that utilized the new materials and advanced technology. These modern designs reject old, traditional, historical ideas and styles, and ornamentation. These designs were meant to improve the standard of living for all by using industrial ideals.

The inspirations drawn by modernist architecture is to make the home more functional, rational, and improve the quality of living. When you look closely to those who live in these houses and how big they are, you begin to question these intentions. The people who live in these types of houses already have access to wealth and a great quality of life. The homes that are made in this style takes up so much space for usually a family of four. Due to the fact that this style rejects the old, traditional, and historical ideas, it looks out of place, especially when it is planted in a city that has a lot of historical context such as Florianópolis. In my perspective, these houses fail to appreciate the culture and historical context of where they are built. The style is so different from those before it that it seems as if they don’t want to acknowledge the history of the land. The intention of the modernist design is to improve the home for people throughout the world, but the impact doesn’t correlate with the intention. This is because only those with access to wealth have access to this design, because it takes up more room than it needs, and it is a clear display of wealth and power. The modernist home design is a beautiful design that has great intentions to improve society, but fails to deliver the impact.

I appreciate these homes for their intention and beauty, but after seeing what the impacts are, I am beginning to question that appreciation. Architectures are a great part of history and culture of a location. When you implant something so different and it doesn’t relate to the culture, like modernist architecture, it seems as though the culture and history of that location was not acknowledged, creating ignorance and division between the new and the old.

Sources:

Larkin, Maggie. “A Brief History of Modern Architecture and Design.” Daily News, The Associated Newspapers of Ceylon Ltd., 22 July 2013, http://www.dailynews.lk/2013/07/22/features/brief-history-modern-architecture-and-design.

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Connections on the Commute

By Madeleine, Tufts 1+4 Participant

A photo of me, Tufts 1+4 Fellows Gio and Silas, as well as our friend Sophia, on a crowded bus

Being from a small town, the longest daily commute I had faced was the ten-minute bus ride to school in junior high. Now, my daily commute involves two buses and over two hours round trip to and from my internship. When I first began riding the bus alone, I was a little nervous about navigating the bus system efficiently, and for good reason- the number of times I’ve had to give up on the bus system and Uber for at least a part of the trip is embarrassing. Beyond the complicated bus routes, however, I was nervous about being bored senseless during the ride. On my first few times riding the bus alone, I downloaded movies to watch, wanting to enclose myself in a bubble of entertainment and familiarity. One day, my bus was overcrowded, and I had to stand, as there were no more seats left to take. When I’m standing on the bus, I usually don’t like to hold my phone, because the often bumpy ride can make me drop it, and since I hold on to a railing or post anyway, I don’t have a free hand. So, there I am, sandwiched between a few others, and through the crowd of people, I noticed a baby staring at me, wide-eyed and adorably fascinated. I stuck my tongue out at her, a simple way to charm most infants. After about a minute, she stuck hers out at me, as if she was proud to have gained a newfound knowledge. Her mother’s eyes widened and she smiled warmly, telling me that was the first time her baby had done that. From then on, I made a more conscious effort to be more present with the people around me on the bus, even if they were strangers, because even a small interaction like this one was so much more valuable than another minute scrolling through social media.

A few days ago, I was sitting next to a girl about my age reading a book so thick that she almost struggled to hold it open. Though I couldn’t see the cover of the book, I glanced over to see if I could follow along and, noticing the names Bill and Eddie, thought, “Oh, wouldn’t it be funny if she were reading ‘IT’ in Spanish.” Then, I began reading along, and saw several mentions of a “payaso,” which means “clown.” I debated for a minute whether I should venture into conversation with her, since I’m not really one for talking with new people, much less in a language other than my native tongue. I recalled how my interaction with the mother and baby before had sparked joy on the dreary bus ride, and I eventually mustered the courage to ask her, “Estás leyendo ‘Eso’?,” to which she responded, “SíSíSí! Es uno de mis favoritos!” My Maine-raised heart skipped a beat, pounding with excitement to have found a connection with someone, especially a connection over something so important to me such as my home state. I told her that I grew up in a town not far from the place where the book is set, and she began enthusiastically inquiring about the settings of Stephen King’s other books, prompting a fun and unexpected conversation discussing his literature. When the bus arrived at her stop, we shared our social media information, and as she walked away, she turned to smile and wave goodbye. Afterward, I felt so rewarded – because I had been present during what I thought would be a painfully mundane hour, I had been able to form a friendship.

Taking the bus every day can be boring, don’t get me wrong, but, I have found that being involved in my surroundings has allowed me to learn more about the people of Montevideo. I no longer “give up” when I face boredom during my commute, succumbing to the bubble of entertainment that my phone gives me. I have found that leaning into the boredom allows me to be with those around me, even strangers, and I have found those experiences so much more rewarding. Through my many trips on the bus, I have been able to make unlikely connections, and I feel lucky that I can continue to explore Montevideo in this way.

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A Silver Lining in Feeling Stupider

By Kaylee, Tufts 1+4 Participant

I don’t think I quite thought through the omnipresence of language in everyday life until I faced the language barrier in Ecuador. Even though English is technically my second language, by the time I was 5 it surpassed my level of Chinese proficiency (which on the other hand has only deteriorated since [Sorry Dad, you were right]). Since being a toddler whose best and possibly only English word was “cookie,” I’ve been able to take my basic, daily communication in the US for granted.

It was couple weeks into my internship at Casa de La Diabetes, a foundation that supports people with diabetes by providing access to education, and cheaper insulin, supplies, and medical care. I understood immediately that my supervisor was asking me to run an errand at the municipal office downtown, but every single other detail was lost in the rapid-fire Spanish. Which floor? Who? Which permit? Leave what? Ask for what? I ventured to confirm what I thought I understood in a hesitant voice, knowing I was wrong and feeling awkward and useless; my supervisor responded by giving me a questioning look and repeating each step so.much.slower.

Here, every sentence with my supervisor or the patients felt like a crowded minefield of grammatical and vocabulary errors, and I was plowing through with a tractor and setting off as many mines as humanly possible. Numbers. Boom. Names I don’t know how to spell. Boom. Talking on the phone. Biggest boom. (A patient hung up on me on my second day because I didn’t understand what they were saying.)

I couldn’t just stop communicating with my supervisors or with the patients I was supposed to help, whereas in more casual conversations I could just step back and be quiet. I had to keep speaking Spanish and making mistakes as part of my work, so eventually I got more comfortable in accepting those inevitable various mistakes. I was a newbie, a rookie, a neophyte—not only in language but also in working with people with diabetes—and I hadn’t ventured into such unfamiliar territory, alone, since I don’t know when. This was a reminder to be patient with myself and to be willing to be the clueless beginner, since everyone has to begin somewhere to get where they want to be. And with being more comfortable with failure, it’s less intimidating to approach the possible minefields.

An example of full-fledged failure: I bombed one of my favorite jokes with my uncle and cousins the other week when we were around the dining table and they demanded that I share a chiste. Here it goes, pre-translated: “I was at a bus stop with a friend the other day. She told me I didn’t understand the meaning of ironic, which was ironic since we were at a bus stop.”

It was fair to say: The timing was off. The translation was not perfect. I had to explain the joke. It’s not that great of a joke to begin with since I usually have to explain it even in English. My family and I laughed at the attempt. It was also fair to say: I’m glad I shared it anyways.

Me walking into my metaphorical minefield, this time without my tractor. Oh wait no it’s a gnarly forest in Cajas National Park.
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My Visit to Thiès

by Calvin Zhao, First-Year Global Programs Coordinator

Drinking Ataya with host families, visiting community organizations, navigating through bustling local markets…here are seven highlights (in chronological order) from my site-visit to our newest Civic Semester location: Thiès, Senegal!

  1. I looked across the Atlantic Ocean – from a different vantage point. My visit began at Toubab Dialao, a peaceful village by the beach where Civic Semester Senegal students will have their end-of-semester retreat. Here, I spent time chatting with staff from our partner organization, Where There Be Dragons, while appreciating the stunning views and peacefulness of the area.
  1. I fell in love with Senegalese food. One of the best meals I had in Senegal was courtesy of Samba’s (a Where There Be Dragons staff member’s) family. In Senegal, families typically share a communal plate filled with a grain and meat/vegetables in the middle. The host will distribute the meat and vegetables around and everyone eats from the section of the plate in front of them. As soon as you’re making any progress with clearing your section, the host will replenish it again and again. Delicious and very filling.
  1. I visited six incredible local organizations. Each of the organizations support the Thiès community in different ways, from providing skills-training for visually-impaired young adults to empowering women to join the workforce. I met with leaders of each organization, all of whom inspired me with their passion and dedication to their work. I’m excited for Civic Semester students to work with and learn from these organizations! A full list of civic placement possibilities for students can be viewed here.
  1. I drank a lot of Ataya. Ataya – a minty, sweet tea – was served after big meals as everyone relaxed and chatted with one another. For many Senegalese, the quality of the Ataya you make is a point of personal pride. During one host family visit, I watched as the mother chastised her children for making Ataya that was too hot and not bubbly enough. The tea was even sent back to be “fixed” before being served!
  1. I explored local markets…and discovered fabrics. In downtown Thiès, there is a bustling local market with practically everything, including the most beautiful fabrics! Every few shops seemed to have different types of colorful fabric, which locals purchase and take to a tailor to have something custom made.
  1. I learned about local superstitions. One of them involved attaching a small, kid-sized left shoe to your car while throwing the right shoe away. The superstition goes that as long as the two shoes are not reunited, you will be safe while you drive. As I took taxis around town, it was interesting to note the different places where drivers hung the little shoe.
  1. I visited Dakar. On the final day of my trip, I visited the capital city, Dakar. About an hour away, downtown Dakar has more of an international and touristy vibe compared to Thiès.  I also spent time with Dragons staff in Yoff, a small fishing village, and visited Gorée Island, which is known for its role in the Atlantic slave trade as a final stop before slaves were sent to the Americas. Seeing the former slave house was a powerful and chilling reminder of the history of slavery.

Overall, I had an excellent site visit to Thiès and we can’t wait to offer it as a Civic Semester site for Fall 2020!! If you have any questions about Thiès or about Civic Semester, please feel free to email me at calvin.zhao@tufts.edu.

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Food Remains Ever So Important

By Seneca, Tufts 1+4 Participant

For as long as I can recall I have tried my best to embody the contrarian, the Devils’ Advocate, the counterculture. I regularly adopt wildly argumentative stances with little basis just to be able to oppose my friends. I hated more than anything when my younger brother would imitate me–how I dressed, acted, my preference in beverages—because I felt that he was stealing the persona that I had uniquely crafted.

I was a pescatarian for the vast majority of my life, from birth until just recently. This came about naturally, as initially I was merely a compliant member of a pescatarian household. As I grew older, I was able to further educate myself on the benefits to vegetarianism. My friend Malcolm drilled me on the obscene amount of water required to raise a cow, my parents instilled with me their moral aversions, and “Food, Inc.” opened my eyes to the horrors of the meat industry. All the same, I tend to identify two alternative factors for why I adhered to this dietary constriction for so long: convenience again, and how it set me apart from my peers, upholding my contrarian orientation. I loved that nearly everybody I told about my pescetarianism had an anecdote to the brief span that they experimented with doing the same, and subsequently succumbed. Yet I had willingly deprived myself of the foods I had heard so much about, never once yielding to temptation. That is, until this year abroad.

Expanding what I was comfortable eating literally admitted me into my incredible host family (they refused to house vegans or vegetarians) and the Sunday churrascos (barbecues) are easily my favorite facet of life here. I value the collective responsibility of creating a group meal, and although we sometimes use alternatives such as zucchini or eggplant to accommodate friends, the traditional foods are all carne.

I absolutely adore baking. I have been baking since I was very young and in a split second would deem it my greatest and most distinguishing passion. Baking is something I was certain I could share with my host household, as it serves as a great means of socialization and ideally yields delicious results. Baking with my friend Annika here in Brazil has been one of the most incredible experiences of my life, and while I acknowledge the weight of that statement I will try my best to justify it accordingly.

Prior to this year, the thought of baking anything swarmed my head with visions of butter, milk, and eggs.My mom and I oftentimes equate how delicious a baked good is to the amount of butter in the crust, or cream and eggs in the custard. But, my friend Annika is vegan. Everything I’ve had the pleasure of making with her has been such, or dairy-free at the absolute least. This was initially an incredibly daunting task, I’ve been forced to rewire my brain about an ability I was supremely confident in. It has been otherwise enlightening for the same reason, I have been able to regain some of my humility and take the backseat as a student once again.

As I branched out in a new direction and expanded my diet, I lost a defining part of my identity. Until this year I never recognized just how much confidence I derived from filling my role as the contrarian. Whilst baking vegan was a strange and foreign experience at first, I now recognize that it has unveiled a newfound curtain tome. Both instances undermined deeply embedded fragments of my identity and forced me to experiment with branching outside of my comfort zone. While these shifts have rendered me more insecure to the question of how well I may know myself, I treasure the opportunity for humility, introspection, and discovery.

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All The Little Things

By Luke, Tufts 1+4 Participant

Coming from a small town in western Massachusetts and transitioning to the bustling city of Cuenca was overwhelming. Here I was—plunged into this foreign space in a new home, with people I had just met, speaking a language I was still learning.

Sitting down on my bed that first night, I felt entirely helpless and alone. Riding the bus for the first time, I panicked that I would wind up completely lost. Saying “no puedo entender” in seemingly every conversation I had, I worried about being able to communicate effectively. In this transitory period I felt lost. Luckily, as time went on, beautiful little moments began to shape my experience.

I remember first meeting two of my host siblings. They crashed into my life, and their light, laughter, and love collided violently with my sorry emotions. Graciously, they welcomed me in, asking question after question and, in turn, sharing stories of their own. Excitedly, they introduced me to the park in front of the house. Energetic, shouting “¡mira, Lucas, mira!” they demonstrated their parkour moves on the playground equipment, navigating each difficult task with ease. They encouraged me to try it out myself; so, clumsily, I attempted to mirror their movements. I soon learned that I was not able to contort my lanky limbs in the ways that their nine and ten year old bodies easily could. Later, they shared with me Pipas, sunflower seeds, sharp with lemon flavor. “Phew, phew, phew,” as they showed me the proper method for spitting out the shells.

I remember having spontaneous singing sessions—“Recuéardame” on repeat—with me chiming in every few words. When this got to be repetitive, we moved on to “Cuán Lejos Voy” from Moana and “Believer” by Imagine Dragons. After a while we hopped up, saying, “bailemos, saltemos,” our bodies wiggling in time with the music.

I remember boarding the bus, everyone squished together in one big jumble and witnessing the incomparable energy that emanates from the people, each with their own unique story. Indelible in my mind is the memory of that woman, face turned away from the man by her side, baby in her lap, with tears streaming down her face, her body rigid against the seat of the bus. What was her narrative?

I remember the pijamada we had, my four host siblings sprawled out on the couch in my room, their whispers piercing the nighttime silence every few seconds. The youngest, crying, pulled me out of bed and told me that she missed her mom, who is working in the United States. They asked for a song and, unknowing of any Spanish ones, I softly rendered a similar version to one that my parents sang to me as a kid.

I was slowly, reassuringly finding a rhythm. I realized that I had come into the experience with all of these expectations which were not being immediately met. I anticipated creating lasting bonds with my host family, navigating the city with ease, and becoming more comfortable with my Spanish skills. I came to understand that by focusing on these expectations, I was ignoring all of those little moments, each saturated with emotion and meaning, that were the stepping stones along the way.

All of these moments carry so much meaning. It is the unconditional love of my host mom, the light that streams through the curtain in the morning, the saludos that I share with my host siblings. It is cafecito and pan, joyful laughter and sudden tears, movies in Spanish and Bruja the lovable cat. It is all of this and so much more that create the beautiful jigsaw puzzle that defines my experience here.