textfiles/magazines/CRASH/crash8.txt

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CRASH        Your guide to travel thru the underground        May 1993

                        EXPATRIATE ISSUE
                             plus...
                          Monoculture
                          Gypsy lore
              and a trip to Nowhere in Disturbia

"The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is 
at last to set foot on one's own country as a foreign land." 
    -- G.K. Chesterton


----------------
EXPATRIATE GAMES
from the Crash Crew

This issue is about the expatriate experience. It's possible to 
achieve it without ever leaving...

Pretend you're in a new city and don't know any friends even though 
you've lived there forever. Go out and make sure no one knows where 
you went. Pretend you don't understand the language and your skin's a 
different color and your nose is shaped a little bit funny. Eat at an 
ethnic restaurant for a week straight; order something new each time. 
Go to the places where the lights and action are, even though you 
stopped hanging there long ago from boredom. Make yourself meet 
someone by telling yourself that you're new to this city and don't 
know anyone and have nothing to lose. Walk around all day one day and 
try to find a section of the city you've never seen before. Think of 
where you live as a temporary dwelling and consider the reasons that 
keep you there. Buy something in a touristy shop for yourself. Rent 3 
videos in a foreign language and watch them all in a row. Spend one 
day just looking at the people on the street and how they dress and 
how they walk and think about what they are doing. Go completely 
outside the door and turn around and look back in. Become an outsider. 
A stranger. Stop yourself and stare for a while.


------
DEBRIS
Networking and information

* BOBBY, 18-year old kid, needs warm, gentle punkers to give me a 
place to sleep. I will become homeless as of July the 1st, so send 
help soon. I can let people stay with me until then if needed. Bicycle 
Power! Write Bob, P.O. Box 280, Poway, CA 92074 USA.

* ATTENTION ATHEISTS! I am looking for material for a new zine for and 
by atheists. It has yet to be named. Please send any atheist, animal 
rights, pro-abortion, poems, fiction, anti-death penalty, etc., 
material by atheists. Pen pal ads are welcome. First issue will come 
out in June '92 and will be free. Zine ads also welcome. Send 
everything to: Freedom, RD3 Box 665, Camden, DE 19934 USA.

* WE WANT YOUR SOUL. We're looking for sharp, witty, bawdy and smart-
alecky essayists, columnists and fiction types as well as cartoonists 
and artists who want to air their absurdist views, poke some fun, and 
maybe milk a few sacred cows. Send a sample of your stuff or write for 
further details. All types of humor considered. Write to Chain Letter, 
P.O. Box 72671, Las Vegas, NV 89170-2671 USA.

* FREER PLACES describes 20 areas having fewer taxes and restrictions, 
more tolerance, much cultural variety, and low-cost housing options. 
Most are in or near OR, MT, or NH (states without sales taxes), and 
have sizable cities close to sparsely-populated hills, forests, and 
brushlands with various local climates. This 1993 report (40+ pages) 
also gives practical tips for living freer most anywhere. $1 postpaid. 
Write to Abapa Freer, P.O. Box 759, Veneta, OR 97487 USA.

* TRAVEL VIEW 1 is a worldwide penpal club. Our aim is to create a 
broader awareness of the world around us; to support understanding 
between the different peoples of the world, their customs and 
cultures; to help you contact other collectors. For more info, contact 
Linda Yurkosky, 531 Edmonton Ave., Penticton, BC V2A 2H1 Canada.

* LEARN SPANISH THROUGH TOTAL IMMERSION. Not only do you attend 
classes, but students are provided with friendly homestay families who 
make sure to initiate conversations with students, especially at 
mealtimes, when the entire family eats together daily. Families 
participating in our homestay program provide students with a private 
room, three daily meals and hygienically-prepared food and beverages 
(vegetarian food available). Write La Casa del Nahual, 2a. Calle 14A-
32 Zona 1, Quetzaltenango, Guatemala, Central America or call 011 
(502) 961-2149; in the US, write La Casa del Naual, 422 Meridian St., 
East Boston, MA 02128 USA or call 617/567-6867.

* THE RIDE-LINE / RIDEXCHANGE announces an automated service to search 
to passengers to share the direct operating expenses with private 
pilots and car drivers/owners. Ride-Line has been in operation since 
1982 and covers all USA, Canada, Mexico, and other international 
locations, for private cars, planes, and yachts/boats. Free to riders 
and drivers and pilots or aircraft owners or aircraft owners who are 
offering seats available. No screening of passengers or vehicles. Call 
301/217-0543 or write The Ridex Corporation, 100 Park Avenue, Suite 
260, Rockville, MD 20850-2618-00 USA.

* HOW TO GET FIRED SO YOU CAN TRAVEL: Read SABOTAGE IN THE AMERICAN 
WORKPLACE, a controversial expose of the way America works. Anecdotes 
of dissatisfaction, mischief, and revenge. Write Pressure Drop Press, 
P.O. Box 460754, San Francisco, CA 94146 USA.


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MONKEYS WITH NEW SETS OF REALITIES
by J.B. Monkey

For about 60 years I've been away from my "country of origin" (as they 
sometimes call it on forms the authorities make people, who are not 
from their country of origin, fill out). I suppose 60 years is 
something of an exaggeration, but after one has been away for a 
certain length of time it does seem that long. Just what that length 
is must be different for each person, but with a whole new set of 
realities, the old set is bound to lose its primacy in one's mind, and 
drift back into a distant place in one's consciousness.

Being an alien -- now, isn't that a horrible, unfriendly word. It also 
has a racist smell to it, but its being the legal term of choice takes 
some of the bite out of it. Then we have "foreigner" -- this word also 
emits a racist odor at times, so I would rather not use it. How about 
"expatriate" -- another word which is something short of friendly, but 
it does put the power in the hands of the named rather than the namer. 
I have yet to come across anyone exclaiming, "Those no-good 
expatriates!" or, "Get the damn expatriates out, they are stealing our 
jobs!" So for want of something better and lack of desire to employ an 
inane acronym like "FAP" (from another place), "expatriate" will have 
to do for now.

Obviously there are differing degrees of difficulties one encounters 
as an expatriate. For example, if one finds oneself in a land where 
homogeneity is thick, one is going to be seen more readily as an 
outsider than if one were in a land where there were many folks from 
many places living with the same borders. First, there is the 
immediate visual level of discrimination. It is not too pleasant to 
have children looking at you and blurting out, "Foreigner, foreigner!" 
or have adults looking at you and thinking, "Foreigner, foreigner!" 
Having such an influence on people, one could get to feeling like a 
monkey in a zoo. But thankfully not all minds are so simple, and there 
are those who understand the concept of acceptance.

And then again, there are advantages to being a monkey (without the 
cage, of course). Ms./Mr. Monkey is not expected to conform to the 
norms of the land they are living in as closely as the "natives" (I 
won't even begin to go into the connotations of that word; I'll just 
use it for the sake of convenience.) If Ms./Mr. Monkey wants to walk 
around without a hat when it is socially unacceptable, Ms./Mr. Monkey 
can, because she or he is an outsider. The natives think, "Oh, that is 
what they do in Monkeyland."

While being an expatriate (in certain places) may make one stick out 
like a sore thumb, at the same time one can also live fairly 
anonymously. There is this seeming contradiction of being conspicuous 
and inconspicuous simultaneously. The expatriate is easily noticed 
because of her or his physical appearance, speech, dress, mannerisms, 
etc., but can be an unknown, mysterious presence. Some expatriates 
seem to appreciate this anonymity, especially due to the face that 
they are in a sense hiding. There are those hiding from emotional 
ties, others from past disappointment, some from expectations they or 
others would have for them if they were in the country of their 
origin. A place where no one knows or expects anything of you may be 
very attractive for some, although there are dangers. At first one may 
have a great sense of freedom, but this sense of freedom could 
transform itself into a heavy weight of alienation with the passing of 
time.

Then there are those expatriates who couldn't make it in films, so 
they go to other lands to become stars. They enjoy being noticed, like 
to be seen as unique, and get substantial ego nourishment by being the 
center of attention. They seek out natives (although for some, even 
fellow expatriates will do) who are courageous and curious enough to 
appreciate them. They love being asked questions about their amazing, 
interesting lives, because they are their own favorite subjects. For 
them, experiencing a new culture holds little value when compared with 
acquiring a solid following of natives.

A fair amount of expatriates do end up in countries out of genuine 
interest in the culture and people of their adopted countries. This is 
something to be commended, so long as it is accompanied by a decent 
level of awareness. Of course, we should be able to be what we want 
wherever we are, but for one to think she or he can become a native 
just by wearing the native garb or talking the native talk is 
culturally insensitive. Without a decent level of awareness one may be 
rightly viewed as a pretentious Ms./Mr. Monkey.

If one becomes an expatriate with an awareness and a sensitivity for 
their new place, their existence in that place can be both interesting 
and satisfying. If one can live without the comfort and security of 
familiar surroundings, and welcome the challenge of a new environment, 
one will find more fulfillment in their new place. Ms./Mr. Monkey 
learns to live without the bananas that were once such a pleasure and 
finds new fruit which becomes more delicious each time it is eaten. 
One may even find their ability to adapt becoming greater through the 
trails of their new environment. The bureaucratic nightmares 
encountered as a "resident alien" can create frustration handling 
skills of the highest grade. Customs that once seemed odd may in time 
be followed without a thought. A sense of humor will also make things 
easier (but doesn't it everywhere). It is better to deal with the 
universal situations one may encounter as an expatriate with a laugh 
than with an increase in stress level. A sense of adventure is also 
handy, but one probably wouldn't end up in another country if they 
didn't have some sort of adventurous desires.

    -- Mr. Monkey is presently residing in Kyoto, Japan.


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THE BLACK EXPATRIATES: 
A STUDY OF AMERICAN NEGROES IN EXILE BY ERNEST DUNBAR
a review (sort of) by Miles Poindexter

"There is a simple fact here that Europeans just accept: you are a 
different person, you are a Negro. In America, nobody wants to face 
that fact and this makes for much confusion...on both sides." 
    -- Gloria Davy

Who am I to write this review of a book that interviews 16 Afro-
Americans who left the U.S. to experience a new life without the 
constant problems and set-backs inherit in a racist society.

Who am I? Just a 27 year old white male son of a Protestant Dutch and 
Scottish family descent who was inspired by their exploits.

This book was written in 1968. I was only 3 years old then. Many of 
the interviewees had left a segregated America in the 1950s before the 
Civil Rights movement. So why did the bittersweet success stories of 
the 16 black American expatriates in this book affect me so 
profoundly?

Because they did what I've always dreamed of doing. They went to 
another country to live, not just visit. Several had lived for a year 
or more in many different countries. All had managed to find good 
work, too. One of my main fears was that I would not find a job 
abroad. A few of the artists had gone to Europe for school. Some were 
diving into entrepreneurial projects like a night club or restaurant. 
A few had married a native of their adopted country.

Reading each interview I felt more trapped in this country. I had been 
too stupid to leave when I was younger. I remember when I was 21 and 
my girlfriend and I had just gotten back together and we were crazy in 
love and she looked in my eyes and said lets go to another country and 
just get lost there and get out of here (which was in New Jersey). For 
a moment I wanted so much to just do it. But then I started thinking 
about all these trivial reasons why I should stay. "I'm in a band," I 
said, "I can't leave those guys. I have a really good graphic arts 
job, blah, blah, blah." Maybe I was also scared that she and I would 
break up again after our departure and I would be left alone in a 
strange country, as if that would be a bad thing!

So later the band broke up, Kerry and I broke up, and I quit my 
"really good graphic arts job" to move to San Francisco. Now I am 
working at a pizza shop because the job market sucks out here. But I 
still won't move back to New Jersey because I like it here.

If the slightly more liberal, open-minded attitude that I sense in 
this city makes me more at ease, imagine what these black expatriates 
felt like when they entered a country where racism is virtually non
existent? What happened to them is what happens to everyone on some 
scale when they live in another place long enough to absorb the 
culture. They realize they were a victim of mono-culture. This is a 
powerful realization for the black American whose ancestors were 
whipped and beaten until they stopped remembering who they were. Even 
the native people of North America still have their culture, though 
they live like expatriates in their native land. People from Central 
and South America, India, Asia and other countries who immigrate here 
always retain the memory of their country of birth. This becomes the 
other half of who they are. This memory of another culture helps them 
analyze and compare customs here. They adopt what they like and ignore 
the rest. If they don't like American music, art, language, 
philosophy, etc., they bring their own and retain it.

The Africans brought here in the slave trade were not allowed to keep 
their old culture. So the modern black American has trouble critically 
analyzing what's wrong in this society, until they go abroad and 
immerse themselves in another. And here's where the book started to 
affect me. I realized that I've been stripped of my "other" culture 
too. Even though my ancestors did it voluntarily; they left everything 
behind, even their names, to start again in the "new land." Everything 
about this country, good or bad, was accepted. And now I have as much 
trouble analyzing what's wrong with this society as does the Afro-
American.

It didn't matter whether these interviewees went to Africa or Europe, 
which were the only sections of the world this book dealt with. What 
is referred to as "the problem" or "that pressure" that black people 
grow up with here was non-existent in either place. In fact, many of 
them were shocked by the level of adoration they received.

In Scandinavia in the early 1960s, the 2 expatriates living there were 
followed around by Swedes and Fins, most of whom had only seen colored 
people on TV. They thought that dark skinned people possessed a 
certain primal sexual and emotional energy that white people had lost. 
At first Mattiwilda Dobbs and Arthur Hardie were bothered by this 
reaction everywhere they went, which was sort of an ignorant 
fascination. Then they learned to appreciate it and later to ignore 
it. Arthur said he thought all Afro-Americans should have the chance 
to experience this popularity once in their lives. He related one time 
that a Swedish girl that had come home with him from a party had asked 
him if he would do his "tribal sex dance" before they went to bed.

The French considered dark skin the most beautiful and exotic. French 
men were too confident in their own sexual superiority to feel 
threatened by black men, as many American males seemed to be. Gloria 
Davy, Reri Grist, and many other black expatriates singing opera in 
Germany were treated like royalty. Dean Dixon, a conductor who'd 
emigrated to Stockholm, was being invited to country after country to 
conduct major orchestras, but was still ignored in his home country of 
America. Charles Nichols, a professor who had only been able to get 
jobs teaching at all-black colleges here, was teaching at a major 
university in Berlin. He was also given V.I.P. treatment in public 
places, as were all professors in Germany where education is highly 
esteemed, and had no trouble buying a house in an upper class 
neighborhood which he knew would have been impossible in America. The 
Italians were the most relaxed about skin color. Clebert Ford, who 
lived there, and others who had passed through thought that skin color 
had no bearing on their relations with Italians. The Italians seemed 
to understand the best that black people really didn't want to be just 
like white people. They appreciated the negro culture and accepted it 
as equal to their own. Like other Europeans they also loved jazz, 
Negro spirituals and blues and appreciated it as a legitimate 
expression of musical and artistic brilliance. These art forms were 
largely ignored by white people here where they had originated!

These black expatriates were quick to recognize that prejudice was not 
absent in Europe; it was directed at other peoples. In Germany anti-
Jewish remarks were sometimes made in their presence, and in Italy, 
Sicilians were treated like the negroes in America. It was strange to 
have an Italian take one of his black American friends aside and talk 
about "those Sicilians and their knives" because it showed the 
American the other side of the racism dilemma. He finally experienced 
it as an outsider.

Many of the interviewees missed things about their place of birth, but 
felt they would not go back again. Whenever they went to visit, they 
would take offense at the oppressive atmosphere of racism here which 
they had learned to live without.

Even though I haven't felt this oppression anything like a black 
person or other minority does here, I know that I am suffering from 
mono-culture. And the only way I'm going to cure it is to escape it 
physically, and then let it go from inside me.

It's like if your regular doctor says you're sick. And because of 
this, you start to feel sick. Then you decide to get a second opinion. 
And this second doctor says you're not sick at all, and within a 
couple days the symptoms of illness you had start to go away. But it 
takes a while before you realize that neither doctor's opinion is 
important and you become truly healthy.

**********
POSTSCRIPT

We must all realize that the Europe talked about in this book was a 
Europe of the late 1950s and early 1960s. There were fewer blacks 
living there. Europeans saw blacks simply as darker skinned human 
beings, and viewed American racism from an outside, almost innocent 
point of view, and could not understand it.

With the current influx of immigrants to Europe, and partially due to 
economic woes, reports of racial intolerance are rising.
I am curious how the lives of the people mentioned in this article 
have been affected -- if at all -- in the 1990s.


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THE GYPSIES: THE ANCIENT TRAVELERS
by Miles Poindexter

"We must be careful not to think of the Gypsy as a 'homeless' 
wanderer. They have a home, and it is the whole of the earth." 
    -- English gypsiologist

I don't claim to be an investigative journalist or nothin', but I 
recently read some books on this and wanted to share some knowledge 
(before I forget it).

The Romanies have fascinated historians for centuries. They are 
surrounded by mystery wherever they roam. Even the name we commonly 
use to refer to them is a misnomer. The word "Gypsies" is a disdainful 
version of Egyptians, since they were thought to have come originally 
from Egypt. Actually, the Romanies are now believed to have come from 
India nearly 1,000 years ago.

There are many different tribes of this people living in most every 
country. Each may appear very different from the others at first 
glance, because they tend to accept superficial aspects of the culture 
of their host country. They will conform in many ways to the customs 
and even the religion of whatever region they are in, but only to 
"fool" the local people into accepting them and to not hurt business 
interaction. But deep down and unknown to anyone but their own, they 
hold steadfastly to their ancient beliefs and to certain traits of 
their tradition.

One belief prevalent among all tribes is that once a Romany or "Rom" 
marries an outsider or "gauje'," as we are called, they are no longer 
to be trusted, and can even be banished from the tribe. This harsh 
practice is a result of centuries of persecution everywhere they have 
gone. A Romany can only trust another Romany. Many outsiders who have 
tried to learn more of their secrets have been greeted with 
disinformation and a polite blank stare.

Attempts to integrate Romany groups into society are met with quiet 
resistance. They don't appreciate the lifestyles of "sedentaries" and 
the pressures that come with it. Taxes, property, houses, 
identification cards...these things are not for a gypsy. They are 
wanderers at heart, and prefer an existence of travel, singing and 
relaxation. They do not use watches and have no interest in schedules. 
While we would see their life as harsh and primitive, it is rare to 
find an unhappy Romany.

The negative images of thieves and beggars has plagued the Romanies 
throughout time, for the Roms are fond of jewelry, trinkets, and 
bright clothes, and the act of secretly taking something beautiful 
from a rich gauj<75> is not considered a crime to them, as long as there 
was no violence. Often overlooked is the peaceful nature of the gypsy 
people. They go out of their way to avoid conflict of any kind.

Begging is looked upon as an honorable tradition. In their ancient 
homeland, a penniless beggar was almost holy. 

When a gypsy group reaches a destination, usually a city, they set up 
camp outside of city limits, where there are as few people as 
possible. They usually sleep till noon. Then, after a big meal around 
the campfire they head into town. The women and children make money by 
fortune-telling and begging. Incidentally, many "gypsiologists" have 
realized that the Rom do not believe in predicting the future. They 
never tell fortunes to their own kind, only the gauje'. A Romany woman 
learns to judge the character of the customer, then makes up a 
suitable prediction. Women are also known for their knowledge of 
herbs. The men are known for their knowledge of horses, and now-a-days 
cars, bicycles and any form of transportation. They are usually expert 
tinsmiths and metalworkers. Gypsies have also been adept at many forms 
of entertainment since the days when they were performing for kings.

The Romanies have refused to develop a written language. When they 
write, it is in the language of whatever country they are in. They 
believe a legend that states they lost the right to a system of 
writing due to a curse left after the ruin of an ancient Gypsy king 
named Pharavono. Though the Rom have no written language, their spoken 
language is very similar to Sanskrit, an ancient Indian language. 
Stories, legends and laws have been passed down by word of mouth.

A few of their customs seem outdated, like their marriage custom. They 
are arranged by the parents. The man's parents must present a suitable 
amount of money or gifts to the woman's family before the wedding can 
take place. After the ceremony, the wife goes to live with the 
husband. Many times they are complete strangers since dating is not 
allowed in their culture.

There are also strange traditions surrounding childbirth. The actual 
birth must take place on the ground outside the wagon. The wagon, or 
"vardo," is the home of a typical Romany family, though some only have 
tents. If the baby is born in the wagon, everything in it becomes 
"unclean" and must be either burned or sold.

If a Gypsy dies in the wagon everything is also unclean or "ma'rime" 
and must be gotten rid of. When a Rom is close to death they are 
brought out near the campfire and everyone sits around talking and 
carrying on as if everything is normal. After death occurs the person 
is buried with all personal belongings. This is to prevent jealousy 
over who gets what.

As a people the Romany rely on improvisation for their existence. They 
are always finding new ways to survive outside the system. No one is 
more knowledgeable in the means of survival, or quicker in thinking 
their way out of trouble. Many seem almost impervious to sickness of 
any kind.

The Romanies are filled with a quiet pride. In their eyes the Rom are 
superior to all other people, and this pride is what makes the idea of 
serving a government or country loathsome. They are truly independent, 
and in the midst of our highly conformist and regimented societies, 
the Gypsy remains a comparatively free person.

*********************
LORDS OF THE UNIVERSE
An old Gypsy speaks of his People...

With our laws and statutes we Gypsies take care of ourselves and live 
happily. We are the lords of the open country, of the crops, woods and 
forests, of the wells and rivers. The forests proffer us wood free of 
cost; the trees, fruit; the vineyards, grapes; the gardens, 
vegetables; the wells, water; the rivers, fish; the gentry's 
preserves, game. The rocks provide us with shade, the fissures with 
cool air, and the caves with dwelling-places. For us the severities of 
the heavens are breezes; the fall of snow is refreshment; the rain 
gives us baths. Thunder is music to us, and lightning serves us as 
illumination. For us the hard banks of earth are soft featherbeds. The 
weather-beaten skin of our bodies acts as a coat of protecting armor. 
Fetters do not hamper our lightness of foot, nor do any obstacles keep 
us in jail -- the walls do not stop us. Ropes do not contort our soul, 
gags used for torture do not stifle us, nor does the pillory tame us. 
We are not reduced in spirit by being suspended from pulleys, hoods do 
not smother us, and the rack does not overpower us. We make no 
distinction between yes and no when it suits us, and we prefer to be 
martyrs rather than confessors. Beasts of burden are bred for us in 
the fields, and pockets are made for us to pick in the cities. No 
eagle or any other bird of prey swoops with greater speed on its 
promising quarry than we do on the opportunities that offer us gain...

These wretched huts and movable camps are esteemed by us above gilded 
ceilings and sumptuous palaces...To conclude, we are people who live 
by our wits and our cajoling tongues, and we are quite unconcerned 
with the old proverb which says that he who would prosper must follow 
the Church, the Sea or the Royal Household.

    -- Translated by C.D., from LA GITANILLA (The Little Gypsy Girl) 
       by Cervantes, written in 1613


----------------------
THE ROAD FROM BUDAPEST
by Tee Bee

The riots and the dead-heads following me...I follow the flow, peach-
like butts, "life is a bitch" bumper-stickers, and "help wanted" 
signs. Me, the Hungarian refugee G.A. Joe, the student in a school of 
life who's trying to be the perfect loser.

So, my friend wants me to write about myself. Don't ask me why. He's 
got a zine, I don't have a clue. Suddenly I realize this is a good 
opportunity for an open letter to my parents. They don't know English, 
America, and nothing about me.

I was born in a so-called communist country, Hungary. My childhood was 
like Chinese food: sweet and sour. I was raised on hot-cocoa and 
poppy-seed bread, Tom & Jerry, and the elementary school system in 
Budapest. The school is traditionally middle-European copied from 
Prussian turn-of-the century style. Order, Properness, Health, Fitness 
was the communist ideal, perfect human specimen, or the German 
Ubermensch ("overman") was the goal. My mother was a teacher at the 
school where I was going to, so my situation was really emotional. I 
hated all. I started to be a heavy drinker and smoker and rock & 
roller. Especially the punk music hit the back of my brain. It was in 
1980 when I cut my hair into a Mohican or Iroquois or Mohawk. I was 
kicked out of most of the schools, ran away from the family, was 
working in a beer factory and the chemical plant. In my free time I 
was sniffing glue. One day I was tripping really badly. I didn't know 
why but suddenly bright sparkling light came from the front door. "Oh 
Shit, it's God and this is the coronation of the king of the glue." A 
weird noise sounded like the doorbell. "Oh Shit, it's my mother!" I 
stashed the plastic glue-bag in the refrigerator. My mother comes in 
asking what is smelling like turpentine. Afterwards she found the bag, 
and I ended up in a psycho-treatment center. But there is no worry. My 
father had good connections so my life was back on the right track 
again to the university. Back on the road to having a profession, 
wife, house, and cancer at age 55.

So I took off for the west at the age of  20. As a political refugee I 
could choose between 4 countries: South Africa, Canada, Australia and 
the U.S.A. South Africa for die-hard fascists, Canada for families who 
like the cold and the Queen, Australia for families who like the heat 
and the Queen, and the U.S.A. for the left-over who like following 
orders, or the flow.

The U.S. Consul asked me why I left Hungary. I said the general stuff 
about life generally sucks in Hungary. They liked it. They didn't 
realize it goes for the U.S. too, or any country. For me the American 
experience started at the Consulet. Stars and Stripes, bright neon, 
and machine-like impersonal voices. Many of us were trying to create a 
sad story about suffering, and getting beaten up by the Communists. 
Others said they were organizers against the system and their lives 
were in danger. All were trying to get good points with the Consul 
people. If all this was true the Communists wouldn't have lasted so 
long. Whatever, they accepted me and I was really happy to have the 
chance of living in the "Empire," having quality drugs and rock & 
roll.

For some time I was living in Austria as a "refugee" which represents 
"The West" to Hungarians. To me it was a bad trip of traditional hate 
and high standard of living. They put us into hostels, gave food and 
money which was hardly enough to buy cigarettes. The Austrian State 
kept us as a vegetable until we got shipped to somewhere. The hostel 
where I stayed was in the small town of St. George, not too far from 
Salzburg and Brectesgarten; the town Hitler called home. This town had 
a hard time dealing with refugees from the "wild" East. There were 
regular fights between the locals and the eastern "homies" at the 
disco. It was a really boring sanitorium in the Alps, without money or 
hope so we started stealing electronics, shoes, almost everything we 
could. With that booty we bought a car and explored Austria, stealing 
stuff at commercial strips and supermarkets. I started to have a 
pretty good time. We were doing exactly what the Austrians expected us 
to do: CRIME. This was my first experience living completely outside 
mainstream society. Getting beaten, smoking hashish and having fun. 
The good Easterners were trying to get under-the-table jobs, waking up 
at 5:00 in the morning, waiting for someone to pick them up, working 
hard for one-third of the Austrian's wages.

But I had fun, fun, fun. Living a completely different lifestyle of 
fast-cars and ice cream parlors. I was glad being in the West, but it 
was sad to see the Austrian greed, and uptight ideas which flourish in 
so many Middle European countries. The cities are grey and the people 
are depressed. There was resignation in so many peoples faces and I 
was overcome with a Kafka-like feeling which dragged me down. You know 
the bug feeling, or the vegetable. You can see this if you just go to 
a middle-European country and explore the heavy depression.

So I went to New York and became a heroin junkie. My eyes opened up 
like Mickey Mouse, dancing in the streets. The skyscrapers were 
shooting up like towers of Babel. Everything looked dangerous and 
filthy, expensive and poor. To me it was a place that set me free. 
This might be one reason I turned to drugs, I couldn't handle the 
freedom. Freedom of choice was what drug would you like to take. I 
started with New York weed which is grown on building roofs and 
sprayed with nasty chemicals. But if you are from Europe you can 
appreciate it. I was losing my mind on the bass lines and the drums. 
Welcome to wonderland and the show was in full swing.

My heart was beating fast but it was soon filled only with loneliness. 
I soon discovered the loneliness that comes from living in one of the 
biggest, most crowded cities of the world. I needed some loving. I 
also needed rent money, food, and a job. Everyday I had to think of 
how I would support my most basic needs just to survive and I got 
really tired and frustrated. That's what made me feel heavy even 
without the gravity.

Eventually I met some friends from Budapest and we had a lot of fun. 
Learning expressions like "doing time," and "making money." America is 
a real challenge where things are perfectly crystallized, where 
freedom means slavery, money means love, where you can see through but 
there is no escape. You gotta lose your mind.


---------------
JUST PASSING BY
by Malgorzata G.

I arrived to the U.S. at 23, as a fresh college graduate. My B.A. was 
in the remote discipline of Italian and French language and 
literature. I soon found that my carefully planned education in 
Mediterranean civilization was completely irrelevant in California.

People here were more interested in my typing skills and ability to 
file alphabetically than in my real background. I had to swallow a 
bitter pill: I couldn't survive on a tour guide's (I didn't even know 
the area!) or interpreter's income. I also realized that having a B.A. 
opens up some possibilities in the corporate world, no matter how 
obsolete my other qualifications were. This bizarre practice had been 
introduced, so that people with as bizarre an education as mine could 
find employment. European employers were a lot more selective, but 
then, they appreciate odd professions more.

I noticed that people in America are generally much more devoted to 
their employers than people in Europe, or, should I say, the 
percentage of over-achievers and workaholics is much higher. I've been 
observing corporate politics with the detachment of a person who is 
extraneous not only because of her low position in the hierarchy, but 
who also comes from a different reality. In my old world, values and 
priorities were very different. People cared for one another more. 
Friends would drop by without calling. Here, telephone has ironically 
become the main means of communication. I couldn't help noticing most 
so called friends I happened to make during the first few years were 
superficially polite, but frightened to get close with other human 
beings, eager to retreat into shells they lived in. They were self-
sufficient, used to early independence. After all, they never had much 
of a childhood and usually worked through their best teenage years. 
What a wonderful preparation for demands of today's maddening world! 
What about having a quiet teenagehood, deprived of such serious 
responsibilities they (biologically) were not ready for anyway? I read 
somewhere that, by a caprice of Mother Nature, a human being doesn't 
really become ready for life until late twenties, and from the moment 
of his birth until that time, he lives in a sort of a social womb, 
where he learns the most important things in his life. Well, if that's 
true, then this country has been producing some emotionally, 
culturally and spiritually impoverished individuals that, in turn, 
treat their kids in the same way, by getting rid of the responsibility 
of having them at home as early as possible. Maybe I am prejudiced, 
after all I come from a country with a highly developed cult of child. 
Here, it seems, only rich kids can afford what every human being is 
entitled to: time to grow up at a natural pace, without extra stress. 
It is no wonder that nobody here takes time any more to smell the 
flowers and just relax. Well, not quite. I have met here a few people 
who have actually developed their spiritual and emotional lives.

I still keep wondering why education is last on the list of priorities 
in this country, and why does it have to have a price tag? That is, 
why do people study mostly for the grade, not the knowledge, if they 
study at all? Aren't we here to fully experience, enjoy, compare and 
reflect? To be happy rather than miserable?

Today's America is very disappointing. Only a small group of people is 
enlightened enough to see what's actually happening. I guess it all 
starts when people learn how to recognize certain values. It all 
begins at home, then school. People here are not in touch with their 
roots, in a universal sense, they are not in touch with their basic 
selves. They surely won't find balance by implementing new computer 
solutions to their reality, instead of realizing they basically don't 
need that. Just like they can do without all that stuff they are made 
to believe they need to survive. Who on earth needs all those cars and 
microwave ovens? Who needs three layers of packaging for one little 
thing? Why do people feel this urge to succeed? The tempo of living in 
America and the stress is certainly beyond anything I have ever seen.

Why do I stay if I am so negative? Well, first of all, I am just 
passing by. I've always believed my place was somewhere more quiet and 
inspirational. Secondly, I wasn't always negative, in fact, at first, 
I was fascinated. Following the rules, I went broke by buying a new 
car, got myself in debt -- all this glitz, you know. Then, I started 
missing my old values, so I took time to reflect. I studied art and 
read a lot of wonderful stuff the minority in this country tries to 
communicate to the rest. When I finally got ready to look around, I 
saw things the way they really were. I still believe this world can be 
changed. There are some people who care enough. And I want to 
contribute. In the country where most people don't like their lives, 
yet function with incredible efficiency, putting up with stress that's 
killing them, some radical change is needed. What the hell do they 
need the incredible structures they are locked in for? Life is 
complicated as it is. there is time and place for everything in most 
other places in the world, except here. Even in West Germany (the most 
square headed country in the world) they take a month of vacation 
every year, and their productivity level stays the same. Amazing, 
isn't it?

    -- Excerpted from PROCESSED WORLD #25, the magazine of BACAT, 
       1095 Market Street, Suite 209, San Francisco, CA 94103 USA


---------------------------------
JADED JOURNEY TO THE EMERALD CITY
by Julie Mullen

*******************
TRAVEL ARRANGEMENTS...

First of all, I would highly recommend taking the Green Tortoise up to 
Seattle. You know, it's the weird hippy bus that has mattresses all 
over it -- a completely comfortable, cheap way to ride. The bus stops 
at Cow Creek in Oregon for a huge meal that everyone lends a hand 
making. There's a sauna built nearby. Eat vegetarian and get ready to 
read and relax on the bus. It's great.

I met a few interesting people on the bus, including Jason, a red-
haired tattooed self-proclaimed grafitti hip-hop artist who spends 
half the year as a fisherman in Alaska. He had a really nasty cover-up 
tattoo on one shoulder, which he admitted used to be a playboy bunny. 
Poor guy. He seemed interested enough to offer me a place to stay in 
Seattle should my crash pad not work out. But later in the trip he 
distanced himself from me ... he was wrapped up in an Ecstasy deal he 
was closing with another trip character, Sean. This guy had long hair 
and shared his headphones with me so I could listen to Bongwater. But 
he lost me when he started telling some story about a girl he was 
seeing in high school and how he also fucked her mother. There were 
some pretty cool SF'ers, art students, who I shared the ride up and 
back with. And an older man from Uprisings Bakery in Berkeley who kept 
giving everyone healthy cookies and doing pull-ups. He gave me a 
little gold star for being "the most interesting person on the bus." 
Well.

I tried to avoid people on the bus during the trip back to SF, but I 
noticed one man kept writing things down in a little pad every so 
often. He was wearing all black, carrying a paperback copy of "Star 
Wars 3," sporting a very George Lucas-ish beard. As I was exiting the 
bus on one occasion I couldn't help but notice he had written on his 
little pad, "A note on my fellow travelers. They fall mostly into that 
dead zone between 20 and 30..." This irritated me no end, and after I 
told Jessica, one of the art students, about it, we spent the rest of 
the return trip spitting insults about this presumptuous guy and how 
sick we both are of hearing about the twenty-nothing generation.

*******
SEATTLE...

My host, Mike Payson, was in no way kidding when he told me, "the 
house is a disaster." A path was shoveled through the living room, 
where there was an ancient computer, a dusty stereo, my bed, and an 
iguana cage.

I already knew from talking to Mike on the phone that his pet rat ran 
free, somehow co-existing peacefully with his roommate's cat. The 
iguana, however, was a surprise, and so was its home. Apparently 
Mike's roommate had dumped a bunch of moss in the bottom of the cage, 
and there were some eggs in it, so the whole thing had erupted into a 
seething cauldron of larvae, crickets, and beetles all squirming 
around all over each other and through the mess.

At night I would lay awake listening to them squirm and chirp and 
rustle while outside in the Central District people yelled at each 
other. No, it wasn't the most glamorous place to stay. But Mike was 
about as generous a host as a person could hope for, and his roommate 
Richard, who has had himself declared legally insane so he can collect 
social security forever, offered me hash as soon as I walked through 
the door. I also had fun hanging out with Kevin, who lived upstairs 
and did my Tarot cards.

Also met some people who carve amazing designs into Didgeridoos, which 
are musical instruments made out of pipes. They burn in the most 
intricate tattoos from Native North American to Celtic designs. Really 
cool. Write them for info: Rebecca Stanle or Sean Kilpatrick, 1027 N. 
48th St., Seattle, WA 98103.

********
SEX WORK...

See, I went to Seattle for an audition, and I payed my way by working 
at the Famous Lusty Lady Theater. So I didn't have a hell of a lot of 
time to explore the "grunge scene," or hike around in the Cascade 
Mountains. In fact, I spent a lot of time underneath the city showing 
my butt to its inhabitants for a mere 25 cents. But you know, you can 
learn a lot about a place this way. For one thing, Seattle is a much 
down homier city than S.F. One dancer at the Lusty told me she'd be 
dancing until she was seven months pregnant, and then she'd only do 
the one on one booth. That would never happen at the Lusty in S.F. On 
the plus side, all the dancers were incredibly friendly to me and even 
asked me out for Seattle's version of Mardi Gras. No, I did not go, 
because I was busy hanging out with a beautiful 18 year old Asian 
woman with blonde dreadlocks and her group of hip-hop grafitti artist 
friends. I have to say, I was feelin' a little old to be ridin' around 
in a car boom boxing too loud to think. But interestingly enough, I 
did run into Jason, my buddy from the Green Tortoise. This made me 
wonder if the hip-hop grafitti artist scene in Seattle is entirely 
contained in one apartment.

*******
SUMMARY...

1. Everyone in Seattle goes to Alaska to make quick money fast. 
Whether you can fish, or strip for fishers and canners, the bucks are 
good.

2. Everyone in Seattle talks about how great the coffee is there. And 
really, it IS great.

3. Seattle is really "a big hick town with money," according to one 
Green Tortoise rider. I thought it was about as friendly as everyone 
told me it would be, and I would hear conversations on buses that 
would stun me with their sheer BANALITY. People would talk about what 
they were going to make for dinner and a lot of them had very positive 
attitudes about life. Somehow the charm of this is lost on me, but if 
that's what you like, you will get plenty of it.

4. The best place in Seattle is Capitol Hill, the "Castro St." scene 
of that city. Check out the Scary Gay Mall on Broadway -- it's the 
best.


-------------------------
WHAT MAKES THE DIFFERENCE
by Martina

There're good people and bad people everywhere in the world; maybe 
it's easier to make friends in Czechoslovakia but it's easier to lose 
them as well; the young people don't have cars so one can hitch-hike 
pretty safely cause there're thousands of thumbs up on the road; 
almost everybody smokes too much and drinks too much -- the pub is the 
centre of all private and public affairs -- if you need to get some 
pieces of information -- go to the pub and you'll know; the people 
read a lot and listen to the music a lot -- it's hard to find VCR in 
the households but there're to be found more than cook-books in the 
bookshelves; the people aren't used to working that hard anyway and 
the salary was always shitty -- they'd rather have fun and enjoy 
themselves than save the money for "worse times"; the nature -- 
rivers, mountains, air and woods are polluted more than enough -- the 
communists didn't take care of the beauty -- but the camping remains 
to be the national sport number one. -- Equipped with a sleeping bag 
and a tent you're welcomed everywhere; are you hungry or thirsty at 
midnight? Bad luck for a simple reason -- all the shops are closed at 
8 or 9 in the evening and open at 6 or 7 in the morning; unlike here 
in the US, there're no flags floating above the old historical 
buildings in the darkness of the Czech sky -- the people -- destroyed 
by the communist idea of equality and indifference aren't proud of 
their country that much -- anyway Europe is a small continent and a 
big pot at the same time -- everything and everybody is mixed up with 
everything and everybody; there're 4 seasons of the year -- it's nice 
to smell fresh spring breeze, heavy overloaded sun; chilly foggy 
mornings, snow falling down; but the moon is the same -- tender and 
bright and so are the people -- the good ones or the bad ones as all 
over the world.


----------------------------------------------
DISTURBIA...NIGHTMARES FROM THE SUBURBAN DREAM:
THE PLACE OF SAFETY AT THE WORLD'S END AT LAST
by Jonquil

Everyone probably grew up knowing someone whose family was always 
going on a trip; a camping trip one weekend, a visit to the beach the 
next. Jonquil's family was always packing their bags for a long trip. 
Unfortunately, they never went anywhere...

Memories slam into me like a thousand yesterdays all at once. I feel 
parts of my life invading my mind. I hold myself together. I tell 
myself that I am my place of safety, and I laugh at the past. 
Still...sometimes I get the urge to pack.

It was 1973. I was almost six and we were packing because the moon was 
orange with bloody red ribbons around it. My mother said it was a sign 
from God that it was time to flee to "the Place of Safety." I sat by 
the window holding my teddy bear, watching the moon bleed and praying 
that it wasn't really time to flee yet. Mother had said we couldn't 
bring our dog, Misty, and I didn't want to leave her. I just knew God 
would understand. He did.

I was 10 when Mr. McGowen, our minister, said that we'd be going soon, 
"be packed, be prepared." So my mother gave all of our toys away. 
She'd already gotten rid of Misty. We packed and waited for the call 
to flee. I was ready to go then. School was hell on earth for me. 
Mother kept me out most of the time but when I went I was the 
Christian freak girl and kids would surround me at recess, calling me 
names that still hurt too much for me to remember, throwing rocks and 
laughing when I cried. I can't really blame them. At the beginning of 
each year Mother would stand me in front of my class mates and have me 
explain God's plan, why I wouldn't be participating in their pagan 
rituals and how Satan was in control of their lives. Calling Santa 
Claus a Demon inspired messenger of Satan is not the way to win 
friends and achieve popularity in grade school; not in a small town in 
Idaho anyway.

At this point we had packed and unpacked so many times I didn't even 
bother to tell the kids at school I was leaving. Like the boy who 
cried wolf, they wouldn't have believed me. So, we waited and I prayed 
that the time to flee would be soon. I just knew God would understand. 
He didn't.

It was three years later, 1980. My church had been declared a cult by 
the government after the Jim Jones mass suicide. Mr. McGowen said we 
wouldn't be leaving any time soon, "Ten or twenty years yet," and 
apologized profusely for their blunder.

By this time I wasn't sure what I wanted or expected to happen with 
the church or my family. I had just about given up on praying for 
anything from God. I would give up entirely later, but that's another 
story...

In the spring of 1987 I fled to my place of safety, San Francisco. 
Here there is mana in the wilderness but I work for it and the 
wildlife asks politely for crumbs. Mother thinks I'm possessed by 
Satan, blames the time I spent in school and I only smile. I am my 
place of safety, she's still waiting in her hell on earth.


----------------------
JOIN THE CRASH NETWORK!

Crasher: person who is traveling, guest.
Crashee: person who is allowing Crasher to sleep at residence, 
         host/hostess.

Joining is free!  Send email to johnl@netcom.com for a questionnaire 
(or send us an SASE to our mailing address, listed at the end of this 
file). Filling it out and returning it gets you listed in our Crash 
Directory, which is available only to members. Anytime you're planning 
to travel, send $5 for an up-to-the-minute directory and follow the 
guidelines below.

*************
HOW TO USE IT

You can use the Crash Directory to contact other members that you would 
like to meet. Or if you have a destination or journey in mind, you can 
use the directory to find potential crash sites along your planned route 
(flexibility helps). Before your departure, contact your potential 
crashee by mail, phone, or email and inquire about a visit. When all 
your crashes are confirmed, you're ready to hit the proverbial road.

**************
THE CRASH CODE

1.  Any Crashee can turn away a Crasher if they do not agree to the 
    Crash by prior consent.
2.  No charge for stay unless agreed upon by both parties beforehand.
3.  Toilet and shower facilities should be made available to Crasher 
    if possible.
4.  Don't eat Crashee's food unless offered.
5.  Don't use the Crashee's phone, stereo, TV or any other property 
    without their consent.
6.  No stealing.
7.  Don't bring friends over without the prior consent of the Crashee.
8.  Treat each other with respect.
9.  Help each other in every way possible during Crashes.
10. Crasher must obey rules of Crash Pad unless they contradict 
    above rules.


-----------------
CRASH INFORMATION

Editors: Miles Poindexter, John Labovitz.

Crash is published in January, March, May, July, September, and 
November of each year. 

Subscriptions are $5 for six issues. A sample issue is $1 or three 
US 29c stamps.  Back issues (text only) are available via anonymous FTP
at netcom.com in directory /pub/johnl/zines/crash.  The printed issues 
also contain illustrations and advertising; for the full Crash experience, 
send for a printed sample.

Crash is happy to hear from you. Send artwork, articles, and aardvarks 
to us at:

    Crash
    519 Castro Street #7
    San Francisco, CA 94114 USA
    email: johnl@netcom.com

If you are interested in advertising in the print or electronic 
version of Crash, please contact us for rates and sizes.

Copyright (C) 1993 Crash. We encourage other zine editors to reprint 
or excerpt parts of any articles written by us (Miles Poindexter or 
John Labovitz). All we ask is that information about this magazine and 
the network be included with it. If you wish to reprint something by 
an outside contributor, please contact them beforehand (either by 
their contact information listed after the article, or c/o Crash).


------------------
END OF CRASH MAY93