So I was writing an email to Migs about this, and realized it couldn't not show this to you. It's long, excuse me. But fucked up. Enjoy:
So. After class on Thursday we were told we'd be going to the London immigration museum as part of this London: City of Nations course. We take the tube over to Brick Lane, the old indian/hipster neighborhood. We go down this side street that you could only read about in Dickens-- paint peeling off doors and walls, windows boarded up, a few crackheads sleeping in the street. (I'm sure they were crackheads because they actually had the white-lined lips a la that Dave Chapelle sketch, and were jittery as fuck.) We get to the address of the museum, and it's unmarked, except for a piece of cardboard inscribed with the vague entreaty "Please Ring." My program director rings the doorbell, and waits for a few seconds. Silence. More silence. All of a sudden, I hear one lock click open, then another. But the doorkeeper can't figure out the third lock. So, we listen in anxious anticipation, awaiting this person's probable failure to open a door. An Indian woman finally pokes her head out the tiny crack shes made for herself in the door. "Who are you?" "With University of Chicago, sorry we're early for the first time."
"Yes. You are early. You are going to have to wait across the street."
"What? why across the street?"
"Sir, please tell your group to wait across the street."
So we gather on the other side of the street and stand there impatiently. Finally, a different English lady comes out and gathers us round. "Good afternoon, everyone, I'm the chair of the immigration museum. That means I'm the boss. I'm also the chair of the volunteers, because this museum is run entirely by volunteers of all different colors and religions. We have christians, hindi, buddhists, muslims, and a token pagan and jew." She waits to let it sink in. A chuckle here, an uncomfortable laugh there. Overall, not knowing how to deal with this. "As you've probably guessed by now, London is a city made up of people of many different ages." it's around here that I said fuck it and started to zone out, thinking more about the beers I had had only an hour before. (oh yes, I forgot to mention there was a one hour break between class and the museum, so my friends and I went to a pub to adequately prepare.)
We finally begin to make our way into the museum, again waiting for the Indian lady to unsuccessfully open this door. After a good wait, she got it open again, and we all proceeded in. Very slowly. For you see, they want you to sign the guest book. Fair enough. But on the way this causes a massive bottleneck. I was left at the back of the group with my TA. She was fidgeting impatiently, "what the hell's the holdup?" Another kid (douchebag kid A), explains "they're MAKING us sign the guestbook." The tour leader, who gave us the previous speech, materializes beside him instantly, and yells accusingly (I think that's a word...) "Is there ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT?" "No, maam, just explaining to her, that's all."
"Well, this wouldn't take so long if Americans taught their children to use fountain pens." [Ugh. Seriously.]
As we enter the "museum", we walk into a large atrium-like room, with a disintegrating ark at the other side. Apparently the building used to be a synagogue in the mid-Victorian years until World War II-ish. The walls were a pale yellow (that looked as if they were painted to resemble that.), as the paint on the Ark and bimma were actually chipping off. Right as I walk in, there's a suitcase lined with mirrors. On one side of the bottom of the suitcase are a bunch of words written backwards. I, in my drunken state, decide to best myself and figure out what it says without looking in the mirrors. I get "Everyone is an immigrant--" All of a sudden, this little elven man, with slumped posture and his left eye open more than his right, grabs my shoulder. "Sir, why don't you stand back?" No, thanks, I'm fine here, I respond. "No, sir, stand back." I'm fine, I say. There's no traffic behind me, as I kept up the rear. He pulls me back (literally pulls me) so I can see the writing in the mirror). "Everyone is an immigrat. We are all descended from immigrants, all you have to do is STAND BACK," he recites to me, emphasizing stand back, looking back, expecting some weird sense of gratification. Not one yard away is a wall with the phrase "Listen to the building" graffitied on it in many different languages. I stand back, finally, and say "Listen to the building?" The man, still at my side. "Yes, LISTEN to the building" and waves his arm in a grandiose motion above, settling on a suitcase. I look where he's pointing and walk over there. I'm alone now, and am just standing around, admiring the old hebrew symbols and stuff. My friend comes by and we start talking about how creepy this is. The same elven man comes behind me. "Hey guys, what're you talking about? Have you seen this yet? You should really pay attention. After all, we opened specially for you. NINE YEAR OLDS made this for you. Look at this." It was a suitcase filled with real potatoes, scrawled in red paint to explain the irish immigration in the 1840s.
"SAD."
"PAIN."
"FRIENDS ARE DIED."
"These nine year olds made this to help YOU understand immigration, and you're running around covorting all cynical about this place. Well, I'll have you know that the New York Times reviewed this place. They said it was GRAND! So you should appreciate it."
After he left us in palpable frustration, the original tour leader (the London is full of many different aged people lady) who proceeded to list to us the major immigration movements to London for the past three hundred years. For 20 minutes. She told us wonderful things, such as, did you know that the Huguenots who emigrated from France in the 18th century were not the first people to migrate because they were being persecuted for religious beliefs? I, for one, had no idea.
Then, we're taken downstairs. Which is a pure-concrete room. There are two tables, one with a tiny tv on it that says "Yiddish folk tale/Jews."She gathers us around and puts a tape in. These same 9 year olds made a video about a folk tale, in which a jewish guy who was getting yelled at--cut to: shot of five nine year olds screaming "jew! jew! jew!"--anyway, by the end of this we're all cracking up. The lady is fuming. "I don't understand why you're all laughing. You must not know how terrible it is to be called jew. To be persecuted, that is." Our TA explained to her that we were educated, reasonable people, and that many of us were jews. And that it was cute. Not that we were laughing at Jews. On the other bare table was a suitcase with a bunch of luggage tags on it, explaining the jewish immigration from russia.
"Russia has not much money left and they don't like me."
"Russians want to kill me."
Next, across a pipe of some sort, hitting my head on the concrete ceiling in the process, we're taken into another room, this one with a pile of crushed porcelain urinals in one corner of the room. [I wish I was embellishing that part. But yes. Truth.] There are a bunch of suitcases with pictures of little kids dressed in somalian garb, somehow explaining somalian immigration. The elven man approaches me, "Have you listened to the phones?" he points three or four phones on another suitcase. I pick it up and listen to a nine year old indian accent talking about somalia. I walk back, trying to leave, but the chairperson is blocking the door. So I make myself look busy. As this happens, she tries to convince my TA to fill out an "identity form". No thanks, she says, I'm a grad student. The chairperson is offended at this. "Excuse me," she says, "I went to grad school. I find you people terribly patronizing."
I'm sorry, my TA says, for whatever I did, but I feel really uncomfortable right now.
"Well, you don't need to be so terribly patronizing about everything. Little nine year olds made this exhibit for you, and we opened up just for you. The New York Times and the London Times loved us. Show some appreciation."
I'm sorry, my TA says, I didn't mean to be patronizing.
"Yes, well, you shouldn't take out your frustration on people who disagreed with you on a stupid war." [Seriously.]
Now my TA starts to cry in frustration and confusion and from being attacked.
After talking with her for another few minutes about not getting yelled at and how terrible this place was, we walked up stairs. There, the door was locked and pack of the kids in our program were trying very hard to figure out just how to unlock the unmoveable front door. The elven man, philip, walks to the door and menacingly shows them the key, before unlocking the door.
"Good day. Spread the word."
I hope I've done my part.
Sartre had obviously never been to 19 Princelet Street.
