Diplomatic Community

I recently returned to Columbus for a winter break from my current residence in Singapore. In a country where every day promises to be over 80-degrees with a chance of rain, I tend to miss the energetic feeling from breathing in cold air that isn’t manufactured. Shoveling the snow and breaking the ice was a little more than I expected, but it gave me time to think about the international acronym, “SUFO”.

I learned SUFO when I moved to Tokyo from New York City. At a bar full of after-work expatriates, an Englishman walked up to me and asked where I was from. I replied, “Columbus, Ohio.” He flopped both hands as if he were a soccer coach disgusted with a referee’s call and said, “You’re just a SUFO.” Before he could turn his back, I asked what it meant. A State You Fly Over.

Now I live in Singapore and find myself with another group of international expatriates. I learned from my Tokyo days to respond to the where-are-you-from question by saying, “I moved here from New York, but I’m originally from Ohio.” I am full of state pride and can no more forget my hometown than I can forget that Ohio is the mother of the most U.S. Presidents. Seven were born in the 17th state including a man who wasn’t but played one on TV, Martin Sheen (Dayton, 1940).

The Internationalists aren’t the only ones who’ve snubbed me. After I graduated from The Ohio State University, I moved to Washington, D.C. to work for an Ohio Congressman. Then I moved to New York City to work for an Ohio company. In both major cities I was often dismissed for being a state school graduate from the Midwest. My all-time favorite indifferent comment/question: “Ohio? Is that like Iowa?” I kept a diplomatic head because I was a face from the place. At OSU I was from Bexley. In D.C. and NYC I was a representation of an Ohioan. As in Tokyo, here on the island nation I am a mini ambassador of America. It is my self-appointed duty to represent my country and home state while promoting its benefits. Internationalists will soon learn new meaning to SUFO: A State You Frequent Often.

I understand the position of an Internationalist visiting America. It is so vast I cannot blame them for viewing the bulk of the nation from 35,000 feet in the air. Yet at that height it is easy to see why many Americans do not own passports. Everything a citizen desires in a vacation is within our borders: beaches, mountains, deserts, historical sites and shopping outlets. Sporting events give every state an arena for the home team and illustrates our sporting life. What I’ve learned from being a broad abroad is that team sports matter.

The unofficial world sport is football. Football, too, is America’s major sport. However, their football is our soccer and our football is uniquely American. We have several professional soccer clubs with international football players, including the Columbus Crew (founded 1994). As Frank Sinatra’s character Bennett Marco says in the 1962 The Manchurian Candidate, “Columbus is a terrific football town.” He may have been thinking about the Buckeyes, but look how terrific our football is now in 2011. Our national soccer league and our football may not play on the international field, but a Hollywood pitch does.

Hooray for Hollywood. Entertainment just might be the most important export and positive feature I have as a self-appointed U.S. diplomat. Internationalists love the cinema and its stars. Talking pictures makes good conversation and thanks to the father of the blockbuster, Steven Spielberg (Cincinnati, 1946), Ohio plays a starring role.

Hollywood’s heartland. We have bragging rights for the stars born in Ohio, including Clark Gable (Cadiz, 1901), Paul Newman (Cleveland Heights, 1925) and Sarah Jessica-Parker (Nelsonville, 1965). An honorary mark of distinction goes to Keanu Reeves for playing an Ohioan in Point Break and The Replacements. It’s one big walk of fame. Legends Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall picked Malabar Farms as the site of their wedding (Lucas, 1945). Ohio, Home of the Original Destination Wedding!

That’s entertainment. I can promote Ohio as the Location Vacation. Picture it: a road trip mapped by the backdrop the state has played in many well-loved movies. Rain Man (Cincinnati, 1988); Shawshank Redemption (Marysville and Lucas, 1994); and A Christmas Story (Cleveland, 1983). Days can be spent tracking the locations of The Deer Hunter (Cleveland, Youngstown, Struthers, Steubenville and Mingo Junction, 1978). George Clooney recently wrapped Ides of March (Cincinnati and Miami University). Ohio, Scout it Out!

Stand by. Hollywood is only the beginning to setting the stage that will elevate Ohio from a SUFO to a state people find outstanding. I can spotlight the Seven Wonders of the World in Ohio. Until then it remains the heart of it all for me, Madeline Acton Rae (Columbus, 1966). Ohio, Wonders are in View!

Merry New Year!

Speak Easy

Thanks, President Lincoln, for designating national Thanksgiving Day. In 1863, America stood divided by the Civil War, yet the Honest One created a day of unity. Of course its meaning didn’t keep the Acton house free from family arguments in between mouthfuls of turkey and fixin’s. Now that I have dinners of my own with friends, I actually miss a few raised voices during the feast. In honor of the delicious and loquacious Thanksgiving dinners of my youth, I visited Singapore’s “free speech area,” Speakers’ Corner.

I set out for Speakers’ Corner on a typical Singapore day. It was high noon. The sun was blazing and the air still. Hong Lim Park was just a five minute walk from the subway stop, but by the time I arrived I glistened with sweat as if I’d been running for five miles. The park is steeped in history. It was the epicenter of public gatherings and political speeches during Singapore’s fight for independence from Malaysia during the 1950’s and 1960’s. In 2000 it was chosen as the site for Speakers’ Corner.

The leader of Singapore’s breakaway movement was Lee Kuan Yew. I bet Mr. Lee, the island nation’s founding father, 1st Prime Minister, and current Minister Mentor, staged political rallies and gave countless number of speeches in Hong Lim Park on his way to a remarkable victory of independence. Given its history, it was appropriate to make the park the venue for Speakers’ Corner. It may be the selected spot for free speech, but it comes with an extensive list of rules and regulations.

I expected to find a corner of the park with a podium or designated space. I pictured a fountain and a grassy area shaded by trees with an abundance of colorful flowers. Instead, I saw a police station next to a wooden sign marked “Speaker’s Corner” with a CCTV camera mounted alongside. Trees lined the parameter of the park, but provided no shade for the grassy patch in the center. Singaporeans were required to obtain permission at the police station to use Speakers’ Corner, but now the process is online through the parks department. Other policies involving the free-speaking zone aren’t as straight forward.

The freedom to assemble and freedom of speech is assured in the Constitution of Singapore. However, Parliament has the right to restrict it in order to protect the city-state’s security, to prevent incitement to criminal offense, and to keep public order. It is illegal for 5 or more people to gather without a permit.

I was just one person, so no worries. There I stood beside the Speakers’ Corner sign under a watchful mechanical eye. I wanted to feel the passion of a cause or be moved to inspirational words; however, I’m just a guest in a foreign land. What could I possibly say to Singapore as a tribute to my childhood Thanksgivings in Ohio? All I had in mind was my favorite American anthem, “My Country ‘Tis of Thee.” In a normal speaking voice, I recited the words of the first stanza to an empty park. I’d like to say that it felt good or that it empowered me, but all it did was make me feel downright creepy. Strolling around the park taking pictures and walking back to the subway I convinced myself that whoever watched me on the CCTV monitor was tailing me.

That night, while drinking a cocktail, I had a big laugh at myself. Throughout the day I had worked my paranoia into a WWII Nazi-occupied scenario where I was sure I’d hear a midnight knock on the door. I saw myself speaking like Peter Lorre in Casablanca imploring, “Save me!” as Major Strasser had me dragged away. With high spirits and ease of mind, I started to outline this entry. I looked through my pictures and gasped when I read Speakers’ Corner Rule 6: The speaker must be a citizen of Singapore.

My goose is cooked. Happy Thanksgiving!

Update: Last Thanksgiving I wrote about my search for a turkey baster in Singapore. My sister, Valerie, came to the rescue! Thanks, Val.

Locked Up A Broad

A couple stood side-by-side as their cigarettes were counted one-by-one. Their shirts were wet with sweat and sticking to their backs. A woman with a shiny face sat on a folding chair nervously watching while clutching her bag of Kentucky Fried Chicken. The air-conditioning must have been broken because I was perspiring, too. My heart had been pounding since I heard the three words that stop hearts while crossing international borders, “Come with me.”

It was just a simple getaway to Malaysia. We booked a weekend at a no-nonsense resort on an island in the South China Sea – about a three hour drive and thirty minute ferry from Singapore. J & I each packed a small duffel bag for the three day stay in a rustic hut on a white sandy beach facing the clear blue sea . Along with my bikini, sarong, sundress and sunscreen, I packed travel Scrabble and a bottle of wine. We enjoyed a weekend of sun, surf and sand then repacked our gear and headed back to reality. Simple enough until I discovered that my bag was legal one way yet considered contraband the other.

Crossing the Malaysian/Singapore border is a drag. Both sides do not make it easy. Everyone must disembark their vehicles and go through immigration on the departure side. Then drive about a minute to the arrival country, disembark and go through immigration again. Malaysia's customs isn’t as taxing as Singapore’s. In the fine city- state dutiable goods include alcohol, tobacco, and motor spirit (whatever that is). It is prohibited to import cigarette lighters, chewing tobacco and treasonable materials.

So there I was, shuffling along in the line of long faced people waiting for my turn to pass under the security detector. Beeeep! A customs official asked me, “Is this your bag? Show me your passport.” I said yes and opened the bag. He looked inside and took my passport. I followed him behind a door marked "Customs and Immigration".

The room was small and windowless. A young female in uniform sat behind a table counting cigarettes. J & I sat down on the two chairs next to the table and across the room from the woman with the KFC. My eyes kept drifting to the barred cell in the corner. After minutes that felt like hours a man in his mid-sixties wearing a disheveled uniform but looking cool and in control appeared from behind another closed door and motioned me inside. The bathroom-sized anteroom had two walls of CTV monitors and another with a one-way mirror looking out to the people passing through immigration. An enormous Asian man with his back to me sat watching the screens. A desk was in the middle. My “interrogator” pulled a chair out for me. I removed my hat and sat down. The old agent held my passport and said, “You have committed a major crime by trying to smuggle a bottle of wine into the country.”

Please let me explain. I live in Singapore. I bought the bottle in Singapore, took it with me to Malaysia. I didn’t drink it so I returned with it.
It is unlawful. Didn’t you read the signs?
No, I didn’t pay attention. I bought the bottle in Singapore.
How did you pack it?
It’s just a small duffel bag.
Bring it in.

He inspects the bag and contents, having me open travel Scrabble. Then he asks me to pack it exactly how it was with the bottle of wine. He turns the bottle round and round while he continues questioning me.

Did you know smuggling a bottle of wine is punishable by a fine and additional duty?
I wasn’t trying to hide it – it was right on top.
Do you have a receipt for the bottle?
No. All I have is S$50, my passport and green card.
How are you going to prove that this bottle was purchased in Singapore?
I do not know.

How was I going to prove it? The old agent was sternly staring at me seeming to enjoy the tension of the silence. The bottle of wine was in his hands. I was wide-eyed searching my brain for a solution. Then I spotted it. Little tax stamps are found on all dutiable goods in Singapore. My proof was the bottle! The old agent accepted the evidence and said, “I won’t charge you a fine, but I will have to charge you a tax. How much did it cost?” I quickly replied $20. The big agent pounded some figures in a computer, turned to me and told me I owed S$8. I handed them the cash and they printed me a receipt.

I repacked the bottle of wine in my duffel bag and walked back to where J was sitting. The female agent completed her count of cigarettes and was now counting chicken nuggets.

Bare Arms

During our summer leave from Singapore, J and I made use of an American right that would bring us a punishment in our adopted city-state of not less than 5 years imprisonment coupled with at least 6 cane strokes.

It happened when we were in Garrison. Vermin live throughout our property, but the snakes, hawks, foxes, and coyotes naturally keep their numbers low. We do not interfere with the circle of life. However, when we discovered a colony of chipmunks destroying our front lawn we couldn't wait to let nature take its course. Their underground city was the size of Atlantis! We had to take matters into our own hands. J's solution: a .22.

Exercising our 2nd Amendment right to keep and bare arms, we set out to buy a rifle. We headed straight for the nation’s largest seller of firearms, Wal-Mart. To our surprise (and fright), all the guns were sold out! We then drove around aimlessly through the small towns of Putnam County to find a proper gun store, but we couldn’t find our target. We were forced to change tactic. We had to make inquiries, but where? It’s not as if one can simply roll down a car window and ask a passerby the whereabouts of the nearest gun store like it's a 7-Eleven. How awkward to pull up to a gas station and say, “Excuse me, but where can I buy a gun?” Do we query a tattoo parlor? Pool hall? A group of boys hanging in the park?

Bullseye! A Hardware Store!

Nestled between an edible florist and a pet store stood the gun and bait shop. As we walked in, a man was finalizing the purchase of an assault rifle that looked as if it could stop a charging elephant. On the walls leading up to the counter I spotted a handful of hooks and one rod and reel amid firearm accessories, such as jackets, holsters and scopes. The wall behind the counter was loaded with .22s and other weapons whose numbers I didn’t know. A man hanging out in the store as if it were a clubhouse bragged to me about owning 50 guns, including a pink pistol. When I asked him why he owns so many guns he replied, “Because they come in different colors.” Right.

After J made his choice, the salesman took his expired NY driver's license and Singapore driver's license and called the FBI for an on-the-spot background check. Just like that, our classic Belgium-made Browning joined the over 300+ million guns owned in America.

Next entry: I Was an Expat-NRA Wife.

The Yanks Are Coming! The Yanks Are Coming!

2:30a.m. Sunday morning in Singapore I watched the US-UK World Cup football match at Muddy Murphy’s. Thankfully a friend of James’ reserved a table because when we arrived, the joint was jumpin’ like the Varsity Club after a Buckeye victory. The "Irish" pub was full of face-painted UK fans standing and singing shoulder-to-shoulder. Their brotherhood of country is something to behold and it didn’t take me long to get into the spirit.

The camaraderie was infectious and I was inebriated. Americans were outmatched on the pitch and at the pub. Even the non-Brits favored the Triple Lions over the Yanks, but that didn’t keep me in hiding. When the bar erupted singing God Save the Queen I fancied myself Victor Laszlo in Casablanca and stood and sang My Country, ‘Tis of Thee. I wish I could write that I inspired the dozen or so American fans to join me in drowning out the enemy, but all I accomplished was a collective scooching of chairs a little further away from me.



When UK scored "the fastest goal in the World Cup," I lost a bit of my pluck and quietly sat sipping my pint. To me, the game was like watching an Alfred Hitchcock movie: suspenseful. As long as the clock was running, so were the players. Anyone could score at any time. The announcers were good. They didn’t constantly talk over the action; rather they voiced their observations then sat a spell to allow viewers to watch. Behind all the dialogue was the soundtrack of 50,000+ stadium fans humming like a swarm of bees. It was the rhythm section of the pub singers. It’s what had me singing, once again, when America scored its goal.

On my feet with the other cheering Americans, I belted out the chorus from George M. Cohan’s Over There. It just hit me that we are Yanks and we are off to war. I became flooded with national pride thinking about Yankee Doodle Dandy, the millions of Americans watching the goal on a Saturday afternoon while I was watching it on a Sunday morning, and our brothers in arms watching it in their time zone (probably with a bunch of Brits, too).

I’ve got the fever and the only prescription is patriotic song. Have pride, America, and ditch the monotonous and uninspiring U*S*A chant for the following:

Over There, Over There
Send the word, send the word,
Over There
That the Yanks are coming,
The Yanks are coming,
The drums rum tumming everywhere
So prepare,
Say a Prayer
Send the word,
Send the word to beware
We'll be over, we're coming over.
And we won't be back till it's over over there!

It's A Wrap

If a building falls in Irving and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? We’ll never know because Texans paid $25 a carload to watch a stadium crumble from a ton of dynamite. They paid money to suck in a mushroom cloud of ash, dirt and, I assume, asbestos. Big Wow.

In Singapore structures go up and come down on a regular basis. The average lifespan of an apartment building is seven years. Some say it is because the weather makes them unstable. Others believe the constant rise and fall is in an effort to provide jobs. No matter the reason, the demolition is a mind-blowing art form.

First, the construction crew wraps the structure. Christo could probably learn a thing or two from their performance. Scaffolding rises up and then a mesh canvas is stretched over one storey at a time. The covering may not keep the noise down, but it keeps the dust from rising up and settling on the neighborhood homes and in the neighbor’s lungs.

Once wrapped, the heavy equipment arrives. Cranes pluck backhoes from flatbeds and hoist them to the top of the building. When I watched the process, the entire street stood still. Construction workers from a nearby site stopped what they were doing and took turns taking their picture in front of the action. The slightest blow of wind would swing the dangling 2-ton backhoe as it hung over the 20-storey building...and us!

Systematically the levels disappear. Dump trucks haul the concrete, rebar and other building bits from the site. Before the trucks leave the work zone, two guys stand on either side and hose it off. The load is properly tied down and washed. Then one day the building vanishes.

The deconstruction took several months. I snapped the pictures on my phone for fun – a before and after for my personal memory of life in Singapore. However, when Texas Stadium made international news, I knew I had to share the dynamite process of demolition in Singapore. And people get to watch it for free.