Rarest of Roots

Everyone has that one friend: the Ginger, the Redhead. You tease this friend, probably not as relentlessly as celebrities have been teased in the past (Lindsay Lohan comes to mind) but nonetheless, a few side remarks leak through. Why? Are we jealous? Those born redhead are undeniably different, but whether or not they are well received varies.
Some find redheads rare and ravishing; others, down-right revolting. “My mother’s reaction to being told her first-born was a ginger was to weep uncontrollably," says one man who wishes remain unnamed. Not everyone sees red when discussing these rare locks, a host of other comments can be read when checking out Photographer Jenny Wicks documentation of this increasingly elusive breed in a series called Root Ginger. Her film project is complemented by a book of photographic portraits focusing exclusively on red-headed subjects.
The project displays photos of redheads ranging from downy tufts atop infant heads to the wiry beards of the ancient. Her mission, to celebrate the rare: the beauty of diversity. It is a stunning gallery of crisp, straightforward portraits. An artfully tact reminder. Gingers are people too, you know. (People with two copies of a recessive gene on chromosome 16.) Though stigmatized as savage red hair can also be sexy! Hey, it even connects to royalty... Queen Elizabeth's auburn locks were never mangy but instead majestic! According to a recent survey, approximately 1% to 2% of the human population has red hair. It has been forecast, given the genetic combination required for the creation of a redhead that they will disappear entirely within a century.

One Good Egg—Cooking with Karma

Iron pans, rubber spatulas, canned cook-oils, stained-towels, and stove-top knobs everything jostled, sprayed, scraped and adjusted, as the legendary Omelet Lady presides over her terrain. Home-cooked magic, with its savory mouth-watering powers, awakens the morning air surrounding a 4’3’’ fireplug of a woman. It is 8 a.m. on Tuesday morning. Omelet Lady cheerfully and efficiently rattles the pans in Boston University’s Warren Towers Dining Hall, turning out golden, crisped creations.

Cecilia Lopez has a cult-like following of students, all of who endearingly and exclusively call her: the Omelet Lady. In addition to her illustrious fame, Cecilia stands out because her most beloved qualities have bloomed despite a life of hardship. Cecilia Lopez embodies the role of a karmic mother, as she feeds both body and soul of her dining hall surrogates. She thrives in this role—feeling fulfilled, not only as the iconic Omelet Lady serving up food, but as the maternal one serving up good, old-fashioned advice. It is in her nature. Although many nurture, Cecilia genuinely strives to improve others’ lives; she transfers positive energy, bettering her life and the lives of those around her.

The events of her own life are a whirlwind of sadness and heartache; her life could have easily turned sour. Instead, the adversity she has overcome is only a piece of her character; every day Cecilia prevails, making an impact on hundreds of people. The majority pencil her into their routines. They find comfort in her presence. But they remain blissfully unaware of their giver’s own painful childhood. Perhaps it is because, holistically, Cecilia is a beacon of life, bottle of cheerful.

She places the freshly made eggs under a hot lamp, covering them with plate-lids, and motioning the ‘owner’ back to claim it. Many diners appreciate her maternal warmth; but most are unaware of her other karmic children. Collectively, they know nothing of her blood-related daughter, Vanessa.
Lauren Acker sees herself as Cecilia’s daughter; she wakes up at 8.30 a.m. for her omelet, even though her first class doesn’t start until 10. Acker laughs, “Omelet Lady is like my mom away from home: she makes sure I eat healthy in the morning.” One Thursday morning Lauren drove her family straight from the airport to breakfast with her. She explained her reason as twofold: “One, I never have missed a breakfast with Omelet Lady, and [two] I desperately wanted to introduce my mom to my new second mom!”

Cecilia explains how she often goes grocery shopping with her daughter Vanessa: “ I go to supermarket where I live--Everett. It is a family there. I want to make same here.” As the Lopez mother-daughter pair shops, a warm greeting ensues. Cecilia appreciates the welcoming employees. Perhaps every establishment should have an extra thoughtful and friendly employee: one exceptionally good egg. Yet it seems the connections that Cecilia welds with her regulars are far more nurturing than the eggs she serves. “No one else is as caring as Omelet Lady,” chirps Esteban Yepez, a Boston University student and avid egg-lover, “when I oversleep she makes my omelet ahead of time, so I don’t miss the 9 o’clock cut off.”
It is like being accepted into a big family: first, you need to meet the matriarch. Cecilia sits at the head of a huge network of diners; they are all connected by their relationship with Omelet Lady. Jason Kaplan, a shy bookish guy, elucidates the sheer power of her presence: “If you know Omelet Lady, you automatically have a dozen dinning hall friends.” Kaplan recalls the time he met a fellow regular on the elevator: “we were both rushing to get to the Egg-Bar. Bam! I had a friend.” Sometimes, it is as simple as waiting for the omelets to cook. While standing near the outskirts of her station, a friendly exchange sparks a companionship.

It’s the same every morning: I watch blurry eyed, coffee in hand, my mind full of fragmented thoughts. I start to place my order of egg-whites. But, looking down I see them already sitting in the pan; Omelet Lady sprinkles in onions and peppers, smiling. Her charm is contagious. She cooks with genuine care, striking up conversations with a natural grace, as though English is her language and America, not El Salvador, her country. Besides being the figurehead of the unconventional family she orchestrates, Cecilia remains each diner’s companion.

“Is this good? You no like cheese, Right?” Cecilia memorizes each order, but builds in opportunities for daily amendments. For my order it is always the addition of cheese. Despite being the shortest person in the entire cafeteria, her energy enlarges her presence to that of a towering figure, encapsulated behind her station. The glass framing soon disappears: it melts as students peer in to converse with Cecilia, which she loves. “I learn English from you and you learn to no stress from me.” Her words slip out with a minor struggle, camouflaged by the inviting smile spread across her face.

As another student bellies up to her Egg-Bar, she nods and ladles egg beaters; she tosses bacon and cheese into the pan and slides it down to the end of her griddle. “You all Set” is how she often finishes these exchanges with ‘regulars’ – those she takes special care of – vigilant of both the omelets and their owners.
Cecilia tells of Chris, a boy who is usually perky, but one day was dragging. She offered sentiments in a commanding tone that appear oddly soothing: “sleep” and “no stress.” They are broken orders that—Chris told me while knifing his breakfast into a scrambled mess—restructured his whole perspective. It was an exchange that began when she asked him how his Physics test went. The test was exhausting. But rather than ‘crash’ in his dorm, he headed straight to the dining hall to see the lady who completes his day. As the cruel and stressful world of adulthood looms, it helps to rekindle the feeling of childhood safety. Cecilia represents this warm connection: it is as though Chris time-travels to the days spent as a toddler, lazily dangling his feet over a kitchen-chair.

However, Cecilia values determination; she cites education as both an impressive and important pursuit—one that was unavailable to her. Cecilia only has a 7th grade education: it was halted when she was sent, alone, to clean her uncle’s house in Texas—forced to leave her native El Salvador. America was not the land of opportunities for her, rather a place away from danger. Her vulnerability as a young woman in a corrupt country caused her to be transplanted to a foreign soil without her family: “My mother, she worried. The guns and people in groups with power could do whatever they like: bust door, break in, and take girl. If they want it, they do it.”

Rather than be paralyzed by the authoritative tone of the drug cartels, she applied their doctrine optimistically to her own life, turning it into a mantra chanting independence: if she wants it, she does it. On whether she wishes she completed school, Cecilia says, “I don’t know. My point is I’m happy.” She motions with her hands to indicate a ‘so then’ type of gesture, “people happy. I think I have a good life.”

She sought, for example, to recreate the plantation atmosphere that disintegrated when her father unexpectedly died. Cecilia saves her wages, splitting the amassed funds between her home in Everett – “with trees, tomato and orange, a horse and cows” – and a Chilex, a snack-shop in El Salvador with “beer, fried dough and beef.” Chilex’s small size, like its founder, does not stop it from achieving impressive success. Cecilia’s mother and brother now run the shop: it is their livelihood, crafted by a girl thought to be a risk, rather than an aid, just a decade ago. Cecilia’s daughter, Vanessa is also fiercely independent; she also lives in America. And the two make sparse trips to El Salvador.

Though many students relish in having Omelet Lady as a surrogate mom, she is actually acting as more of a karmic mother figure. In her eyes, the role of mother is reserved solely for her only daughter, Vanessa. “I do a good job,” she beams. Vanessa is two years away from graduating with a business degree at MIT. Cecilia worries constantly, and like most maternal figures, offers up a heaping spoonful of typical mom advice to both Vanessa and the diners: stay in a group, accept no strange drinks and never break curfew.

She looks at the hordes of BU students, shuffling in and out, as opportunities to inspire karmic goodness. Chances to brighten the day of a student feeling the kind of academic pressure she imagines Vanessa experiences. “Your parents are not here; you study too much, some have a few friends. It is good to see a good face.” Her motivation behind memorizing students—both their faces and orders is clear. Cecilia has the “good face” she speaks of. Her checks are flushed from the 3-hour-straight shift of cooking, long shiny black hair pulled tight in a ponytail; she has the most attentive and expressive eyes that, whenever she cannot find all the words, fill the conversation gaps gracefully.
Typical conversation is so upbeat that one ca not help but see the world as Cecilia does. When asked about her favorite day without hesitation, she throws up her hands and says, “Today!”

Her fellow employees are grateful Cecilia cleans up her station and always offers to help them tidy theirs. Her friend Jesus got her the job 18 years ago; everyone agrees it was to their benefit since her strong work ethic and positivity “keeps the place afloat when we are swamped, and makes for pleasant slower days,” Mike, a grill worker, remarks. Cecilia explains that the Howard Johnson she used to work at demanded more: 14 rooms turned over within the hour. The transition to cooking was a pleasant surprise.

No one expected the one-time housekeeping maid to rein for a lifetime Lady who keeps a watchful eye over a slew of her students. Her joy is apparent, but its catalyst a mystery. Omelet Lady is openhanded, yet enigmatic. Maybe it is in the eyes: exacting in their focus. Maybe it is in her elaborate gestures: the buzzing energy. When students visit their beloved Omelet Lady, they become bemused as though under a potent spell. Many regulars become uncomfortable when they realize her importance to them and yet their lack of knowledge about her. Some off-handedly cite why they re-arrange their schedules to see her: their fear of disappointing her, the vision of their omelet simmering in a pan, unclaimed.

But some regulars acknowledge the power of their connection—it is the bonds that keep the lines curving around her station. As she cracks an egg, its yellow bleeds into all the surrounding white. Just as Omelet Lady’s golden glow surges into the bland, depleted energy that pervades a morning at a college dinning hall. While Cecilia’s role as an egg-cracker fails to distinguish her, Omelet Lady’s status as a mind reader does. But Cecilia Lopez, the Omelet Lady, does not read minds, she atunes herself to others. Listening attentively is her dharma, her duty. There are two types of people in this world: givers and takers.

While it is clear Cecilia Lopez is a giver, what she gives feels somehow undefinable: love, advice, nurturing, a listening ear, a big smile, a damn good omelet! Cecilia is easier to describe through her qualities, she is fearless, sympathetic and despite being self-sufficient, she maintains a deep faith in the power of community.

Cecilia views life as an adventure: “every single day is good.” I watch her wipe the table clean and, as though she is clearing the slate, she looks up: I believe her mantra. On this morning, I sit down to eggs with her. I decide to take her advice: she adds cheese to my omelet. United, we start our day together.

A Not So Rare Movie: Dan in Real Life

Does your life revolve around others? That’s Dan Burn’s (Steve Carell) problem as an advice-columnist and single father. As Dan In Real Life opens, the eponymous character lovingly paints a honey smile in the center of his daughter’s wonder-bread. As night falls, we see him typing witty, but heartfelt, responses to a myriad of advice seekers in the dark, alone. And so begins our silent routing for Dan—to find love, to find the happiness he shellacs on his daughters’ sandwiches.
Now some advice for moviegoers: this film sounds as if it has all the elements of a delicious family comedy. But beware: Dan in Real Life has bitten off more than any one movie can chew. Rather than embrace the film’s natural direction, screenwriter and director, Peter Hedges, attempts something that almost always backfires – forcing the film into a cliché. Dan in Real Life has all the ingredients to be a shoe-in commercial success. Why wasn’t it as wildly funny as Carell’s other deadpan comedies, such as “The Office?” It has a star-studded cast and it had a considerable production budget, but the problem lies within the lack of direction.
Dan in Real Life loses proverbial points on both the mainstream and alternative fronts, by not committing to either one. The Indie-loving crowd will note the lack of cinematography and predictability of the plot. Every pivotal scene was glossed over, in hopes of making it more palatable. Scenes were filmed causally, striving for Indie-credibility—to make it seem that ‘real life’ was unfolding. The camera rarely pivots, instead offering a large, un-hurried single scene with various characters cross-stepping in and out of the frame. Any plot problems appear to be resolved behind the scenes; so rather than focus on what is shown, one begins to crave an angle change and emotional sincerity.
Initially, the movie throws a plot curveball, unveiling that Dan is in love with his brother’s girlfriend. At least by mixing in an unexpected love triangle, it crafts a collage of trite plot scenarios to entertain us. This pastiche of passé pains viewers with its predictability, but offers an ironic twist to the trailer’s tagline: “Get Ready to Be Surprised.” Obvious outcomes include Dan’s fate with “Maria, the-woman-from-the-bookstore,” who he dances with while the credits role. No one pities his brother, Mitch, who originally loved Maria. Characters are underdeveloped; Mitch crafted to act as a barrier. His role was to delay a predictable conflict-resolution, not to be a brother. Rather than portray real-life disappointment, the scenes reach the midpoint between fixed and fabricated. Dan’s widowhood and subsequent parenting struggles feel stale. Only a hint of life’s flavors, with none of the unpleasant aftertastes, diminish the richness one has come to expect with Indie visions, such as Hedges’ Pieces of April.
In contrast to Hedges’ debut film, featuring April’s struggle to survive family Thanksgiving, Dan in Real Life’s problems are resolved – mess unseen, feelings unhurt. But, real life is never so simple. Sometimes we crave this unrealistic film style; escapism remains popular for commercialized mass audiences, but motion-picture fans will be unenthused as the story unfolds in a simple single location— the Burn’s Rhode Island house. Costumes are made to look as if no-name actors are donning their own clothing, which to the viewer must feels dishonest.
Because the interactions of the Burns family are disengaged, so is the viewer. The sticky situations of the plot are presented with sugarcoating, void of earnest reaction. When his youngest daughter says, “you are a good father, but sometimes a bad dad,” a coy smile spreads over Dan’s otherwise apathetic mug. Then, as cheerful indie acoustic saturates the scene, he asks: “which one of your sisters told you to say that?” The reaction feels, if not surreal, then disconnected. Which renders embedded symbols of classic family life—the iconic red minivan, wide-knit cable sweaters, and mix-matched sheets—useless.
Yet, certain scenes paint the Burn’s family as a one we rarely encounter and are willing to join. Carell joked in an interview: “if you pay the actors enough, you can join us and be a member of the Burns family.” A family, where in one scene, Dan’s teenage daughters roll out of bed early to join their relatives for a group-workout, followed by hot-off-the-griddle pancakes.
But wait, wasn’t this a movie about family-dysfunction? Actually, it’s a little bit of everything, but ultimately nothing nearly as powerful as the movies that successfully bridged the gap between mainstream and alternative thought waves, such as Little Miss Sunshine. In that tale, something feels real; it is the type of moving human comedy that Dan in Real Life desires to replicate. The formula is followed: Dan drives an ancient car on a quasi-road-trip, a young girl delivers a few power lines, the script is written so you want to route for the featured family. The difference: Little Miss Sunshine is less formulaic, less posed, and less transparent with its goals. Chemistry between the Burn family members is lacking; it quickly becomes a shadowy attempt to recreate the sunny magic.
Dan In Real Life’s sentimental acoustic soundtrack is incredibly helpful in moving the mediocre toward something a little more meaningful—it seems earnest. Until a fan goes to purchase Sondre Lerche’s music and discovers it bundled as a merchandise package tied directly to Dan in Real Life; then it is revealed as a part of this poorly executed commercial ploy.

Display Case

An enigmatic woman beams off the textbook page, brass rings stacked around her stalk-like neck. The village behind her breathes in vivid shades of burgundy, turquoise, and chartreuse. It is an image rich in both color and culture—a glimpse into a world tourists often visit but never actually explore, a fresh alternative to the gray air of the city where the textbook was mass-produced.
Fascination with the rare takes many forms: yet we tend to separate ourselves, passively observing our fellow humans in textbooks, like specimens in a glass box. In Thailand, an entire tribe serves a life-sentence term inside a display case. As Professor and Chair of the Department of Anthropology at Boston University, Robert Weller remarks, the issue is our tendency to “turn culture into commodity.” To the Thai authorities, the Kayan tribal women are commodities for a slew of paying tourists – existing solely to showcase the brass rings coiled around their necks.
Thai authorities prevent Kayan women from taking up asylum overseas. The dozens of rings around their extremely long necks have turned these women into cash cows; the women are lucrative to the Thai tourist industry, the nation’s most profitable enterprise. Powder fine beaches and thick tropical air mark many travel destinations, but it is the rich cultural history of the Kayan tribe that distinguishes Thailand. Officials hope to sway tourists like palm trees toward their islands by promoting the women’s obscurity. As Wanchai Thiasiri, a Chiang tour guide told an Age Newspaper reporter in January 2008, "[it’s] the No. 1 attraction in this area. It's why tourists come here.”
Many people feel the Thai government exploits their renounced refugees by offering their rich culture as an attraction at an amusement park, rather than a living art exhibit. The Kayan women attempt to protest, despite lacking citizenship or power. In 2006, many women removed their rings after provincial authorities refused to allow emigration to other countries, such as New Zealand. The myth that ring-removal was a torturous punishment, which would snap the neck of an unfaithful woman, was thus debunked. Upon removal the women say the only ill effect is dizziness, which soon subsides. The actual elongation is painless, but permanent; accumulations of coils, starting at age two, forces the chin upward while pressing down the collarbone and ribs. Though altered, the Kayan women’s shape remains fully functioning. But the curiosity swirling around these women seems intrusive and painfully permanent.
The ringless are pointed out on tours, singling out even those who want to join popular culture. In 2008, Southeast Asia reporter Lawi Weng interviewed now-ringless 21-year-old Mu Hwit, who boldly articulated her perspective that Thai authorities “just want us to stay to preserve our culture as a tourism attraction; they don’t want us to leave and study abroad.” Mu Hwit hopes her newfound distance from her culture will provide her with more opportunity. She feels that, to those still ringed, their “culture brings no benefits, only to others.”
The elders of the Kayan tribe see it differently—in their eyes, it is taboo to ever take off the rings. The elders spread false information that suffocation is a risk with removal, in hopes of dissuading rebellious girls like Hwit. In contrast, American body modification is seen as taboo, and their removal praised. In fact, prior to piercing or tattooing any body part in America, involved parties are required to sign legal documents. Such documents confirm it is indeed the will of the participant, highlighting another difference—in America, body modification is not about cultural conformity, but about individual expression.
Kayan Tribes express themselves through group rituals, their identity based on the entire community. Anthropological studies show that originally the women wore the rings to make themselves less of a target for slavery and more appealing for marriage. While a growing number women, like Hwit, have been prompted to protest against the exploitation of their culture, others feel sustained by the ritual. These women see the rings as important—either as a visible homage to their tribe’s rich cultural beliefs or as a means of easy, though meager, income. Reports indicate that the Thai government has relocated hundreds of people to display them for monetary gain. It is unknown if the Kayans would keep coiling if they were considered a comparable culture to their homeland and not merely a commodity.

Break More Than Skin with a Mold of Your Own Design: 3D Implants

Incisions sliced with a scalpel, pressure applied and the metal implant slid under the skin. Some people are ready to permanently invest in a new procedure -- turning their bodies into canvases with 3D tattoos. These customized art implantations have recently grown in popularity, but continue to baffle many. It’s a new kind of body art, a type of under-the-skin additive, which aims to embrace the individual’s personality. It all sounds quite medical; the terms are derived from the areas of the skin affected. The dermal, from dermis, denotes skin and the level of penetration indicated with the prefix “sub” or “trans.” As the subversive stepbrother of the tattoo – similarly, there is pain and blood, but the approach manages to be even more invasive, leaving many to wonder the participant’s motivation. Body-piercer/tattoo artist, Kristina Kelley, explains that “pain is something people react differently to, some people get a rush.” The rush, once available from traditional tattooing, is again within reach to some. Logan Rothschild, a tattooed Boston University student, describes the world as “no longer a place where tattoos can express individuality.” It seem that the inked-on-messages of traditional tattoos fail to generate the original shock – their edginess diluted by mass media. Rothschild continues that “today, it is more rare not to have a tattoo.” It was the group identification that drew in the original tattooed – sailors, punks, gang members. With a Journal of the American Academy of Dermatology survey finding 40 million Americans currently tattooed, it is no shock that the art form is considered common. One in four Americans aged 18-50 are inked, altering public perception. Joshua Wright, another Boston University student, theorizes that there are many reasons to get a tattoo: “maybe each tattoo has a meaning to each person, and that’s why it’s so personal.” His tattoo, featuring the initials of his deceased mother, peaks out from beneath his blue t-shirt, as he reveals, “a way to keep something important always close by.” It’s a prime example of how the tattoo industry has shifted from group identification to a more personal, permanent keepsake. With this transition, Joshua explains that “to truly stand out, you would need a 3D tattoo,” although that’s not his purpose. Yet, many are electing to have this new procedure, which began in Steve Haworth’s Arizona shop, just a few years ago. As Haworth writes in his blog: “I became a human evolution artist” the day a customer strolled into HTC Body Piercings and asked for a bracelet. The catch: this bracelet was to be metal, not ink. And, with a row of beads implanted under the woman’s wrist, the first 3D tattoo rose from daring dream to reality. Although rare, small subcultures of people are linking together to transform their bodies, the procedure is still underground. Recognizing the allure of 3D tattoos, Kristina and Ramon of Stingray Tattoos located on Harvard Ave in Allston, MA, are scrambling to obtain the license for performing subdermal implants in their shop – a difficult feat in most states. As the legality of 3D implants varies from state to state, prompting some to travel and others to be operated on illegally. Infection and other hygiene related concerns increase with the latter. The risk of scarring and shifting of the implanted plates also are amplified when these procedures are preformed in states where it is illegal. Mary Powers, a board certified plastic surgeon in Los Angeles, clarifies the legality with Columbia University student Mirela Iverac via interview; slicing the skin “fall[s] under the category of practicing medicine without a license:” a felony in Arizona, the 3D tattoo’s birth state. Filmmaker Larry Silverman’s March 2008 documentary, “Flesh and Blood” explores the trend, featuring Haworth in his self-appointed role of modern-day artist. He insists that his “medium is flesh.” Although Silverman explores the process of subdermal implants, his real investigation is the implant’s popularity. One man getting his 3D tattoo implanted sans-anesthesia in Haworth’s Arizona home enlightens viewers, “you can only go so far with tattoos, you can only go so far with Piercings,” his face reddens and muscles flex, “I want to go farther.” The practice of body modification sparks heated debates, as depicted in Silverman’s documentary. Some psychologists are accusing all those who alter their body with implants to be of a pathological nature. A tattoo-less musician, Ben Johnson, told me he stays both inkless and implant-less because to do otherwise “seems unnatural.” Despite his laidback style he quite pointedly inquires: “How do those new implants age?” But because no one can fast forward time, the future of these groundbreaking modifications remains a mystery. Others revel in that mystery. They posit that in our culture, a sea of monotony is interrupted only by art. “The body is art, and that is a beautiful thing,” muses Rothschild. In the end, it is a matter of personal taste that distinguishes deformed from decorated.