All posts by Deirdre Straughan

Pirating Music

“When I was a kid, we used to tape music off the radio. You never heard of record companies suing people for that.” New York Times, Sept 10, 2003

Okay, I admit it: I’ve been pirating music for a long time.

The earliest copyright infringement I can recall perpetrating myself occurred in Bangladesh. I was 14 years old, and loved music as much as any normal teenager does, although my tastes were probably a bit more eclectic than most. It wasn’t possible to buy records or tapes of western music in Dacca at that time, so we of the foreign community all borrowed from each other. But how to make a copy so I could keep it? I had one of those old-style tape cassette players that was long and flat with a tray that opened up on top, and one small speaker. It could also be used to record, through an incorporated mic. I would position that in front of our higher-end early-model JVC boombox, and record from speaker to mic. Very low fi indeed, but I didn’t care about quality – I was just hungry for the music.

In India it was possible to buy cassettes of western music, but, on our boarding school allowances, who could afford it? And the selection was always months to years behind what was current in the US. Some kids brought record or tape collections with them, and we copied each other’s tapes, using the speaker-to-mic method. My roommate’s mother would sometimes send tapes made from the radio during her US trips, which gave us a chance to catch up on current music, though it was distinctly weird to sit in a dorm room in Mussoorie and hear news and advertising from a town in Massachusetts.

VCRs weren’t around then. An Indian classmate returned from four or five years in San Francisco a raving Trekkie, a passion I somewhat shared. In desperation, before leaving the States he had recorded the soundtracks of Star Trek reruns from his TV, and we used to listen to those together. So I have heard the celebrated “Trouble with Tribbles” episode, but to this day have never seen it!

When my dad and stepmom moved to Thailand, I discovered a whole new way to get music. In Bangkok you could go to a record shop where they didn’t actually sell any records. You would go through their (huge) selection and pick out the music you liked; they would record it onto cassette tapes for you, complete with hand-typed song lists. This was very cheap and efficient – you could get two whole albums onto a 90-minute cassette. If there was space left over, they would sometimes fill it with random stuff, giving you a chance to discover something new.

Back in the US, it was common to go through a friend’s record collection and ask them to tape stuff for you, although this was a lot to ask, LP-to-tape recording being rather a pain. By then I had a fancy tape deck purchased in Hong Kong, with a feature that would fast-forward to the next silence on the tape, so you could easily skip a song you didn’t like. High tech, for those days.

I bought a few commercially-recorded cassette tapes in the US, but they were expensive, and not very durable – they tended to stretch after only a few months: built-in obsolescence? The tapes I had made in Thailand are still fine 20 years later.

In 1984, while visiting my dad in Indonesia, I learned that Indonesia had never signed the International Copyright Convention. You could get anything on tape there, very cheaply, mass-produced with printed labels. Sometimes the label would have a photograph of the original album cover cut out and pasted on to add authenticity. I bought dozens of tapes, though I knew that, technically, it was illegal to take them back to the US. Having music available at such low prices encouraged me to explore new artists and genres; I could pick up something on impulse, and if I didn’t like it, so what?

These tapes, too, have proved durable, and also had their delightful surprises. Like the Thais, the Indonesians couldn’t stand to leave a minute of tape empty. They would record right to the end of Side A, and if a song got cut off in the middle, would re-start it on Side B. Then they’d fill the space left at the end of Side B with whatever came to hand, sometimes by the same artist, sometimes not. In one or two cases I loved some of these extras, and went crazy trying to figure out what they were so I could get more by whoever that was – the track lists weren’t always complete with artist and album names.

Some of cassette producers added value by including lyrics in a small booklet, but they didn’t always have the original lyrics to work from. I bought the soundtrack of “The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas,” where evidently someone who was not fluent in English tried to get the lyrics down by ear. Apparently he or she was inspired by the title to hear lyrics far more dirty than actually exist in the film! (I still have this tape somewhere, will have to dig it out and give some examples.)

…I was going to go off here into a diatribe about the RIAA, but will leave that for another time, or maybe never. There’s been plenty said on that topic, too, by wiser heads than mine.


Two weeks after I posted the above, the New York Times caught up with an article about similar practices elsewhere in the world, notably Indonesia. (“U.S. Is Only the Tip of Pirated Music Iceberg”, By MARK LANDLER, September 26, 2003). The head of a German music industry association is quoted as saying: “Housewives, who should be cooking, are burning [CDs].”

The article went on: “Mr. Gebhardt hopes the German music industry will bring its first lawsuit against a file sharer in a few months. In the meantime, it is trying to win back the public through sympathy rather than subpoenas.”

Mr. Gebhardt probably thought he was being cute, but his “housewives” remark certainly lost my sympathy.

Alienation

It’s 4:00 am. I’ve been awake since 2:00, thinking, and writing didn’t quite get everything off my chest.

It’s partly about the concept of “home.” I don’t have one, you see. Well, yes, I have the type that you live in, and a very nice one it is; I’m very happy in it. But I don’t have a home town, or even a home country.

This is baffling to Italians.

“Where are you from?” they ask.

“I’m American,” I answer, hoping against hope that this will be enough to close the topic.

It never is. For an Italian, you can’t simply be “from” a whole country, you have to have a paese, a hometown. “But which part of America?” they persist.

“Oh, I lived all over the world when I was young,” I say uncomfortably, “I’m not really from any particular place in America.”

“But where are you from?” they insist (“Ma tuo paese qual’é?”)

“Well, I was born in New Orleans.” That works; everyone’s heard of New Orleans, and the ones who haven’t been there already would like to go. Me, too. I left when I was two, visited once or twice after that, but the last time was about 25 years ago. So I don’t feel the right to claim any attachment to it.

No paese, and not much nationality, either. It’s that whole TCK thing – disguised as American, but really not one, so I have a hard time feeling comfortable in my supposed home country.

I was already thoroughly discombobulated by the time I got to Woodstock School, at age 14, so it’s no wonder that I fell in love with the place and sunk roots there, as far as I was able. This happens with many Woodstockers. Some of us were fleeing from messed-up homes, some came from places where their parents worked but couldn’t raise or educate children. Some went into boarding so young that they never really had a family life, except for a few months of vacation every year. Woodstock became their home, as it did mine; staff became surrogate parents (a role which many carried out with amazing grace and generosity), and our schoolmates were (and remain) our siblings and best friends. Many of us continue to feel that Woodstock is in some fundamental sense our home, or at least where we “come from,” for the rest of our lives. But we don’t usually try to explain that to new acquaintances; it’s just too complex a story to tell in a few sentences.

I wrote about how “during my senior year, I got interested in the community around us, Mussoorie and Landour.” This was part of a deliberate, though perhaps unconscious, campaign to make Mussoorie, as well as Woodstock, mine – just before I left it. This was unusual behavior for a Woodstocker. The majority of students in my day had no ties in the town beyond commercial ones; when I dreamed up the Mussoorie history project, my homeroom teacher Mrs. Kapadia was enthusiastic – so few students showed any interest in the town. Their explorations, if any, went in the other direction, out to the Garhwal Himalayas. I was an anti-hiker, so that avenue was closed to me, but I walked and walked – all over Mussoorie, and beyond. I had friends in town, and avidly pursued its history, as well as its current life at all levels.

I’m not saying I got very far into Mussoorie society, but at least I tried. So, by the time I graduated, I felt I had some rights to claim “ownership” of Mussoorie, as well as Woodstock, in a way I never could any other community in the world. I don’t claim that India is my home, nor even Mussoorie, but Woodstock is the one place in the world where I’m never a stranger. Perhaps my involvement in this history book is partly about ensuring that my visceral connection to Woodstock and Mussoorie continues, and that I continue to be remembered there.

Changing Names: Italian Women Keep Their Own Upon Marriage

Women in Italy don’t change their names when they marry. In the US this is the norm; most women when they marry change their surname to their husband’s, and there are simple, routine procedures in place for them to do so. It’s so usual that Americans are confused if you don’t do it. Years ago I asked the Adaptec travel service to reserve airline tickets for myself and my family, and ended up with tickets for “Mr. and Mrs. Straughan.”

Some American women don’t change their names, often for professional reasons, sometimes for political ones. Some couples hyphenate their two last names and give that as a last name to the kids. I always wondered what would happen if two such children decided to marry: would they create a quadruple surname?

In Italy, as far as I know, there is no legal procedure by which a woman could change her surname to her husband’s, even if she wanted to. In every context except the family, you’re still known by your own name, which saves headaches and maintains continuity on the professional front. Every doorbell has both names on it. On the other hand, the kids almost always get their father’s name, and it’s perfectly natural and normal to be called “Mrs. So-and-so” in some settings, such as your child’s school (perhaps simply because it’s easier for the teacher to remember).

Enrico and I got married in the US, but I never got around to changing my name, and neither of us gave it much thought. To the extent that I thought about it, I had spent so many hours of my life explaining both my names that I was perversely reluctant to give up the struggle.

I didn’t initially realize that women don’t change their names in Italy. When I began publishing articles in Italian magazines, I thought that my husband’s name might be easier for Italians to deal with. However, his great-grandfather was Swiss, so his name is neither Italian nor entirely easy, and I ended up spending almost as much time explaining that one as Straughan. And I didn’t like the look of it alongside Deirdré in print. So I switched back to Straughan, and have articles published under both names. The book was published under my own name (and Fabrizio’s).

Jan 10, 2004

The above sparked some responses. It seems that American women (and even one man friend of mine) change their names so that the whole family will have the same last name, though this desire is often complicated by multiple marriages with kids from various pairings. One friend told me about a couple she knows who wanted to share a last name in an equitable fashion, so they made one up, combining elements of each of their original surnames.

I’ve also known cases where women were glad upon marriage to give up an unappealing surname, and I had several responses were about that:

Sally: “I can think of lots of English names I would want to change. .. like Bosomworth, Ramsbottom, Drain. One girl I know refused to marry Ted unless he changed his name from Tiplady.”

And Judith: “I would change my name IF I thought my new husband’s surname better than my current one. One English girlfriend gave up ‘Loutit’ on marriage for the much more glamourous French ‘Dubresson’ – she was thrilled!”

Another Rite of Passage Completed

Italian Middle School Exams

The Italian education system is big on exams. Ross did pass her middle school exam, with a grade of Buono (on a scale of Ottimo, Distinto, Buono, Sufficiente, Insufficiente – outstanding, distinguished, good, sufficient, insufficient). This was better than I’d expected, since most of her grades this year have been merely sufficiente. But she worked the system brilliantly.

Her results on the written tests were a mix. The test of written Italian was simply to write an essay, which Ross does well (even better when she takes a little time to concentrate on her spelling and punctuation). Math she only did half of, and probably that half badly; English was a joke for her, and French seems to have gone well. On average, a passing grade, I guess (we were not given the individual test grades).

Then she had about ten days to study for the oral. I was in a panic; I’d been told that the panel of teachers could ask almost anything that had been covered throughout the year. But her math tutor advised her to go and watch some of her friends’ orals. This she did, and also talked with some other kids. One told her he had prepared mini-essays on the specific topics he wanted to talk about, and the teachers seemed pleased to be given these before he started. Then he gave his prepared presentations, and managed to steer the exam to the topics where he felt best prepared.

While watching her friends, Ross observed that her beloved music teacher was slumped in his chair, feeling left out. After all the major subjects had been covered, he would forlornly ask a question or two, and be met with blank looks. “Did you even bring your music notebook?” he would ask in desperation. No one had.

So Ross sat down and wrote an essay about jazz, specifically on swing music during WWII (inspired by Jazz : A Film By Ken Burns – the accompanying booklet came in very handy). She chose her topics in other subjects to match: WWII for history, the atomic bomb for science. She also took in advice from her (very supportive) art teacher: “Talk about your artwork, and for god’s sake, don’t burst into tears! I expect better from you.” Not that Ross was likely to do so, but several of her classmates had sobbed through their orals.

When Ross’ exam began, she handed out her essays, then the teachers asked her what she wanted to talk about first. “I’d like to talk about jazz,” she said. The French teacher elbowed the music teacher: “Hey! It’s your subject!” He sat up and got very enthusiastic, and they had a long conversation about jazz. Then Ross spoke about the other subjects, except the atomic bomb – many kids had already talked about this, and the math/science teacher was bored of hearing it. So she picked a topic that Ross hadn’t studied and didn’t remember much about. Oh, well.

Ross had put her art pieces into a presentation binder, and spoke about each one, explaining what famous painting it was inspired by (or copied from), with some biography of the original artist. She came home quite confident that she had passed; we all heaved a sigh of relief.

Part of the exam ritual is to go and see the grades as soon as they are posted outside the school, for all to see. Ross and I were pleasantly surprised by the buono, which put her at or above the average for the class. Her Italian teacher came by on her way to a meeting, and we thanked her for the year’s work. I said I was pleased with the exam result. “There was some negotiation over that,” she replied, with a significant lift of the eyebrow. Ah, yes, the math teacher, who didn’t like Ross’ attitude or lack of math ability (“How is it possible when your father’s a math professor…?” Poor Ross has been hearing that all her life.)

I just smiled; I had a pretty good idea who had negotiated vigorously on Ross’ behalf. Half an hour later, I was standing in line to pick up Ross’ exit papers, and the music teacher ran by, late for the staff meeting. He saw me, and gave me a huge grin.


As I also mentioned earlier, cheating is widespread in Italian schools. I was writing that piece while Ross was doing her English written exam, which for her was simple and soon over.

She came home and said casually: “I’ve found a way to earn some money: I wrote Martino’s English test for him.” We were, of course, aghast. He hadn’t actually paid her, had simply asked her to do it – and, much to my disgust, she did.

After half an hour of hearing from two very angry parents a host of reasons as to why this wasn’t a good thing, she probably won’t be doing it again… or at least next time she won’t tell us!

In response to that original article, an Italian friend wrote me that, during an exam in electronics technical school, his whole class cheated together, with the assistance of their teacher. This was because one of the exam questions was on something so obscure and bizarre that you would never do it in real life, and it required the cooperation of the whole group searching through the library to find the answer. I guess the question succeeded brilliantly as a test of teamwork.

next: high school

Naming a Multicultural Baby

Having been saddled all my life with a name that no one can spell or pronounce, I am always curious about how people get their names – especially, of course, the unusual ones. In July, 2003, the New York Times ran an article about what people are naming their kids, based on the Social Security Administration’s data on popular baby names; the writer, expecting her own child, used this as the basis for research on what not to name her baby.

The upside of having an unusual name is that you’ll probably be the only person of that name in any given group. At UC Santa Cruz, I learned that a girl in my college was called Deidre, which she pronounced “Day-dree” (I’m Deirdré pronounced “Dear-druh”) – close enough for me to get excited about it, though she wasn’t impressed. Things got very weird when we ended up sharing a house the following summer, along with a third woman (named Mary). Since no one could spell or pronounce either of us, poor Mary never knew who the phone messages were for.

If you’re Italian, you most likely know someone else with the same name as you. According to my friend at Zoomata.com (and my own observations), most Italians have traditional names out of the calendar of Catholic saints, though they may get them by way of a grandparent or other relative. (The exceptions to the saints are classical Roman names such as Olivia, Livia, Lavinia, Massimo.) This gives parents a very limited pool of names to choose from, and non-standard names are rare.

The result is that, for any given name, you probably know a bunch of people who have it. Enrico and I can never refer to “Paola” without having to qualify which of several Paolas we’re talking about. Enrico himself is in the fortunate category of names which are easily recognized and not considered weird, but uncommon enough that you probably don’t know more than one. Well, maybe two.

When we had to choose a name for our own baby, we had several criteria to consider. We didn’t know that we were having a girl (we had asked not to be told, and when people asked us “What are you having?” we answered: “A baby.”); nonetheless, by some instinct, we put a lot more thought into a girl’s name than a boy’s. We wanted a name that would be easily spelled and pronounced by both sides of the family, and that might somehow signify the baby’s multiculturalness. Among others, I considered one of my favorite Indian names, Gayatri, but Enrico was afraid that would be too weird for Italy, though I argued that it’s similar to a classic Latin name, Gaia.

I initially wanted to choose a “Rose” based name, to honor my beloved aunt Rosie (Roselyn), who had been a friend as much as a relative, and an important influence on my personality and attitude. But Enrico didn’t like the Italian names Rosalia or Rosalinda – he said they sounded old-maidish. (Perhaps they were more southern Italian and/or old-fashioned).

We were reading Gone with the Wind at the time; we used to read together, alternating chapters so that Enrico could hear my English pronounciation, and practice his own with corrections from me. Yes, hang on, this is relevant. When the film “Gone with the Wind” reached Italy just after WWII, the heroine’s name was translated as Rossella O’Hara. The name Rossella, meaning “little red” (originally applied to redheads) already existed in Italy, but was extremely rare until the film came along. Then it suddenly became popular, so there is a generation of Rossellas, just over 50 years old now.

“Rossella” seemed like a good name for several reasons: being best known as the Italian translation of a very American character, and that character being a strong, resourceful woman (though she certainly has her flaws). I thought it would be fairly easily spelled and pronounced by Americans, though that has proven not to be true; everyone wants to spell it with only one S, and pronounce it accordingly: Rozella. It’s a long O and a soft S: Rohss-ella (don’t forget to roll the R!). Rossella herself generally tells English-speakers to call her Ross (rhymes with “Boss”).

The name, after a period of popularity in Italy, went into decline again and isn’t used much these days, so we thought our Rossella wasn’t likely to be confused with any other Rossella in her age group. This, too, proved not to be true: there was another Rossella in her elementary class.

But we didn’t know these things when she was born. As I held my beautiful new baby in my arms, the labor nurse asked me: “What are you going to name her?”

“Rossella.”

“Oh, that’s beautiful. And thank god it isn’t Morgan or Brittany.”

 

^ top: 1989, the year of our daughter’s birth, was the 50th anniversary of the releases of Gone with the Wind and The Wizard of Oz; these commemorative stamps were issued in the US.