I have recorded my college experiences here, and my first few years of teaching and advising. And now I wonder what comes next. Because, unless I die accidentally, there will be a next thing. And more people. I realized recently that I have been forming a life philosophy, and I am as disturbed as you are that these are not verses from the Bible.
1. People are the same everywhere.
That's not to say that individuals are not special to me. Individuals are irreplaceable in my life. But so far as I can tell, people present the same problems and the same solutions, the world over. People are going to be petty, ridiculous, overly-serious, and suddenly-political no matter where I live or what job I have. And people are the answer to that particular lonely feeling I get, and that disheartened loss of faith I know so well, and that cluelessness I feel in new places.
2. We can do no great things, only small things with great love.
Ken gave me a bracelet with this inscribed on it, and Mother Teresa, apparently, said it. I have longed to make a difference in the world. I have longed to use whatever is special about me, my sensitivity, my ability to say words backwards, my peculiar family background, whatever I am, to bring some good to the world, to really get the ball rolling toward this goal of bringing people to Jesus, all in their own languages, at the same time, yes, thank you. It's not gonna happen like that. I'm not gonna do this alone. I'm not even at the center of Jesus' plan of salvation. He's assembled a vast team that spans time and space, in which I'm a pinprick of His light; to think that I could do anything greater than small, daily deaths to self as I look for His face in this world of loss, is ludicrous and possibly idolatrous. Thank you, Jesus, for this freedom! May your Kingdom come!
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Sunday, December 22, 2013
Danticat's "We are Ugly, But We are Here"
Edwidge Danticat is a Haitian author whose essay called "We are Ugly, But We are Here" slaps me upside the head with perspective. Who has ever grieved at pimples from a lack of sleep, or a roll of fat from a lack of activity, or a new wrinkle from worrying? Remind yourself of what matters: you have participated in life.
"There is a Haitian saying which might upset the aesthetic images of most women. Nou led, Nou la, it says. We are ugly, but we are here. [... T]his saying makes a deeper claim for poor Haitian women than maintaining beauty. [... W]hat is worth celebrating is the fact that we are here, that we against all the odds exist."
She gives some examples in the essay of the trials women have endured in her mother country; one woman has scars on her flesh and in her nostrils from where soldiers shoved lit cigarette butts up her nose. Who tells that woman, who tells THAT WOMAN that she is ugly? Go ahead. But you don't understand anything. And for that matter, who tells anyone that he or she is ugly? What do you know? What do I know about what another has seen? We don't know. We must listen.
"To the women who might greet each other with this saying, [...] [i]t is always worth reminding our sisters that we have lived yet another day to answer the roll call of an often painful and very difficult life."
If people call you ugly, turn to them the other marred cheek. "Sure," say to them, "I am ugly." Why not? Smile to yourself, smile to the injured one who stands before you: "But I am here."
The whole of the essay is here, and takes only a few minutes to read.
http://www2.webster.edu/~corbetre/haiti/literature/danticat-ugly.htm
"There is a Haitian saying which might upset the aesthetic images of most women. Nou led, Nou la, it says. We are ugly, but we are here. [... T]his saying makes a deeper claim for poor Haitian women than maintaining beauty. [... W]hat is worth celebrating is the fact that we are here, that we against all the odds exist."
She gives some examples in the essay of the trials women have endured in her mother country; one woman has scars on her flesh and in her nostrils from where soldiers shoved lit cigarette butts up her nose. Who tells that woman, who tells THAT WOMAN that she is ugly? Go ahead. But you don't understand anything. And for that matter, who tells anyone that he or she is ugly? What do you know? What do I know about what another has seen? We don't know. We must listen.
"To the women who might greet each other with this saying, [...] [i]t is always worth reminding our sisters that we have lived yet another day to answer the roll call of an often painful and very difficult life."
If people call you ugly, turn to them the other marred cheek. "Sure," say to them, "I am ugly." Why not? Smile to yourself, smile to the injured one who stands before you: "But I am here."
The whole of the essay is here, and takes only a few minutes to read.
http://www2.webster.edu/~corbetre/haiti/literature/danticat-ugly.htm
Monday, December 2, 2013
Thanks, Mom
Prompt: Indulge in nostalgia
I don't normally think about the positive things I associate with being a kid. My childhood is filled with half-gratified desires. I often think about how hard I had it. I always had questions that needed answering, and I longed to grow up so I could be taken seriously.
The library. As a child, my room had lots of picture books, and we were always at the library swapping them out. We rented movies from there, too, especially during the summer. I remember the first time I saw Princess Bride. My brother was skeptical that it was going to be "a girl movie" (ha!!). It should go without saying that we were both entirely satisfied by the viewing experience.
Midnight Snack. How it got started, I don't know. And it was never actually midnight when my mother indulged our young cravings for sweets. She put a few Graham crackers out with cups of milk. I became a pro Graham-dunker. Good job, Mom, on not giving us fruit snacks or candy at that hour. She knew nutrition, even if our babysitters were sometimes less than aware.
Reading to us.Why does no one read to me now? It's so comfortable and cozy to sit and listen to someone else's voice, on and on. As I rested my head on her side, I closed my eyes and heard her voice, swallowing my thoughts and spooning a thin layer of honey all over the world. She read to us before bed almost every night, when she wasn't working, of course, and she'd dismiss us to bed with, "first one to bed gets first hugs'n'kisses!" We scrambled for our rooms, and made such a fuss if she didn't judge correctly the "winner" of the game.
"Go outside and play." In my imperfect memory, Stephen always seemed to be outside with his friends, riding bike, or skateboarding, or playing street hockey, or... many other mysteries. None of my friends lived in town for a long time, so I confined myself to the yard, learned nothing there, and felt lonely. But at least I was outside, and so was Stephen, usually. Once, though, I recall he and Logan and Danny (together, the Three Musketeers, but without the noble intentions or code of honor) were playing in the basement. They were there for a long time, and finally came upstairs giggling. They had spray-painted their initials on a yellow, metal cabinet, long unused, in the tiny work room. The fumes had been getting to them, but they also thought that they were the cleverest little rascals to ever strategically spray paint their initials. The "LSD" cabinet remained in the house for a long time.
"Why don't you stay home tonight?" In high school, my mom would tell me that I couldn't go out, just because "you've already gone out three nights this week. It would be a good night to stay in." I so little understood how much my bitter, "But why?!" could have hurt her. My "why?" to the request to stay home implied so much: that I wanted to get away from her and the family, that I didn't think they were worth my time, that I had better things to do, better places to be, in short, that I didn't value my home community and consider it worth my contribution.
I wish more parents would tell their kids to stay in a few nights a week. When I tell it to dorm students, they are frustrated. They say things like, "It feels like I'm in prison!"; "I hate this place!"; "Why do you want to control me!?" But by the end of the year, they realize that the time they spent here was valuable. They wish they had spent more time getting to know the other students and advisers. They realize that this was their home for a while, and wish they had owned it more, contributed more.
I don't normally think about the positive things I associate with being a kid. My childhood is filled with half-gratified desires. I often think about how hard I had it. I always had questions that needed answering, and I longed to grow up so I could be taken seriously.
The library. As a child, my room had lots of picture books, and we were always at the library swapping them out. We rented movies from there, too, especially during the summer. I remember the first time I saw Princess Bride. My brother was skeptical that it was going to be "a girl movie" (ha!!). It should go without saying that we were both entirely satisfied by the viewing experience.
Midnight Snack. How it got started, I don't know. And it was never actually midnight when my mother indulged our young cravings for sweets. She put a few Graham crackers out with cups of milk. I became a pro Graham-dunker. Good job, Mom, on not giving us fruit snacks or candy at that hour. She knew nutrition, even if our babysitters were sometimes less than aware.
Reading to us.Why does no one read to me now? It's so comfortable and cozy to sit and listen to someone else's voice, on and on. As I rested my head on her side, I closed my eyes and heard her voice, swallowing my thoughts and spooning a thin layer of honey all over the world. She read to us before bed almost every night, when she wasn't working, of course, and she'd dismiss us to bed with, "first one to bed gets first hugs'n'kisses!" We scrambled for our rooms, and made such a fuss if she didn't judge correctly the "winner" of the game.
"Go outside and play." In my imperfect memory, Stephen always seemed to be outside with his friends, riding bike, or skateboarding, or playing street hockey, or... many other mysteries. None of my friends lived in town for a long time, so I confined myself to the yard, learned nothing there, and felt lonely. But at least I was outside, and so was Stephen, usually. Once, though, I recall he and Logan and Danny (together, the Three Musketeers, but without the noble intentions or code of honor) were playing in the basement. They were there for a long time, and finally came upstairs giggling. They had spray-painted their initials on a yellow, metal cabinet, long unused, in the tiny work room. The fumes had been getting to them, but they also thought that they were the cleverest little rascals to ever strategically spray paint their initials. The "LSD" cabinet remained in the house for a long time.
"Why don't you stay home tonight?" In high school, my mom would tell me that I couldn't go out, just because "you've already gone out three nights this week. It would be a good night to stay in." I so little understood how much my bitter, "But why?!" could have hurt her. My "why?" to the request to stay home implied so much: that I wanted to get away from her and the family, that I didn't think they were worth my time, that I had better things to do, better places to be, in short, that I didn't value my home community and consider it worth my contribution.
I wish more parents would tell their kids to stay in a few nights a week. When I tell it to dorm students, they are frustrated. They say things like, "It feels like I'm in prison!"; "I hate this place!"; "Why do you want to control me!?" But by the end of the year, they realize that the time they spent here was valuable. They wish they had spent more time getting to know the other students and advisers. They realize that this was their home for a while, and wish they had owned it more, contributed more.
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