Where You Lost Me

I pass you walking on Stadium Street.
Your holler dehumanizes you to me,
Me to you,
And I wonder what you would do

If I turned around and took you seriously:

"You don't want a girl like me, who'd expect equality. What would you do with that independent streak? We'd end up broken down and angry when I'd expect you to help; expect honesty. And you'll lose me when you demean some lady on the street. Do you see where you lost me?

"How are there so damn many of you?
Who do you go home to?"

Implications

The vision of my workplace is to educate the upper class of Morocco, so that they can make wise choices to bolster Morocco to do good things. The idea is to raise up thinkers and problem-solvers in our entrepreneurial, pluralistic, accepting system, that makes room for genuine interaction with teachers and students.

What good things do Moroccans hope for their country? Well, the place could use better hospitals, and more of them. And if that, then it needs more money and more doctors and nurses. Making a stronger economy is going to take some creative ideas, collaboration, planning, ...literacy. American education can offer those tools.

I thought I was helping. I thought that by being an American teacher, just what they asked for, and fostering relationships with people of another culture, religion, history, this would be spreading the love of God. But right now, I'm afraid all they'll see is that I'm an American. I am an American.

Will my students shut me out because of what my country seems to think of Muslims?

Will their American education be useful to them, after all? Will American universities admit them? Will America give them a student's visa? And if they get into the country, will they be violated because of their skin color or their religion?

I'm asking because for the past week, they've been asking me. And I've come home and cried, planned, graded. I promise I'm being brave and circumspect. I'm not bad-mouthing our president-elect in public; I am only decrying his suggestion to stop Muslims from entering the country, and to keep a tab on all Muslims within the country. That's oppression. I stand against that. I stand beside Muslims, and anyone else who is being oppressed. (Did he miss singling out any minority? Well, today I'm talking about Muslims, who aren't asking for pity, I know, but I don't want them to ever have to.)

Here are some of the things I hope, in regard to international relations:

• I hope my students' very good dreams can still happen. 
• I hope Morocco and other Muslim countries won't give way to fear in the same way my country has, and start lashing out at me, an outsider of a different skin color and religion, whose country appears to hate them. 
• But if they do lash out at me, I hope the US doesn't get madder at them. Because they have plenty of grounds for saying we started it.

To the Injured Men Walking Down Yacoub Mansour on Sunday Morning

I left to catch the tram for church at 8 am on Sunday morning. Just before crossing Yacoub Mansour, the busy street nearby, here is what I saw:

One man, then another passing a few meters in front of me, walking up Yacoub toward Ghandi (the next perpendicular main road). These two young men were carrying a heaviness that held my attention. They were solemn, silent, sub-Saharan. Just behind them limped another such man with no shoes, holding a blanket around himself, tattered cape for an exile. But where was he going with no shoes?

I crossed Yacoub, and noticed that in front of these three men walked a long, flimsy line of young men with a similar, slow plod. I followed them with my eyes, and couldn't see the beginning of their sad train: maybe 50, maybe 70 men. And then I began to notice their bandages and dried blood. At least every other person walking had sustained visible injuries. But where were they going, so many?

I was walking faster than they on the other side of the street, and saw several men with no shoes; some carrying blankets, one carrying another man, but most carrying nothing. Not even a bag. Their clothes were in tatters. They looked like they had escaped a battle with only their lives. But where were they going, with nothing?

The men in the cafes I was passing were craning to get a better look. Shopkeepers were standing on their stoops, men cleaning the street were standing with mouths open, brooms suspended in air. I saw two police cars driving slowly, keeping an eye on the strange march. I didn't stop to ask. I don't remember seeing another woman in the whole of the walk, and it feels inappropriate to approach men.

I called a friend who might know what was going on, but she said the situation I described was extremely strange in some ways, and then, rather common in other ways. Sub-Saharan Africans are treated very poorly in this country. I will probably never read why or how these men were wounded on Sunday morning, or was it Saturday evening? And they walked kilometer after kilometer to find a safe place to lie down? Maybe the whole way past Casablanca, to another place? Where will you go?

To those men,

I tried to think of how I might help, and could think of nothing in the moment. But I did see you. I don't think it's worth hardly anything at all. But you are not invisible to me. Where did you go?

A Very Specific Survey (or, General News With a Particular Focus on Sleep)

What food have you been eating the most?

Squash from Joella and Carmen's garden. Sweet, savory, with bread, without bread, in a stew, in a pie. Always delicious.

What is your current relationship to sleep?

Aw, yeah. Every time I get in bed at the end of the day, a feeling of euphoria sneaks over me, and I giggle a lot, and squirm and am so thankful to be going to sleep. With all that joy and love I associate with going to sleep, you'd think I'd be in bed half the day. I'm not in bed half the day. I'm rarely in bed the allotted third of the day. 

In fact, this past week, I needed a holy reminder of the sacred nature of sleep. At an extended prayer meeting on Thursday evening, let the record show I had come a half hour late anyway, I was falling asleep during the group prayer time. Then, Luis sent us off to spend time with the Lord, listening and in quiet. Wow! What an opportunity to reach out to God, to listen. I didn't want to miss it, even though I couldn't seem to think straight. The world's edges were blurring; I was losing perspective and becoming more miserable by the moment. I kept thinking of the many things I'd left undone, the endless "to do" list I sometimes torture myself with. I went outside and put on a song I'd been thinking about, attempting to turn my eyes upon Jesus. Failing.

Out came Michelle and Troy and their baby son. "You're going home?" I asked. 

"Yup. The little man's gotta get to bed," Michelle responded. Then she stopped, "I wanted to sing this during the meeting, but I didn't have the guts in the moment. It's a song I was thinking about, and maybe it's for you..." And she sang a beautiful lullaby of God calling his child to rest in his presence. Too tired, I said, "That's it. I'm going home, too." I went inside and grabbed my coat, explaining my leaving to but one soul, and not attempting to excuse myself, feeling that God himself was calling me to rest. I went home, and to bed. 

What good things happened today?

One roommate announced her engagement. Another roommate announced her brand new nephew's birth. And after Chelsea had lost her phone all day, I found it in my car!

What upsetting thing happened last week?

A good friend lost her job. 

What question has been floating in your head recently?

What does it mean to finish well?

Disposable Packaging

We humans have been good at labeling things "disposable" lately. Let's say a box of plastic forks is labelled disposable. Says who? Those forks are going to be in the ground in their same shape until long after I'm dead. And plasticware isn't the worst of it. Packaging is the worst.

Packages are supposed to protect, and maybe hint at the quality of what is inside. But packaging should be all about what is inside. When I look at how things are wrapped at Starbucks, I begin to wonder what the deal is: 5 grams of plastic to sell 2 grams of chocolate? How is it possible that I'm so often sold by a big bow? A straight-lined, robin's egg blue wrapping paper? Often, we're being sold packaging. But why buy packaging for its own sake?

God knows how to make disposable things. Look at a banana. That wrapping is completely disposable. You throw it in the trash can at 10 am, and you can smell it decomposing by 3 pm, and you can really smell it decomposing by 10 am the next day. When a package tells us something is disposable, they're commanding us to dump something in the trash can after we use it, and never think about it again. It's "worry-free," "time-saving," "healthy."  I don't want to buy into that idea. I want to appreciate the matter around me: I want to wash it and use it again; or if I need to save time and worry, perhaps not have it in the first place.

To be a Woman...

I know a woman who will not leave her husband of 50 years, despite his mental and verbal abuse, because God has asked her to love her husband, and many husbands are not half so good as hers.

I know a guy who wants to be a girl, and feels that he's in the wrong body: hormone injections start next month.

I know a book that wants to put me in a box: girls play with dolls, and girls play in the kitchen, and girls teach Sunday school; and boys play with trucks, open the door, and pay for meals.

This tells me that gender is something. But no one knows what. I don't understand what makes gender. It is more than differing sex organs. There's something fundamentally different about how we think. Yet, I don't know of one stereotype that withstands every culture. I began to ask people what it is to be a woman. I'm still puzzling over it.

What is it to be a woman?

RE: Reading FOR FUN

Recently, James Patterson posted this status on Facebook: "Any of you know any English teachers? Would you do me a favor? Please ask them, in their experience, what their best strategy has been for getting kids to like reading FOR FUN? Or, if they hadn’t had much luck, what they think the reasons are? Thanks."

My friend kindly forwarded this status to me, and of course I wondered, is Patterson asking me how he might sell more books? Marketing advice from an English teacher? But he got me thinking about it, then writing about it, and here we are.

First, I have to ask myself why I want kids to read more FOR FUN. I mean, why would I spend so much energy teaching someone how to have fun? "For fun" alone seems a poor reason for doing things. And I can think of a million more ways to have fun that don't involve as much work as reading; spray painting bad words on a neighbor's shed, for instance, would serve the purpose beautifully.

But I want my students to read because it will help them to think about new things. Reading will help them to live their lives better. Reading will help them to concentrate long enough to think through a problem. And lastly, I want them to read because I'm a cop-out. Reading will teach them all I cannot hope to.

Now I am ready for the "how?". But I am not an expert here. I've loved to read ever since I got the hang of it.

Right now, at the beginning of my teaching career, I can think of three things that I do to encourage readers:

1. My love for reading grew from being read to, so I read to them.

2. I never seem to have enough time to sit and read, so I make time to read in class. They can read anything they want, they just have to be reading and silent.

3. I usually only do things when I see someone else doing it, so I read near them. During our silent, sustained reading, I am reading, too. I let myself get into the book, right then, right there, instead of answering emails and grading things. Then afterward, I will sometimes share what I was reading, something that puzzled me, something I liked.

Así Son las Cosas

Señor del universo,

Yo confío todo al cuidado tuyo. Si yo no te pueda confiar, ¿en quién puedo esperar? Ya me ha fallado mí misma. Fine. Take it all.

Voy a tomar el consejo que dí a una hermana esta semana: voy a contarte como me siento a tí. Si me siento que me has equivocado, y me debes a algo, voy a decirlo a tí. Pero, por ahora, sé que lo que me falta es la descansa. Aun todavía, mientras que yo no este bien, puedo descansarme en tus brazos.

Thoughts on Justice

“Justice is what love looks like in public.”
Dr. Cornel West

Sometimes, living in the United States of America means that very little debris appears in the streets to be wracked about by cars and gusts of wind. Living in the United States of America means that people generally feel some obligation to follow traffic laws. Living in the United States of America means that if you are pulled over by the police, you will probably receive a ticket for the violation you have committed.

Of course, some judges may be bribed. And the Whitehouse itself is full of lobbyists with pockets full of cash. Some cities are run by gangs. Some towns are run by one family.

Justice is not everywhere.

But where we see it, we must applaud. We must applaud justice loudest when we are its recipient: a speeding ticket, an honest witness, a fair judge; a refusal to hire even though we have an uncle there.

The Bad Boy Question

Why do nice girls fall for bad boys? I think Jodi and I may have routed out an acceptable, though incriminating answer. We have seen it often enough. It sure looks like a plausible answer to what has plagued onlookers for ages.

It seems to be a latent power struggle. A girl sees a young man who respects no one, has an authority problem, digs "freedom," that is, autonomy. He has ascribed to some number of undesirable trends that make her parents cringe a bit when he enters the room. She just laughs at their galled souls, feeling that she has won her own independence.

But this young guy apparently really loves this girl, whom everyone has always called simply "nice." He hangs on her every word. He promises to change, all for her. And maybe he will. But he probably won't.

The girl will tell herself that she owes it to the world to go on trying to reform the reprobate. It is her duty, after all. She is all that he really trusts, all that he really believes to be genuine.

Then they will argue. And he will not give in. And she will be hurt, unwilling to believe that he would refuse her the only thing that she ever thought she was gaining: ultimate control. She selfishly loves him for how she might wield him, like a sharp knife or a sleek gun.

Thinking About Church Membership

I don't think I get it. Insofar as church must handle sums of money and decide what to do with it, I understand having official members. But what makes me a member? Is it attending a class and standing in front of a group and saying out loud that I am one of them? It seems to me the very moment someone quantifies this answer, the Holy Spirit has moved beyond it.

How do I recognize a church member? I want to equate "church member" exactly with "Christ-follower". Why would these ever be separated? I recognize Christ-followers most when they're interacting with one another, praying or singing or serving someone in need. I can recognize a Christ-follower when he/she is accountable to a group, under someone's authority, patient in affliction, joyful in hope... In order to be continuous and consistent in our lives, I think believers must live accountably as part of a church. I advocate that we continue to meet together, and all the more, as we see the Day approaching! But I am more than a little confused as to qualifications for church membership. What is more, official church membership seems superfluous after having been baptized into Christ's body.

I suspect that membership in a particular part of the body of Christ (a local church) is really recognizable by relationships. But I feel I am treading on ground too high for me when I think about the Church.

I asked my housemates about official church membership. Joella's response: "The devil is in the details."