I know that I am this way, and I won’t ever change. Maybe, though, I will develop, like a caterpillar does into a butterfly through the means of a warm cocoon.
It makes one wonder what the caterpillar thinks about when he is waiting for his transformation. Is he nervous? Is he afraid of the shape of the wings, the colors of them, the strength? Is he trying to imagine the feeling of the wind lifting his glorious wings, his lithe body? What if he is caught in a storm? What will he do then?
But, I imagine, that these worries are more attractive to those less in tune with instinct-like us. I imagine that caterpillars really don’t think about those things during metamorphosis. They sleep. They wait. They trust nature’s unchanging course.
In the same way, I trust that life will guide me into my different cocoons, and play me music whilst I am being worked upon. So that, when I emerge, I will have scarcely noticed the time which has passed, nor the changes which are now so apparent in me.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
the package that God comes in
The knowledge of God has subsisted, whether as fact or fiction, since the beginning of our time. Men will dispute whether or not there was such a thing as a “life force” who ushered forth matter, breath, and interactive souls, within the period of six days, six eons-or, alternatively-who’s “presence” has no correlation to human life whatsoever.
However, despite the numerous internal conflictions, it may be agreed that it’s permanence in the minds of men is proof enough of its legitimacy within what could be called the “spiritual” component of humanity. Had it been a passing idea, some nonsensical revelation experienced by a doped up guru, or something practiced only by a minuscule, isolated, and socially upset tribe, the notion would have been easily contradicted, criticized, and forgotten. It would have been studied as some strange psychological phenomenon, something either too deep, or too utterly simple, for average comprehension.
Yet, the impression has survived, through every generation, in every culture, within every heart, through each beat, each breath, each new generation. There has existed the innate knowledge of something “out there”, something to be accredited and worshiped; from pagan sacrifices to Catholic indulgences. The component within us, identified as chi, OM, soul, immortality, conscience, the Holy Ghost, whatever name men have christened it with, there is always its undeniable presence; an aura which outlasts the aging body, the weakening senses, and the cycle of problems that we constantly experience. Even to the grave, experiencing finally the physical death that all will suffer in the moment least expected, we feel the presence, the light at the end of the tunnel. More than myths, these spiritual flirtations we dabble in involuntarily speak to us. We all worship something-money, celebrities, the perfect body, our significant other, food. We must look to something, if not up, then side-ways, down, beneath.
Yet, there are perceptions that encompass this immortal portion, which are the theoretical primary colors for the unending part of ourselves. These may be summed up as goodness, courage, hope, and love. They are petrified within the old fairy tales, the white knights, and the age-old glorious idea of good triumphing over evil. It is a spirit which whispers to one of such a time to come; that idea of Heaven, and what it takes to reach everlasting joy and peace and paradise.
And that, my friends, is what we work for. A heaven on earth. Jesus himself instructed us to pray the words, “Your kingdom come…on earth as it is in Heaven”. We are searching, racking our brains, skinning our spleens to find that climax of pure joy, which can be classified as a heavenly achievement. That level when we are finally satisfied, and have no more need. We create, invent, profess ideas of what the next step to that heaven is. where is it? how far must we search?
Have we found it? It seems, folks, that we are all still searching.
Or perhaps, it is right there, staring us in the face.
However, despite the numerous internal conflictions, it may be agreed that it’s permanence in the minds of men is proof enough of its legitimacy within what could be called the “spiritual” component of humanity. Had it been a passing idea, some nonsensical revelation experienced by a doped up guru, or something practiced only by a minuscule, isolated, and socially upset tribe, the notion would have been easily contradicted, criticized, and forgotten. It would have been studied as some strange psychological phenomenon, something either too deep, or too utterly simple, for average comprehension.
Yet, the impression has survived, through every generation, in every culture, within every heart, through each beat, each breath, each new generation. There has existed the innate knowledge of something “out there”, something to be accredited and worshiped; from pagan sacrifices to Catholic indulgences. The component within us, identified as chi, OM, soul, immortality, conscience, the Holy Ghost, whatever name men have christened it with, there is always its undeniable presence; an aura which outlasts the aging body, the weakening senses, and the cycle of problems that we constantly experience. Even to the grave, experiencing finally the physical death that all will suffer in the moment least expected, we feel the presence, the light at the end of the tunnel. More than myths, these spiritual flirtations we dabble in involuntarily speak to us. We all worship something-money, celebrities, the perfect body, our significant other, food. We must look to something, if not up, then side-ways, down, beneath.
Yet, there are perceptions that encompass this immortal portion, which are the theoretical primary colors for the unending part of ourselves. These may be summed up as goodness, courage, hope, and love. They are petrified within the old fairy tales, the white knights, and the age-old glorious idea of good triumphing over evil. It is a spirit which whispers to one of such a time to come; that idea of Heaven, and what it takes to reach everlasting joy and peace and paradise.
And that, my friends, is what we work for. A heaven on earth. Jesus himself instructed us to pray the words, “Your kingdom come…on earth as it is in Heaven”. We are searching, racking our brains, skinning our spleens to find that climax of pure joy, which can be classified as a heavenly achievement. That level when we are finally satisfied, and have no more need. We create, invent, profess ideas of what the next step to that heaven is. where is it? how far must we search?
Have we found it? It seems, folks, that we are all still searching.
Or perhaps, it is right there, staring us in the face.
something like the rain
The clouds release their explosive bladders, and it is a DOWNPOUR, unlike anything I have ever seen. The thunder strikes the sky like a deadly gong. The power flickers, and the lightning flashes in rhythm. Sitting indoors, I can still feel the mists through the open slats near the ceiling. I can barely hear Cassie explaining adverbs to Gloria, just 15 feet away. At 3:00 in the afternoon, the sky is near black. We won’t be walking down to the market today, I imagine.
Then it recedes. But only for a moment.
Just when you release your breath, the thunder again boomerangs through the sky like a time bomb, and punches the air with an ear-boxing roar. Lightning continues to dagger through the atmosphere, sending electrical pulses through the ends of your hair, and under your nerves. It picks up, louder, louder, LOUDER!!!, until you can’t hear yourself think. the grass and flowers are crushed beneath the heavy burden of the sky’s offering.
It sounds like millions of needles being poured onto a metallic table. The powerful smell of mucky soil, rich and fresh, nearly overwhelms your senses.
You feel the chill around your ankles, under your skirt. You shiver. You wish you brought your scarf, pants, boots, jacket, ANYTHING, that will keep you warm or dry. But there is nothing. It was hot and sticky when you left your house.
Thus, Africa continues to surprise you. And thus, you will get wet today.
Then it recedes. But only for a moment.
Just when you release your breath, the thunder again boomerangs through the sky like a time bomb, and punches the air with an ear-boxing roar. Lightning continues to dagger through the atmosphere, sending electrical pulses through the ends of your hair, and under your nerves. It picks up, louder, louder, LOUDER!!!, until you can’t hear yourself think. the grass and flowers are crushed beneath the heavy burden of the sky’s offering.
It sounds like millions of needles being poured onto a metallic table. The powerful smell of mucky soil, rich and fresh, nearly overwhelms your senses.
You feel the chill around your ankles, under your skirt. You shiver. You wish you brought your scarf, pants, boots, jacket, ANYTHING, that will keep you warm or dry. But there is nothing. It was hot and sticky when you left your house.
Thus, Africa continues to surprise you. And thus, you will get wet today.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
hindsight (thank you, chris)
My last semester at Southern was colored gray with depression. It was a predictable illness, like the pattern of black and white squares on a chess board. It would start in the late afternoon and hold me in its clutches until the early hours of morning. Sleep came with difficulty, like swallowing a pill with no water. I spent a lot of time on my own, rolling in my misery like a pig rolls in its own excrement. My friends could have been on separate planets for how often we saw each other. And me, with my shaved head, weighted body, and no direction in life, what was I? In short, I was seriously questioning whether I should have returned to Southern or just stayed home. What was the point if I was just going to be miserable?
Basically, I had had a rough first semester. I (happily at first, then later not so happily) acquired my first job at a high-class eclectic couture dress shop called Betsy Johnson. I can tell you more about those few months of horror later, but I’ll summarize by saying that if I had the choice between going to work or going to the hospital with a broken leg, I would have taken the broken leg with pleasure.
The second event which transpired in those four months was a hair crisis both unforeseen and unimaginable. I was approached to be a hair model by a young girl with a purple Mohawk. I should have known then. Unfortunately, I didn’t let that worry me at the time, and agreed to “helping her out”. In short, I went to class the next day with hair just a quarter of an inch long, and it was bright red. Don’t even get me started on how that worked out. I spent the next year and a half growing my hair, and it’s only now hitting below my shoulders. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to cut it again.
The final thing that happened that semester topped everything. Brace yourselves.
One of my best friends passed away.
It was caused by a totally treatable illness that the purely imbecilic doctors failed to diagnose in time. They are currently being sued for malpractice. Idiots.
But pain overwhelmed anger at the time, and I admit that I went back to school in Tennessee with a very heavy heart.
But don’t pity me please. I was pathetic enough as it was. I’ve past the death; I’m alright with it. The rest though, it just makes me laugh and shake my head.
It happens, they say. And folks, it does.
So, for the first half of the semester, to distract myself, I ate breakfast alone in my room and listened to world news via BBC online radio. Then, and this is so embarrassing to write, I would dance. I would switch on Pandora radio and freestyle for an hour or so every morning before class. It released so much tension and was the tangible form of this quiet rebellion that I was fostering when no one was around to watch.
I also spent a lot of time studying the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, which, for some obscure reason, had suddenly caught my attention. I was fascinated on its origin and its constant place among the headlines. I read books on it, and studied Old Testament geography and Levitical law. I read about on how to be a Jew for a year, and actually ordered a Tallit straight from Israel. (A Tallit is a special shirt worn by orthodox Jews underneath one’s clothes. It has special fringe on the four corners of the shirt which symbolize the ordinances given to them by God and was meant to remind the Israelites not prostitute themselves to their worldly desires, but to remain faithful as a remnant people.) I thought it was a fabulous experiment to try wearing the Tallit for one month under my clothes. My friends laughed at me and said I was turning Jewish. But what they didn’t realize, and what I struggled to explain to them through their snorts and eye-brow raising, was that the religion we follow is the little step-sister of Judaism. In fact, when examining Seventh-day Adventism, our signature faith, it is nearly a mirror of Messianic Judaism, with the exception that we are not ethnically Jewish. But, of course, my friends didn’t care about that, and I was playfully mocked whenever they saw me. I tried to be the bigger man (metaphorically; I already looked enough like a man), and allowed them their ignorant fun.
When I finally received the shirt in the mail, I found that it would be much harder to wear than I imagined. It was bigger, shaped like a poncho, and the fringe was at least two feet long. I tried it on under a few shirts and it bulged on every side. A puff of air escaped my lips as I realized that I should probably have thought this through more.
I wore it for a few days, then took liberties by replanting the fringe (which was the most important part of the Tallit) onto another undershirt I had, in hopes to make it easier to wear. But then there was the problem of the length of the fringe. I didn’t know what to do with it, and I thought it would be too blasphemous to trim it down a necessary foot and a half. So I left it in the bottom of my drawer, as more of a symbol than a practical application.
My interest in Judaism, though not completely dead (my interests are keenly geared towards all things. I honestly can’t think of a subject in which I have absolutely no interest), faded somewhat after spending spring break at home. My family doesn’t make it a point to keep up with my rapidly changing curiosities, so I had little support for ordering (and attempting to wear) a Tallit from Jerusalem. The only comment I got on the matter was from my brother, Ryan, who told me not to become Jewish. An echo of my friends. What was so bad about becoming Jewish anyway? I rolled my eyes and didn’t bother explaining to him, as I had to explain to EVERYBODY it seemed, how close Adventism and Messianic Judaism really were. Needless to say, after spring break, I found it exhausting to answer everyone’s redundant, half-mocking questions, and put passion for Jewish affairs on hold for the time being. I can only handle being controversial for so long.
Let me just say one more thing on the topic of Israel and Palestine. Throughout my studies and research, I found myself avidly supporting the creation of Israel and its position in past and current events. Sympathetic to their plight, especially after what happened in World War 2, I heartily believed that what they needed was a home of their own, not unlike the Roma and several other broad, nomadic groups. Was it too much to ask for a place of safety for these people? I mean, if you couldn’t grant them a plot of land which means so much to them spiritually, geographically and culturally, that would make them feel both happier and significant then you’re just as bad as the Nazis. This was my view. And where else could they go? It only made sense for them to go back to the ancient homeland of the Israelites. And, if not there, the somewhere else. If it wasn’t the Palestinians getting pissed off, it would have been others. Get over it.
This was my view…in the beginning. (That was a pun.)
However, I have to say, that though I believe it is right for Jews to have a specific piece of land for themselves in order to provide a safe haven for their traditions, culture, and identity, my position on the matter has changed due to the WAY in which Israel has gone about doing so. If they could free Gaza from its ghetto existence, remove the illegally built settlements, and stay within their partitioned territory as originally specified in the 1940’s, then I would agree with a total Israeli state, and even make a toast to their future endeavors. Of course, this is not the reality of the situation, and until those previously mentioned (and reasonable, might I add) demands are met, I cannot wish well a country who is cannibalizing its neighbors.
I’ll leave those statements where they are and move on. Inshallah.
Boys were not an issue for me that semester (that whole year, actually) because it would have been as close to homosexuality as it gets for them to date me. Remember, my hair was about an inch long at this point-a long way from my starting point, but still, it was a social disgrace. I tried pulling off that “artsy” look, which only barely passed, but remained single the entire four months, without a prospect in sight.
It wasn’t until one afternoon in March that something significant happened in my life to, if only for a minute, lift the fog of depression which was slowly eating me alive. it was one of those moments where you pause and whisper, “God…was that You?”. One of those weird, out-of-body experiences where you HAVE TO LISTEN to that little voice you think you may have just heard. You’re not sure, but wait, let me just be quiet for another second and see if I’m crazy or not…no, I swear I heard something.
The words that I heard, or I suppose it was more of an inner push deep in my gut, was to go online and look up positions to be a student missionary. To explain, at my university, students had the option of taking a year off to study abroad (mostly in Europe) or take a year off to be a volunteer anywhere in the world. The idea of the latter (which was, as you have guessed, called being a student missionary) option always half-way appealed to me, but I never found the time to actually get serious about it.
But the time hit me just then, and I pounced on the internet site. Within ten minutes, I found this awesome position to be a history teacher in Cairo, Egypt. It had my name all over it, and by the next week, I had applied for the job and was teaching myself Arabic.
To my ultimate disappointment, the position in Egypt was taken by the time my application got there, and I glumly applied for the next best option I could find, which was in Malawi, a small country in South Eastern Africa, wedged in between Tanzania, Zambia, and Mozambique. I wasn’t as excited about this place, but I hadn’t gotten over the excitement of going somewhere. So, I pursued Malawi and to my ultimate surprise, I was accepted for the position less than 24 hours later.
Wait, what?
This was news that I wasn’t sure how to swallow. I have to say that I wasn’t as thrilled, but that couldn’t be helped anymore. I was off to some random, never-heard-of-before country in Sub-Saharan Africa. At this point, I just threw up my hands and told myself to just “go with it”.
I left about five months later for Africa. Before going to Malawi, I went for two weeks to northern Tanzania, with a group from my church, for about two weeks. Those couple weeks were some of the best I spent in Africa-all rural and typical of what you would see in World Vision ads. The orphans, the AIDS, the malnutrition. It was all there, and I could learn to heal it, learn to love it.
Malawi was different though. The city in which I was contracted is called Blantyre, a formerly Scottish settlement, and is the commercial capital of the country. AKA, it’s “Westernized”, mostly of British influences. The Malawians are supposedly some of the nicest in Africa, and I could believe that. But it’s difficult to determine whether this is culturally or colonially inherited. For all their salt, the Malawians stick to a classy British educational system, have tea time, serve fish and chips, wear suits wherever they go (even the poorest of the poor own suits), and use colonial words like, “madam”, and “cheers”, and “dust bin”.
I leave Africa in exactly 125 days. I am both thrilled and unsure about getting out of here and going back home. I have grown accustomed to the awkward chaos of Africa, and returning to the “ideal world” (which is about as close as it gets to Heaven on earth, according to most Africans, and I think I can understand why). I don’t really feel like discussing what I’ve learned in Africa thus far, because I think it’s one of those experiences that leave an impression on you for the rest of your life, and everyday you’ll understand something new about what you went through.
A way of explaining this inability to explain is: If you were asked to summarize the Holocaust in one sentence where would you begin? How could you even touch upon such a subject without an introduction in the ideology surrounding the Jews in Europe, the psychological state of Hitler’s mind, his oratory powers, Germany’s desperate need for money, hope, a future. And then, once you’ve settled all of that, you would move onto methods of exterminating the Jewish race, the drive to create a “perfect German world”, the way in which the monstrosities were being hidden from the world, and the toll it took on everyone after it was discovered and finally vanquished. In order to understand one thing, you must be acquainted with all, or most, of the details.
In the end, in one sentence, all you’d really be able to say is, “it was horrible”. Vague, but how else could you say it? Beyond that, you would not have even the idea of how to explain something so huge, so unique to someone in just one sentence.
Right?
Okay, my Africa experience was nothing like the Holocaust (that wasn’t the point I was making); in fact, it’s on the total opposite end of the spectrum. However, the concept of explaining something so life-changing is very much the same. I could never just explain to you in one go how Africa went. It would not be fair, nor accurate (unless all you’re really looking for is superficial answer, and in that case, this whole explanation is not necessary). People ask me, “How is Africa?” Okay, what can I say? let’s see…where do you begin? And all you can end up saying was, “It was great”.
And that’s as far as I can write, for now. Let’s wait for my life to ribbon out a little farther before I go narrating any longer.
Basically, I had had a rough first semester. I (happily at first, then later not so happily) acquired my first job at a high-class eclectic couture dress shop called Betsy Johnson. I can tell you more about those few months of horror later, but I’ll summarize by saying that if I had the choice between going to work or going to the hospital with a broken leg, I would have taken the broken leg with pleasure.
The second event which transpired in those four months was a hair crisis both unforeseen and unimaginable. I was approached to be a hair model by a young girl with a purple Mohawk. I should have known then. Unfortunately, I didn’t let that worry me at the time, and agreed to “helping her out”. In short, I went to class the next day with hair just a quarter of an inch long, and it was bright red. Don’t even get me started on how that worked out. I spent the next year and a half growing my hair, and it’s only now hitting below my shoulders. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to cut it again.
The final thing that happened that semester topped everything. Brace yourselves.
One of my best friends passed away.
It was caused by a totally treatable illness that the purely imbecilic doctors failed to diagnose in time. They are currently being sued for malpractice. Idiots.
But pain overwhelmed anger at the time, and I admit that I went back to school in Tennessee with a very heavy heart.
But don’t pity me please. I was pathetic enough as it was. I’ve past the death; I’m alright with it. The rest though, it just makes me laugh and shake my head.
It happens, they say. And folks, it does.
So, for the first half of the semester, to distract myself, I ate breakfast alone in my room and listened to world news via BBC online radio. Then, and this is so embarrassing to write, I would dance. I would switch on Pandora radio and freestyle for an hour or so every morning before class. It released so much tension and was the tangible form of this quiet rebellion that I was fostering when no one was around to watch.
I also spent a lot of time studying the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, which, for some obscure reason, had suddenly caught my attention. I was fascinated on its origin and its constant place among the headlines. I read books on it, and studied Old Testament geography and Levitical law. I read about on how to be a Jew for a year, and actually ordered a Tallit straight from Israel. (A Tallit is a special shirt worn by orthodox Jews underneath one’s clothes. It has special fringe on the four corners of the shirt which symbolize the ordinances given to them by God and was meant to remind the Israelites not prostitute themselves to their worldly desires, but to remain faithful as a remnant people.) I thought it was a fabulous experiment to try wearing the Tallit for one month under my clothes. My friends laughed at me and said I was turning Jewish. But what they didn’t realize, and what I struggled to explain to them through their snorts and eye-brow raising, was that the religion we follow is the little step-sister of Judaism. In fact, when examining Seventh-day Adventism, our signature faith, it is nearly a mirror of Messianic Judaism, with the exception that we are not ethnically Jewish. But, of course, my friends didn’t care about that, and I was playfully mocked whenever they saw me. I tried to be the bigger man (metaphorically; I already looked enough like a man), and allowed them their ignorant fun.
When I finally received the shirt in the mail, I found that it would be much harder to wear than I imagined. It was bigger, shaped like a poncho, and the fringe was at least two feet long. I tried it on under a few shirts and it bulged on every side. A puff of air escaped my lips as I realized that I should probably have thought this through more.
I wore it for a few days, then took liberties by replanting the fringe (which was the most important part of the Tallit) onto another undershirt I had, in hopes to make it easier to wear. But then there was the problem of the length of the fringe. I didn’t know what to do with it, and I thought it would be too blasphemous to trim it down a necessary foot and a half. So I left it in the bottom of my drawer, as more of a symbol than a practical application.
My interest in Judaism, though not completely dead (my interests are keenly geared towards all things. I honestly can’t think of a subject in which I have absolutely no interest), faded somewhat after spending spring break at home. My family doesn’t make it a point to keep up with my rapidly changing curiosities, so I had little support for ordering (and attempting to wear) a Tallit from Jerusalem. The only comment I got on the matter was from my brother, Ryan, who told me not to become Jewish. An echo of my friends. What was so bad about becoming Jewish anyway? I rolled my eyes and didn’t bother explaining to him, as I had to explain to EVERYBODY it seemed, how close Adventism and Messianic Judaism really were. Needless to say, after spring break, I found it exhausting to answer everyone’s redundant, half-mocking questions, and put passion for Jewish affairs on hold for the time being. I can only handle being controversial for so long.
Let me just say one more thing on the topic of Israel and Palestine. Throughout my studies and research, I found myself avidly supporting the creation of Israel and its position in past and current events. Sympathetic to their plight, especially after what happened in World War 2, I heartily believed that what they needed was a home of their own, not unlike the Roma and several other broad, nomadic groups. Was it too much to ask for a place of safety for these people? I mean, if you couldn’t grant them a plot of land which means so much to them spiritually, geographically and culturally, that would make them feel both happier and significant then you’re just as bad as the Nazis. This was my view. And where else could they go? It only made sense for them to go back to the ancient homeland of the Israelites. And, if not there, the somewhere else. If it wasn’t the Palestinians getting pissed off, it would have been others. Get over it.
This was my view…in the beginning. (That was a pun.)
However, I have to say, that though I believe it is right for Jews to have a specific piece of land for themselves in order to provide a safe haven for their traditions, culture, and identity, my position on the matter has changed due to the WAY in which Israel has gone about doing so. If they could free Gaza from its ghetto existence, remove the illegally built settlements, and stay within their partitioned territory as originally specified in the 1940’s, then I would agree with a total Israeli state, and even make a toast to their future endeavors. Of course, this is not the reality of the situation, and until those previously mentioned (and reasonable, might I add) demands are met, I cannot wish well a country who is cannibalizing its neighbors.
I’ll leave those statements where they are and move on. Inshallah.
Boys were not an issue for me that semester (that whole year, actually) because it would have been as close to homosexuality as it gets for them to date me. Remember, my hair was about an inch long at this point-a long way from my starting point, but still, it was a social disgrace. I tried pulling off that “artsy” look, which only barely passed, but remained single the entire four months, without a prospect in sight.
It wasn’t until one afternoon in March that something significant happened in my life to, if only for a minute, lift the fog of depression which was slowly eating me alive. it was one of those moments where you pause and whisper, “God…was that You?”. One of those weird, out-of-body experiences where you HAVE TO LISTEN to that little voice you think you may have just heard. You’re not sure, but wait, let me just be quiet for another second and see if I’m crazy or not…no, I swear I heard something.
The words that I heard, or I suppose it was more of an inner push deep in my gut, was to go online and look up positions to be a student missionary. To explain, at my university, students had the option of taking a year off to study abroad (mostly in Europe) or take a year off to be a volunteer anywhere in the world. The idea of the latter (which was, as you have guessed, called being a student missionary) option always half-way appealed to me, but I never found the time to actually get serious about it.
But the time hit me just then, and I pounced on the internet site. Within ten minutes, I found this awesome position to be a history teacher in Cairo, Egypt. It had my name all over it, and by the next week, I had applied for the job and was teaching myself Arabic.
To my ultimate disappointment, the position in Egypt was taken by the time my application got there, and I glumly applied for the next best option I could find, which was in Malawi, a small country in South Eastern Africa, wedged in between Tanzania, Zambia, and Mozambique. I wasn’t as excited about this place, but I hadn’t gotten over the excitement of going somewhere. So, I pursued Malawi and to my ultimate surprise, I was accepted for the position less than 24 hours later.
Wait, what?
This was news that I wasn’t sure how to swallow. I have to say that I wasn’t as thrilled, but that couldn’t be helped anymore. I was off to some random, never-heard-of-before country in Sub-Saharan Africa. At this point, I just threw up my hands and told myself to just “go with it”.
I left about five months later for Africa. Before going to Malawi, I went for two weeks to northern Tanzania, with a group from my church, for about two weeks. Those couple weeks were some of the best I spent in Africa-all rural and typical of what you would see in World Vision ads. The orphans, the AIDS, the malnutrition. It was all there, and I could learn to heal it, learn to love it.
Malawi was different though. The city in which I was contracted is called Blantyre, a formerly Scottish settlement, and is the commercial capital of the country. AKA, it’s “Westernized”, mostly of British influences. The Malawians are supposedly some of the nicest in Africa, and I could believe that. But it’s difficult to determine whether this is culturally or colonially inherited. For all their salt, the Malawians stick to a classy British educational system, have tea time, serve fish and chips, wear suits wherever they go (even the poorest of the poor own suits), and use colonial words like, “madam”, and “cheers”, and “dust bin”.
I leave Africa in exactly 125 days. I am both thrilled and unsure about getting out of here and going back home. I have grown accustomed to the awkward chaos of Africa, and returning to the “ideal world” (which is about as close as it gets to Heaven on earth, according to most Africans, and I think I can understand why). I don’t really feel like discussing what I’ve learned in Africa thus far, because I think it’s one of those experiences that leave an impression on you for the rest of your life, and everyday you’ll understand something new about what you went through.
A way of explaining this inability to explain is: If you were asked to summarize the Holocaust in one sentence where would you begin? How could you even touch upon such a subject without an introduction in the ideology surrounding the Jews in Europe, the psychological state of Hitler’s mind, his oratory powers, Germany’s desperate need for money, hope, a future. And then, once you’ve settled all of that, you would move onto methods of exterminating the Jewish race, the drive to create a “perfect German world”, the way in which the monstrosities were being hidden from the world, and the toll it took on everyone after it was discovered and finally vanquished. In order to understand one thing, you must be acquainted with all, or most, of the details.
In the end, in one sentence, all you’d really be able to say is, “it was horrible”. Vague, but how else could you say it? Beyond that, you would not have even the idea of how to explain something so huge, so unique to someone in just one sentence.
Right?
Okay, my Africa experience was nothing like the Holocaust (that wasn’t the point I was making); in fact, it’s on the total opposite end of the spectrum. However, the concept of explaining something so life-changing is very much the same. I could never just explain to you in one go how Africa went. It would not be fair, nor accurate (unless all you’re really looking for is superficial answer, and in that case, this whole explanation is not necessary). People ask me, “How is Africa?” Okay, what can I say? let’s see…where do you begin? And all you can end up saying was, “It was great”.
And that’s as far as I can write, for now. Let’s wait for my life to ribbon out a little farther before I go narrating any longer.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
the beauty of words
Journalism. The tasty discipline comprising transportation, participation, allegation, investigation, illumination, and publication. Activated by those with an itch for answers, distance, and truth.
something new and different
Something that I was thinking about this morning:
I believe, based solely on my observations on fellow human beings, that how we ACT (ie, communicate with people, body language, clothing choices, and essentially the aura that the individual creates) is an exact mirror or how that individual LEARNS.
An example, myself. I am a visual learner. And on reflection, I observe that I am also a visual communicator. I speak through my specific clothing choices, pictures, paintings, performance. I speak through images, as well as think in images. It makes complete, logical sense that how I think is also the way in which I communicate with others, since I can understand and relate in a visual way with ease, over audio or hands on learning/communicating skills, with which I am less inclined.
Another example, John. Chatty Kathy is a colloquialism for “talkers”, of which category John belongs to. He can speak about anything, and very thoroughly and congenially. I venture to assume that John is an auditory learner. Words and speech come naturally from his mouth, and thus they should also come naturally into his mind. It seems that if he can converse so well, and on a range of limitless topics, that he responds well in a learning environment in which auditory teaching is chiefly used.
Gloria, a student of ours, on the other hand, is silent nearly all the time. She is not gifted with speech, nor through visual communications. I believe that Gloria does her best work when she I allowed to use her hands. To support this, I have observed that when Cass takes Gloria to the white board to demonstrate a math equation, and has Gloria also put dry erase marker to white board, that she will pick up the theorem quicker.
Of course, some individuals have several ways of learning, and thus I believe many ways of communicating with people. Those particular individuals would make the best teachers, because of their ability to reach out in each way to meet all learning patterns of their students. The best curriculum cycles through each learning method, so as to ensure the complete understanding of all.
My findings are inconclusive, but my theory is so far evidentiary enough to continue my research. If my supposition is correct, I believe I have found a new way of assessing and assisting in the classroom and in society. :D
I believe, based solely on my observations on fellow human beings, that how we ACT (ie, communicate with people, body language, clothing choices, and essentially the aura that the individual creates) is an exact mirror or how that individual LEARNS.
An example, myself. I am a visual learner. And on reflection, I observe that I am also a visual communicator. I speak through my specific clothing choices, pictures, paintings, performance. I speak through images, as well as think in images. It makes complete, logical sense that how I think is also the way in which I communicate with others, since I can understand and relate in a visual way with ease, over audio or hands on learning/communicating skills, with which I am less inclined.
Another example, John. Chatty Kathy is a colloquialism for “talkers”, of which category John belongs to. He can speak about anything, and very thoroughly and congenially. I venture to assume that John is an auditory learner. Words and speech come naturally from his mouth, and thus they should also come naturally into his mind. It seems that if he can converse so well, and on a range of limitless topics, that he responds well in a learning environment in which auditory teaching is chiefly used.
Gloria, a student of ours, on the other hand, is silent nearly all the time. She is not gifted with speech, nor through visual communications. I believe that Gloria does her best work when she I allowed to use her hands. To support this, I have observed that when Cass takes Gloria to the white board to demonstrate a math equation, and has Gloria also put dry erase marker to white board, that she will pick up the theorem quicker.
Of course, some individuals have several ways of learning, and thus I believe many ways of communicating with people. Those particular individuals would make the best teachers, because of their ability to reach out in each way to meet all learning patterns of their students. The best curriculum cycles through each learning method, so as to ensure the complete understanding of all.
My findings are inconclusive, but my theory is so far evidentiary enough to continue my research. If my supposition is correct, I believe I have found a new way of assessing and assisting in the classroom and in society. :D
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