I've been gardening like crazy. Pulling weeds, planting vines. When I went to the nursery, Steve the owner said, "You know it is August don't you" and raised his eyebrows when I told him I just felt like working in the dirt. I realize that it is likely that none of the plants will live, but for some reason I just have to be out working in the yard.
People who do research on cross cultural adjustment have found that reentry (coming home) can be even more difficult than the initial adjustment to a foreign country. This can be true even when the trip is relatively short. The first time I came home from Africa (after being there for a year), I was miserable. I felt disconnected from my friends and family. I felt like everything I was doing in my life was trite and unimportant in light of the tremendous injustice and suffering in the world. I did not know how to reconcile life in the US with life in Ghana. I moved into an apartment with a bunch of my college friends, but I couldn't handle it. Too much smoking and too many hair products. I moved out and went to live with Rob's parents. During the first few months I had trouble doing normal things like going to grocery stores or the shopping mall. Rob and I went to a mall in the Bay Area and I was so overwhelmed the loads and loads of clothes, shoes, accessories, CDs, trinkets, fake plants and scented candles that I practically had a panic attack and ran out in tears. It was a disorienting time.
Thankfully I had not had such strong reactions the last few times I've traveled. But, even so, I still feel surprised at how I feel when I get back. I am glad to be home and excited to see friends and family but there is part of me that is not ready to talk about my experience. People have called and asked me about it and I sort of stammer like I don't really know what to say. Even though I've been thinking about it and writing about it, it is still really hard to put into words.
To be honest, I feel a little sad. Not depressed, not discouraged, just mildly sad. I am not sure the exact source of it. It is not like I am sad to be home or sad about Ghana. I guess it is like how plants feel when they have been freshly transplanted- a little wilty.
Perhaps I should be journaling and processing the details of everything. It would be wonderful if I could get through the sadness and on to the stage where I am able to summarize my experience into a set of bullet points.
For now I am just going to sit in the garden and let the transplants soak for awhile.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Monday, August 08, 2005
Return
Rob and I are back in Cali. We had a wonderful time in London. It was sunny and cool- perfect weather for riding around in open-top tour buses. We saw most of the major city sites, ate fish and chips and even popped into Madam Tusad's Wax museum for a brief tour.
We returned to sunny and hot LA and are both in the throws of jet lag. People have different strategies for jet lag. None of them seem to work perfectly. Yesterday we went hiking at 6:30 in the morning after being awake for almost two hours. We did so much physical activity (hiking, surfing, tennis, swimming) that we were both walking dead by 10 last night. Now it 5:30 and I'm up and ready to start another day. Not too bad at all!
Rob is going back to work this morning. That's the saddest part of coming home. When we are away together we spend so much time together. I really like hanging out with my husband! He'll be back at work and I'll be based at home the next few weeks- working on my dissertation, doing house projects, and preparing for my clerkship and classes that begin the second week in Sept. I am also planning to spend a lot of time with friends and family and keep processing (and blogging about) my experience in Africa.
We returned to sunny and hot LA and are both in the throws of jet lag. People have different strategies for jet lag. None of them seem to work perfectly. Yesterday we went hiking at 6:30 in the morning after being awake for almost two hours. We did so much physical activity (hiking, surfing, tennis, swimming) that we were both walking dead by 10 last night. Now it 5:30 and I'm up and ready to start another day. Not too bad at all!
Rob is going back to work this morning. That's the saddest part of coming home. When we are away together we spend so much time together. I really like hanging out with my husband! He'll be back at work and I'll be based at home the next few weeks- working on my dissertation, doing house projects, and preparing for my clerkship and classes that begin the second week in Sept. I am also planning to spend a lot of time with friends and family and keep processing (and blogging about) my experience in Africa.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Two women
I’ve spent all day the last two days at the refugee camp. Today I spent time with an elderly woman who has been at the camp for 15 years. We sat together for a couple hours each holding sleeping babies (so that the teen mothers had their hands free to take notes about a presentation on HIV prevention). She was wonderful company, warm, insightful and articulate. While we sat in the breeze, she told me some of her story.
She lost her husband and three sons during the war. They were killed while she watched, hidden nearby with the smallest son. Her remaining son will soon turn 19. Refugee life is the only one he has known.
She makes her living by selling small things- cans of tomato paste, small packets of salt, pieces of ginger root. Every morning she prays that people will come to buy something. If many customers come, she and her son will eat that day. If only a few customers come, she will insist that her son eat, but she will not buy food for herself. If no one comes, neither of them eat. She told me this very matter of fact. She was not complaining. She didn’t ask me for help. She told me about her life because I was curious and I was kind.
We talked about the future. She is not hopeful for Liberia. She said, “There are too many people who want to rule- too many selfish people who don’t care about their fellow countrymen.” She is concerned that the coming elections will cause more violence. Regardless of the outcome, she told me that she is simply too scared to go back. There are too many terrible memories for her there. She fled in fresh grief, with her four-year-old in her arms and walking through the ruins of her country as she went. While she talked, she exuded a deep sense of grief. Not depression, not apathy, not hopelessness, but profound grief.
Our conversation made me wish I had more time to spend with her, perhaps the chance for therapy… some way to extend more care, some way to share the tremendous burden that she has carried alone. When I left for the day, my last full day in Ghana, I gave her all the money I had. With tears in her eyes she said “May God bless you, my daughter.”
I spoke with another woman who was waiting in the camp office. She is leaving tomorrow for resettlement in the US. I asked her which city she was going to and she responded, “I am a refugee. I do not know where I will go or how I will live.” It made me sad to hear such a statement: I am a refugee. Because my nation is ruined, I am at the mercy of other nations. I will go wherever they will take me.. I touched her shoulder and said, “May God guard your journey and may my people greet you warmly when you arrive.” and in my heart I desperately prayed that we will.
She lost her husband and three sons during the war. They were killed while she watched, hidden nearby with the smallest son. Her remaining son will soon turn 19. Refugee life is the only one he has known.
She makes her living by selling small things- cans of tomato paste, small packets of salt, pieces of ginger root. Every morning she prays that people will come to buy something. If many customers come, she and her son will eat that day. If only a few customers come, she will insist that her son eat, but she will not buy food for herself. If no one comes, neither of them eat. She told me this very matter of fact. She was not complaining. She didn’t ask me for help. She told me about her life because I was curious and I was kind.
We talked about the future. She is not hopeful for Liberia. She said, “There are too many people who want to rule- too many selfish people who don’t care about their fellow countrymen.” She is concerned that the coming elections will cause more violence. Regardless of the outcome, she told me that she is simply too scared to go back. There are too many terrible memories for her there. She fled in fresh grief, with her four-year-old in her arms and walking through the ruins of her country as she went. While she talked, she exuded a deep sense of grief. Not depression, not apathy, not hopelessness, but profound grief.
Our conversation made me wish I had more time to spend with her, perhaps the chance for therapy… some way to extend more care, some way to share the tremendous burden that she has carried alone. When I left for the day, my last full day in Ghana, I gave her all the money I had. With tears in her eyes she said “May God bless you, my daughter.”
I spoke with another woman who was waiting in the camp office. She is leaving tomorrow for resettlement in the US. I asked her which city she was going to and she responded, “I am a refugee. I do not know where I will go or how I will live.” It made me sad to hear such a statement: I am a refugee. Because my nation is ruined, I am at the mercy of other nations. I will go wherever they will take me.. I touched her shoulder and said, “May God guard your journey and may my people greet you warmly when you arrive.” and in my heart I desperately prayed that we will.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Ramblings on time, technology and global problems
We have a little less than a week left in Ghana. I am not ready to leave. I even e-mailed the travel agent to see if it would be possible to change my flight. The flights are all full. I do not feel finished at all. I feel like I am getting started. I wonder if Africa can become an addiction. I can’t get enough….
Rob is spending part of this week training people how to build websites. I sat in on the morning session yesterday. I was very proud of my husband! Proud of his patience, his flexibility and his determination to be concretely helpful to these people who are desperately trying to be effective members of the world information community and the international marketplace. To be an African trying to engage the international technology world is to struggle.
I have had a taste of this struggle as I’ve been working on a web-based research project for MMCT. They have broadband internet but it goes down constantly. Other times it is so slow that it takes an hour to send an attachment. Then the mouse breaks. Then the electricity goes out. Then the server is down. Then the program freezes and must be reinstalled. Then an error message about a problem with the hard drive. Try to send things over dial up but the phone service goes out. I have “wasted” countless hours struggling to manage technical problem after technical problem. It has really stretched my frustration tolerance as drastically changed my expectations for what I can feasibly accomplish in a workday.
The “digital divide” is another type of evidence for poverty. Rob and I talk around and around about how technology and the information that technology can provide can be an anti-poverty resource. How is it possible that computers can be a source of incredible sums of money for many people in our country yet virtually worthless to others around the world? It is no surprise that much of Africa has been left out of the technological revolution. Even where there is ingenuity, brilliant business plan, and even investment money to get started - there is simply not enough infrastructure to support e-commerce. I wish I had some brilliant ideas.
The news comes to life when one is away from home. Rob and I have a few days layover in London on the way home. We have been carefully watching the events unfold. Sad. Nervous. We are in the cauldron of international affairs: in the midst of poverty, in the midst of terrorism. I am sure of one thing: terrorism and poverty are related. We, the wealthy of the world (Americans), must begin to take international poverty more seriously if we are serious about ending terrorism. 30,000 children die every day from preventable causes- hunger, unsafe water, etc. Poverty breeds desperation which causes anger which leads to unrest which becomes violence which in its extreme form takes shape as terrorist acts that costs the lives of countless innocents. I am not a political scientist or an expert, but I have spent some time in a few of the world’s most impoverished places and I am convinced that until the world begins to address the drastic inequalities between the two-thirds world and the wealthy industrialized nations, terrorists will have recruiting potential. “There is no security apart from common security… America will never be secure until the injustice and despair that fuel the murderous agendas of terrorists have finally been addressed” (Jim Wallis, God’s Politics, p. 191). My intention is not to make simplistic causational statements between the London bombings and Africa’s poverty. I guess I just want to say that injustice feeds injustice. Fighting one injustice while ignoring another is like picking the leaves off without pulling up the roots.
Rob is spending part of this week training people how to build websites. I sat in on the morning session yesterday. I was very proud of my husband! Proud of his patience, his flexibility and his determination to be concretely helpful to these people who are desperately trying to be effective members of the world information community and the international marketplace. To be an African trying to engage the international technology world is to struggle.
I have had a taste of this struggle as I’ve been working on a web-based research project for MMCT. They have broadband internet but it goes down constantly. Other times it is so slow that it takes an hour to send an attachment. Then the mouse breaks. Then the electricity goes out. Then the server is down. Then the program freezes and must be reinstalled. Then an error message about a problem with the hard drive. Try to send things over dial up but the phone service goes out. I have “wasted” countless hours struggling to manage technical problem after technical problem. It has really stretched my frustration tolerance as drastically changed my expectations for what I can feasibly accomplish in a workday.
The “digital divide” is another type of evidence for poverty. Rob and I talk around and around about how technology and the information that technology can provide can be an anti-poverty resource. How is it possible that computers can be a source of incredible sums of money for many people in our country yet virtually worthless to others around the world? It is no surprise that much of Africa has been left out of the technological revolution. Even where there is ingenuity, brilliant business plan, and even investment money to get started - there is simply not enough infrastructure to support e-commerce. I wish I had some brilliant ideas.
The news comes to life when one is away from home. Rob and I have a few days layover in London on the way home. We have been carefully watching the events unfold. Sad. Nervous. We are in the cauldron of international affairs: in the midst of poverty, in the midst of terrorism. I am sure of one thing: terrorism and poverty are related. We, the wealthy of the world (Americans), must begin to take international poverty more seriously if we are serious about ending terrorism. 30,000 children die every day from preventable causes- hunger, unsafe water, etc. Poverty breeds desperation which causes anger which leads to unrest which becomes violence which in its extreme form takes shape as terrorist acts that costs the lives of countless innocents. I am not a political scientist or an expert, but I have spent some time in a few of the world’s most impoverished places and I am convinced that until the world begins to address the drastic inequalities between the two-thirds world and the wealthy industrialized nations, terrorists will have recruiting potential. “There is no security apart from common security… America will never be secure until the injustice and despair that fuel the murderous agendas of terrorists have finally been addressed” (Jim Wallis, God’s Politics, p. 191). My intention is not to make simplistic causational statements between the London bombings and Africa’s poverty. I guess I just want to say that injustice feeds injustice. Fighting one injustice while ignoring another is like picking the leaves off without pulling up the roots.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
words
I called this blog "full of life" because much of what I write about is trying to distinguish the qualitative difference between merely existing and living a life that is intentional, passionate, brave- a life that I would describe as full. I have been reading a book called The Sacred Journey in which another person Fredrick Buechner tells the story of his own quest for a full life (at least that is how I understand the plot). Some of his words have really touched me:
To journey for the sake of saving our own lives is little by little to cease to live in any sense that really matters, even to ourselves, because it is only by journeying for the world's sake-even when the world bores and sickens and scares you half to death-that little by little we start to come alive. -page 107
Listen. Listen. Your life is happening. You are happening.
A journey, years long, has brought each of you through thick and thin to this moment in time as mine has also brought me. Think back on this journey. Listen back to the sounds and sweet airs of your journey that give delight and hurt not, and to those too that give no delight and hurt like hell. Be not affeard. The music of your life is subtle and elusive and like no other-- not a song with words but a song without words, a singing, clattering music to gladden the heart or turn the heart to stone, to haunt you perhaps with echoes of a vaster, farther music of which it is a part
The question is not whether the things that happen to you are chance things or God’s things because, of course, they are both at once. There is no chance thing through which God cannot speak- even the walk from the house to the garage that you have walked ten thousand times before, even the moments when you cannot believe there is a God who speaks at all anywhere. He speaks, I believe, and the words he speaks are incarnate in the flesh and blood of our selves and of our own footsore and sacred journey. We cannot live our lives constantly looking back, listening back, lest we be turned to pillars of longing and regret, but to live without listening at all is to live deaf to the fullness of the music. Sometimes we avoid listening for fear of what we may hear, sometimes for fear that we may hear nothing at all but the empty rattle of our own feet on the pavement. But, be not affeard. He says he is with us on our journeys. He says he has been with us since each of our journeys began. Listen for him. Listen to the sweet and bitter airs of your present and your past for the sound of him.
- page 77-78
To journey for the sake of saving our own lives is little by little to cease to live in any sense that really matters, even to ourselves, because it is only by journeying for the world's sake-even when the world bores and sickens and scares you half to death-that little by little we start to come alive. -page 107
Listen. Listen. Your life is happening. You are happening.
A journey, years long, has brought each of you through thick and thin to this moment in time as mine has also brought me. Think back on this journey. Listen back to the sounds and sweet airs of your journey that give delight and hurt not, and to those too that give no delight and hurt like hell. Be not affeard. The music of your life is subtle and elusive and like no other-- not a song with words but a song without words, a singing, clattering music to gladden the heart or turn the heart to stone, to haunt you perhaps with echoes of a vaster, farther music of which it is a part
The question is not whether the things that happen to you are chance things or God’s things because, of course, they are both at once. There is no chance thing through which God cannot speak- even the walk from the house to the garage that you have walked ten thousand times before, even the moments when you cannot believe there is a God who speaks at all anywhere. He speaks, I believe, and the words he speaks are incarnate in the flesh and blood of our selves and of our own footsore and sacred journey. We cannot live our lives constantly looking back, listening back, lest we be turned to pillars of longing and regret, but to live without listening at all is to live deaf to the fullness of the music. Sometimes we avoid listening for fear of what we may hear, sometimes for fear that we may hear nothing at all but the empty rattle of our own feet on the pavement. But, be not affeard. He says he is with us on our journeys. He says he has been with us since each of our journeys began. Listen for him. Listen to the sweet and bitter airs of your present and your past for the sound of him.
- page 77-78
A face in the sunrise
It is 6:30 on a Sunday morning. I am sitting ten feet from the foamy surf of the Gulf of Guinea. As I face the waves, the sun is rising gently to my left and giving the water a green, silky glow. I am sitting in soft white sand under a coconut tree. There is no one else here.
I woke up early to sit by the sea. I’ve come for solitude, or rather for communion with one who is sometimes best met in a place like this – a place that is mighty and beautiful.
Many people that I love could sit with me, taking in the green salty sea, and I suppose their hearts would likewise be stirred with awe. Awe for what or whom they may not know. However, I cannot sit here in a place of human paradise without making attribution, without overflowing with gratitude for the author of beauty.
Many people who I love shrug uncomfortably when the word “God” is mentioned. Perhaps it is better to see rather than hear. I wish they could sit here with me. I wish they could bask in awe as they stand small and human before the mighty water. Then perhaps they would be moved by the stirring in the heart that softly whispers - This thing, this moment, this beauty… it is not an accident, it is a carefully selected, carefully orchestrated gift for one who is loved, one who is cherished… for you..
“Never question the truth of what you fail to understand, for the world is full of wonders. Above all, never question the truth beyond all understanding and surpassing all other wonders that in the long run nothing, not even the world, nor even our selves, can separate us forever from that last and deepest love that glimmers at dusk like a pearl, life a face.” Frederick Buechner, The Sacred Journey, page 112
I woke up early to sit by the sea. I’ve come for solitude, or rather for communion with one who is sometimes best met in a place like this – a place that is mighty and beautiful.
Many people that I love could sit with me, taking in the green salty sea, and I suppose their hearts would likewise be stirred with awe. Awe for what or whom they may not know. However, I cannot sit here in a place of human paradise without making attribution, without overflowing with gratitude for the author of beauty.
Many people who I love shrug uncomfortably when the word “God” is mentioned. Perhaps it is better to see rather than hear. I wish they could sit here with me. I wish they could bask in awe as they stand small and human before the mighty water. Then perhaps they would be moved by the stirring in the heart that softly whispers - This thing, this moment, this beauty… it is not an accident, it is a carefully selected, carefully orchestrated gift for one who is loved, one who is cherished… for you..
“Never question the truth of what you fail to understand, for the world is full of wonders. Above all, never question the truth beyond all understanding and surpassing all other wonders that in the long run nothing, not even the world, nor even our selves, can separate us forever from that last and deepest love that glimmers at dusk like a pearl, life a face.” Frederick Buechner, The Sacred Journey, page 112
Reunion
I saw an amazing thing.
Last time I went to the refugee camp, the UNHCR car had an extra errand to do on the way. We picked up a 9-year-old girl from an orphanage. She is not an orphan but had been living in the orphan house for almost six months. This little girl was brutally assaulted by some men living at the camp. She was seriously injured to the extent that after she was released from the hospital, she was too weak to make the hour-long trip between the camp and the medical center. The orphanage is near the hospital so arrangements were made for her to live there until she healed physically. She has been separated from her mom for almost six months. Our job for the day was to take her back to live with her mother. While some of the group managed the paperwork, she wanted to change her dress so she would look special for her mom. She changed it twice.
As we drove out to the camp, she could hardly sit still. She fidgeted excitedly and carefully took in everything around her.
The plan was to meet her mom at a gas station outside the camp. Without phones, we could not call to confirm. Everyone in the truck was very nervous that her mom would not be there for some reason. None of us could bear her to feel any disappointment.
Thankfully, her mom was there. She let out a squeal when we pulled into the parking lot. Before the car could stop, she was scrambling out and was instantly enfolded in her mother’s arms. They twirled around as her mom began to cry.
I was very humbled to bear witness to this moment. It felt like a sacred moment, one in which the deepest longings of two people were met in a reunion. I hope it was a redemptive moment, one that marks a shift from surviving a horror to healing and new life.
Last time I went to the refugee camp, the UNHCR car had an extra errand to do on the way. We picked up a 9-year-old girl from an orphanage. She is not an orphan but had been living in the orphan house for almost six months. This little girl was brutally assaulted by some men living at the camp. She was seriously injured to the extent that after she was released from the hospital, she was too weak to make the hour-long trip between the camp and the medical center. The orphanage is near the hospital so arrangements were made for her to live there until she healed physically. She has been separated from her mom for almost six months. Our job for the day was to take her back to live with her mother. While some of the group managed the paperwork, she wanted to change her dress so she would look special for her mom. She changed it twice.
As we drove out to the camp, she could hardly sit still. She fidgeted excitedly and carefully took in everything around her.
The plan was to meet her mom at a gas station outside the camp. Without phones, we could not call to confirm. Everyone in the truck was very nervous that her mom would not be there for some reason. None of us could bear her to feel any disappointment.
Thankfully, her mom was there. She let out a squeal when we pulled into the parking lot. Before the car could stop, she was scrambling out and was instantly enfolded in her mother’s arms. They twirled around as her mom began to cry.
I was very humbled to bear witness to this moment. It felt like a sacred moment, one in which the deepest longings of two people were met in a reunion. I hope it was a redemptive moment, one that marks a shift from surviving a horror to healing and new life.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Giving Psychology Away
I've spent the last week at a workshop to trains missionaries in crisis response. The content ranges from practical skills to reflecting on a personal theology of suffering. It seems like the focused time to think about crisis and the opprotunity to receive training in how to support friends and collegues in the midst of trauma has been absoluetly invaluable to those who are here. These folks are all "well versed" in crisis through personal experiences. This training adds more formal knowledge and the opportunity to practice specific skills. Perhaps most importantly the training forms the basis for a network of peers who can advise and support each other as they are assisting and supporting other people.
The simple fact is that there is much trauma and few professional mental health workers. It is most effective for the few trained workers to use some of their time and energy equipping other people to better fullfill the supportive roles they are already playing. It makes sense to enhance the organic "counseling" and care-taking that is already taking place, rather than attempt to care directly for each person who may need some psychological support.
As an emerging professional it has been neat to see psychology used in such a practical, empowering way. I think there is some tendancy to among professionals to hoard knowledge and training and treat it as if it needs to be restricted for use by a select few. It costs professionals some tokens of authority to reveal their "secret" knowledge and offer it to others. I understand that there is danger in a little bit of knowledge and I am not arguing for the careless distribution of psychological practice and theory, but I do think professionals do a disservice when they underestimate "non-professionals". I really like the word empowerment. Give power to others, don't hold it all to yourself.
The simple fact is that there is much trauma and few professional mental health workers. It is most effective for the few trained workers to use some of their time and energy equipping other people to better fullfill the supportive roles they are already playing. It makes sense to enhance the organic "counseling" and care-taking that is already taking place, rather than attempt to care directly for each person who may need some psychological support.
As an emerging professional it has been neat to see psychology used in such a practical, empowering way. I think there is some tendancy to among professionals to hoard knowledge and training and treat it as if it needs to be restricted for use by a select few. It costs professionals some tokens of authority to reveal their "secret" knowledge and offer it to others. I understand that there is danger in a little bit of knowledge and I am not arguing for the careless distribution of psychological practice and theory, but I do think professionals do a disservice when they underestimate "non-professionals". I really like the word empowerment. Give power to others, don't hold it all to yourself.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Out for a stroll in a village
Last week I spent a day in a village outside of Accra. Village life is very different than city life. It is harder is some ways- daily life is more difficult to manage without an abundance of stores. There is only one place to buy laundry soap. When they run out you have to wait until the next trip to the city. Inconvenient. Yet, it is refreshing in its slowness, and friendliness. People learn to do more with less.
With my hosts, I went for a walk through the village. I wish I had been able to take a picture of the elementary school children leaving school for the afternoon. Each of them was neatly dressed in their brown and orange school uniforms. They walked with arms linked emphatically exchanging stories from the day (both boys and girls link arms or hold hands- there is no cultural prohibition against friendly male affection). Some kicked soccer balls as they walked and others sort of skipped along. A few carried book bags. Most carried a notebook of some kind and a writing utensil. The striking thing is that all carried a small, kid-sized machete.
I have no explanation for why all the school kids were carrying large knives. I do not know if they were learning machete techniques in gym class or if it was bring your machete for show-and-tell day. In Africa, a machete is common as a toothbrush. Here a machete is much more than a weapon; it is an essential multi-purpose tool.
When I lived here, I had my own machete. I don’t remember where it came from, I acquired it somehow. Once you get over the strangeness of identifying yourself as a machete owner, it turns out to be quite useful. Some uses I found for my machete included:
1. Flipping pancakes or frying eggs (like a spatula)
2. Cutting fruit
3. Cutting grass (this is probably the most common use in an urban area and is sure to result in a back ache)
4. Scraping grime off a number of surfaces
5. Clearing brush from the path of a wild fire
6. Chopping down a small tree in order to build a shelter for the night
7. Creating a tasty beverage from a fresh coconut
8. As a can opener
9. As a back scratcher for the mid back or other hard to reach itchy spots
10. As torque to loosen stuck things
Unhappy African Experience #2
I was sick over the weekend. I feel much better now, but I had a few unhappy days. First vomiting, then the other. I was fatigued. I was hot and cold. Feverish.
Whenever anyone gets sick in Africa, you instantly think: MALARIA! Of course, this is a good first consideration given how common it is and how dangerous it can be. However, I am taking malaria prophylaxis and have not had too many mosquito bites so malaria was not likely. Yet, the possibilities keep you up at night.
I can be very neurotic, especially when sleep deprived. I think I inherited a worry trait from my mom, or maybe just an overactive desire to have a contingency plan for a range of possible situations. Over the course of two nights, I lay awake between bathroom trips considering what diseases I could possibly have. Amebas, parasites, typhoid, cholera, dysentery, yellow fever, elephantites, leprosy… they all sound really horrible. Which ones are treatable? Which ones are not? I considered what would happen if I were to become severely dehydrated and have to go to the hospital for an intravenous drip. I reminded myself to make sure I see the needle being unwrapped before they put it in my arm. I wondered: How sick should I get before going to the hospital? Before deciding to go home? Should I call someone? What should I say? “I have an upset stomach, and I think I might die” sounded too paranoid, even at 3 am.
After consulting with Marion, who is trained as a nurse, I did go to the lab for some tests (just in case). It looks like I will pull through after all and make a full recovery. I felt well enough to have a burger and fries for dinner tonight.
Whenever anyone gets sick in Africa, you instantly think: MALARIA! Of course, this is a good first consideration given how common it is and how dangerous it can be. However, I am taking malaria prophylaxis and have not had too many mosquito bites so malaria was not likely. Yet, the possibilities keep you up at night.
I can be very neurotic, especially when sleep deprived. I think I inherited a worry trait from my mom, or maybe just an overactive desire to have a contingency plan for a range of possible situations. Over the course of two nights, I lay awake between bathroom trips considering what diseases I could possibly have. Amebas, parasites, typhoid, cholera, dysentery, yellow fever, elephantites, leprosy… they all sound really horrible. Which ones are treatable? Which ones are not? I considered what would happen if I were to become severely dehydrated and have to go to the hospital for an intravenous drip. I reminded myself to make sure I see the needle being unwrapped before they put it in my arm. I wondered: How sick should I get before going to the hospital? Before deciding to go home? Should I call someone? What should I say? “I have an upset stomach, and I think I might die” sounded too paranoid, even at 3 am.
After consulting with Marion, who is trained as a nurse, I did go to the lab for some tests (just in case). It looks like I will pull through after all and make a full recovery. I felt well enough to have a burger and fries for dinner tonight.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
I, Obruni
Obruni is the Twi word for foreign person or white person (they are interchangeable). It has become my name. Every time I step on the street, the word “obruni” bubbles all around me. They are talking about me.
In Africa, my skin is the most important determinate of my identity. I am a caricature, an exaggerated amalgamation.
I would like to say that being, for a moment, a member of the minority gives me some wonderful sympathetic perspective into the experience of minorities in my home country. However, there is an essential difference: everywhere in the world, my skin is the skin of privilege. It is the skin of the colonizers, conquerors and slave traders. It is the skin of those who have won the Darwinian struggle for the earth’s natural and manufactured resources. It is the skin of wealth and power.
I can go into any restaurant, hotel, business, hospital, or government office in this country and be treated a certain way based simply on my skin color. The reality that I am the daughter of an insignificant working class family who survived on top ramen and pretzels in college is inconceivable. In America, I am nobody. In Africa, I am a white person and that means I must be important.
Two other (white) women and I visited a small community church at the invitation of one of the associate pastors. We were seated in front. I don’t mean the first row, I mean the stage.
When I was here as a student, I wanted to do an internship. I took a bus to Ghana’s Department of Social Welfare to look at the bulletin boards. Within minutes, I was sipping tea with the National Director. (Not based on my merit)
This weekend I went to Cape Coast castle. It is a slave “castle.” A point of export for millions of slaves. This history cannot be erased from modern race relations.
Accra’s best neighborhoods are inhabited by obrunis (Europeans, Americans, Lebanese, Koreans). Lovely walled compounds with beautiful bougainvillea and lush grass. Foreigners control many of the major businesses. It is possible to be in Africa and totally surround yourself with other foreigners. There are lovely hotels, restaurants and beachside resorts that are priced exclusively for the foreigner. Eating at a restaurant where lunch is $5 a plate will out-price an average Ghanaian. Eating fufu and stew from a communal bowl sitting on a crate on the side of the road will overwhelm the average obruni. Lunch hour is an hour of apartheid.
Being a white person in Africa is like being at the zoo. Rather, I should say in the zoo. On display. An object of interest. Curious and odd to look at. The skin of privilege is a mobile cage. I cannot roam freely. Wherever I walk, the children call “obruni” to announce my passing and I, once a child on Vandiver Lane, walk the streets as an icon of colonization, slavery, The World Bank, George Bush’s America, and Hollywood.
In Africa, my skin is the most important determinate of my identity. I am a caricature, an exaggerated amalgamation.
I would like to say that being, for a moment, a member of the minority gives me some wonderful sympathetic perspective into the experience of minorities in my home country. However, there is an essential difference: everywhere in the world, my skin is the skin of privilege. It is the skin of the colonizers, conquerors and slave traders. It is the skin of those who have won the Darwinian struggle for the earth’s natural and manufactured resources. It is the skin of wealth and power.
I can go into any restaurant, hotel, business, hospital, or government office in this country and be treated a certain way based simply on my skin color. The reality that I am the daughter of an insignificant working class family who survived on top ramen and pretzels in college is inconceivable. In America, I am nobody. In Africa, I am a white person and that means I must be important.
Two other (white) women and I visited a small community church at the invitation of one of the associate pastors. We were seated in front. I don’t mean the first row, I mean the stage.
When I was here as a student, I wanted to do an internship. I took a bus to Ghana’s Department of Social Welfare to look at the bulletin boards. Within minutes, I was sipping tea with the National Director. (Not based on my merit)
This weekend I went to Cape Coast castle. It is a slave “castle.” A point of export for millions of slaves. This history cannot be erased from modern race relations.
Accra’s best neighborhoods are inhabited by obrunis (Europeans, Americans, Lebanese, Koreans). Lovely walled compounds with beautiful bougainvillea and lush grass. Foreigners control many of the major businesses. It is possible to be in Africa and totally surround yourself with other foreigners. There are lovely hotels, restaurants and beachside resorts that are priced exclusively for the foreigner. Eating at a restaurant where lunch is $5 a plate will out-price an average Ghanaian. Eating fufu and stew from a communal bowl sitting on a crate on the side of the road will overwhelm the average obruni. Lunch hour is an hour of apartheid.
Being a white person in Africa is like being at the zoo. Rather, I should say in the zoo. On display. An object of interest. Curious and odd to look at. The skin of privilege is a mobile cage. I cannot roam freely. Wherever I walk, the children call “obruni” to announce my passing and I, once a child on Vandiver Lane, walk the streets as an icon of colonization, slavery, The World Bank, George Bush’s America, and Hollywood.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Update on the week… and existential questions
I am wrapping up a long week of therapy with a someone caught in the middle of one of West Africa’s many civil wars. I won’t say more about it here, except to add that it has been an invaluable learning experience for me. Because transportation is difficult and expensive, and because Karen is the only psychologist in the region, people can only come for one or two weeks. Rather than the weekly, 50-minute sessions that are common in the States, we meet for 2-3 hours at a time, sometimes two sessions a day. We do a lot of work in a short time period. This seems to work well given the parameters.
I feel like my time here is going very, very fast. I have been here for over three weeks. Laura, the other intern, is leaving at the beginning of next week. Rob will be here in just over a week. I will head home in one month’s time. Time is passing quickly. I wish I could stay an additional month or two (with Rob here of course). I am just beginning to feel that I “get” this population well enough to jump in and be useful. I also want to spend more time at the refugee camp and continue to learn more about mental health work with Africans. So many things! I guess some work will have to wait for another trip.
Being here makes me ponder the well worn question of what I am going to do with my life. It is impossible for me (for most people I think) to be a witness to suffering and need without some kind of thoughts about continued involvement. I don’t think I could have these kind of experiences if I didn’t have the sense that this work is part of the larger picture for my life. I am building on a foundation that has been under construction in me for many years. If only I had a copy of the architect’s plans! I know the foundation is deep but I don’t know if it’s a skyscraper, or a bomb shelter. I keep going on trips, each time with my heart open to some kind of sign, some kind of voice from the heavens that says “THIS IS IT. THIS IS THE THING FOR WHICH YOU WERE CREATED.” I don’t understand why this has not happened (I say this ironically because I don’t think it works this way at all).
Rather than drive myself crazy looking for my life’s call written in neon lights, I am borrowing from the contemplative tradition and simply asking myself: “What did I do today that was life-giving, that I loved? What did I do today that was life-draining, that I did not like?” The answers to these questions have led me (over and over) to return to places like Africa and Central America. There is something in the eyes of Ghanaians, Salvadorans, Guatemalans… something about the dusty streets and colorful fabrics… something about the determination to live peacefully, happily, in strong relationships, in spite of, in the midst of (poverty, injustice, war)… something about this place is life-giving to the very core of me.
And the tears come.
What does it mean that I am moved? In this moment I am moved, but what does it mean for the next moment and tomorrow and next year and ten years from now. These are the questions I try not to ask. I just exhale and rest in the fact that this moment, right now, this press of the keyboard means something and that is enough.
I feel like my time here is going very, very fast. I have been here for over three weeks. Laura, the other intern, is leaving at the beginning of next week. Rob will be here in just over a week. I will head home in one month’s time. Time is passing quickly. I wish I could stay an additional month or two (with Rob here of course). I am just beginning to feel that I “get” this population well enough to jump in and be useful. I also want to spend more time at the refugee camp and continue to learn more about mental health work with Africans. So many things! I guess some work will have to wait for another trip.
Being here makes me ponder the well worn question of what I am going to do with my life. It is impossible for me (for most people I think) to be a witness to suffering and need without some kind of thoughts about continued involvement. I don’t think I could have these kind of experiences if I didn’t have the sense that this work is part of the larger picture for my life. I am building on a foundation that has been under construction in me for many years. If only I had a copy of the architect’s plans! I know the foundation is deep but I don’t know if it’s a skyscraper, or a bomb shelter. I keep going on trips, each time with my heart open to some kind of sign, some kind of voice from the heavens that says “THIS IS IT. THIS IS THE THING FOR WHICH YOU WERE CREATED.” I don’t understand why this has not happened (I say this ironically because I don’t think it works this way at all).
Rather than drive myself crazy looking for my life’s call written in neon lights, I am borrowing from the contemplative tradition and simply asking myself: “What did I do today that was life-giving, that I loved? What did I do today that was life-draining, that I did not like?” The answers to these questions have led me (over and over) to return to places like Africa and Central America. There is something in the eyes of Ghanaians, Salvadorans, Guatemalans… something about the dusty streets and colorful fabrics… something about the determination to live peacefully, happily, in strong relationships, in spite of, in the midst of (poverty, injustice, war)… something about this place is life-giving to the very core of me.
And the tears come.
What does it mean that I am moved? In this moment I am moved, but what does it mean for the next moment and tomorrow and next year and ten years from now. These are the questions I try not to ask. I just exhale and rest in the fact that this moment, right now, this press of the keyboard means something and that is enough.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
People without country
I spent the morning at a refugee camp built to provide short-term refuge for 5000 Liberians. Fifteen years after opening, it is now a teeming city with at least 45,000 exiled residents.
Liberia entered civil war in 1989 when Charles Taylor led a coup d'état. However, in the midst of the offensive, his supporters fractioned and began to fight against each other. The fighting escalated and has resulted in an exceedingly complex series of alliances, and attempted takeovers. A number of separate tribes/people groups have cycled through shifting loyalties and been on different sides of the conflict at different times. It has been a heinous war marked by torture, rape, child soldiers, and ethnic cleansing. Thousands and thousands of people have been forced to flee for their lives. Several peace accords have been signed, then broken. Refugees have fled and returned several times. The country remains in a state of chaos and destruction, with all hope focused on an election that will take place in October. There are more than 50 presidential candidates which in my opinion is not a promising sign. The odds that one of the 49 losers will be disgruntled enough to take up arms are and try to force his way to power seem high.
The living conditions at the camp are abysmal. No one expected it to last this long or grow this big. Only recently have parts of the camp been equipped with electricity (most areas do not yet have power). There is no running water, there are not enough toilets. A wooded area of the camp has become the public toilet, however it has also become a cauldron of criminal activity and is known as a place where people are raped or robbed.
These people are without country. The country they remember has been destroyed. Their families have been separated, social networks broken down, their cultural practices distorted and marred by warmongers. They are in a foreign nation with a different culture, a different language. They have enduring loss, horror and tragedy beyond imagination. The future remains precarious and uncertain…
I spent the morning with a group of teen-age mothers. We met in a counseling room without electricity meaning no fans or lights. We had to close the windows to keep our conversations private, yet the class did not keep out the sound of a blaring radio or a long line of people waiting to fill out forms for an office next door. The young women are all without family in the camp. A few of them “live” or at least sleep on the porch of an office building. Although they are at least fourteen and their bodies are physically able to bear children, malnutrition and the strain of war and refugee life has stunted their development such that several of them looked only 9 or 10. It was very strange to see them holding and nursing their own children.
All of these girls became pregnant after being raped. They have survived one of the most traumatic experiences a human being can go through and now they must struggle to keep themselves and their children alive. They are the most overlooked kind of war casualty. They have not been wounded in battle, but they are victims of a society that has broken down to the point of total depravity. Young women bear the brokenness of men who have been so destroyed by war and violence that in one girl’s words, “they cannot tell the difference between a human and an animal.”
It is hard to articulate what it felt like to be there. There are tears in my eyes while I write this. I feel sadness, but even more I feel moved with respect. Deep respect. In the face of such suffering, these young women still know how to laugh.
As a whole, the camp was full of life. Frustration and depression hung in the air, but it was combated by a sense of determination and gratitude for another day of existence. While I was there, I was in awe of the human ability to survive the unsurvivable, and create life out of ruins. In these moments, psychological theory fails me and I can only understand it as God’s tangible grace. Even in the wake of the ugliest human perpetrated atrocities, God is not absent, but intimately present in the reconstruction of human hearts and lives.
It was hard, very hard to enter such a desperate place, but it was not hopeless.
Liberia entered civil war in 1989 when Charles Taylor led a coup d'état. However, in the midst of the offensive, his supporters fractioned and began to fight against each other. The fighting escalated and has resulted in an exceedingly complex series of alliances, and attempted takeovers. A number of separate tribes/people groups have cycled through shifting loyalties and been on different sides of the conflict at different times. It has been a heinous war marked by torture, rape, child soldiers, and ethnic cleansing. Thousands and thousands of people have been forced to flee for their lives. Several peace accords have been signed, then broken. Refugees have fled and returned several times. The country remains in a state of chaos and destruction, with all hope focused on an election that will take place in October. There are more than 50 presidential candidates which in my opinion is not a promising sign. The odds that one of the 49 losers will be disgruntled enough to take up arms are and try to force his way to power seem high.
The living conditions at the camp are abysmal. No one expected it to last this long or grow this big. Only recently have parts of the camp been equipped with electricity (most areas do not yet have power). There is no running water, there are not enough toilets. A wooded area of the camp has become the public toilet, however it has also become a cauldron of criminal activity and is known as a place where people are raped or robbed.
These people are without country. The country they remember has been destroyed. Their families have been separated, social networks broken down, their cultural practices distorted and marred by warmongers. They are in a foreign nation with a different culture, a different language. They have enduring loss, horror and tragedy beyond imagination. The future remains precarious and uncertain…
I spent the morning with a group of teen-age mothers. We met in a counseling room without electricity meaning no fans or lights. We had to close the windows to keep our conversations private, yet the class did not keep out the sound of a blaring radio or a long line of people waiting to fill out forms for an office next door. The young women are all without family in the camp. A few of them “live” or at least sleep on the porch of an office building. Although they are at least fourteen and their bodies are physically able to bear children, malnutrition and the strain of war and refugee life has stunted their development such that several of them looked only 9 or 10. It was very strange to see them holding and nursing their own children.
All of these girls became pregnant after being raped. They have survived one of the most traumatic experiences a human being can go through and now they must struggle to keep themselves and their children alive. They are the most overlooked kind of war casualty. They have not been wounded in battle, but they are victims of a society that has broken down to the point of total depravity. Young women bear the brokenness of men who have been so destroyed by war and violence that in one girl’s words, “they cannot tell the difference between a human and an animal.”
It is hard to articulate what it felt like to be there. There are tears in my eyes while I write this. I feel sadness, but even more I feel moved with respect. Deep respect. In the face of such suffering, these young women still know how to laugh.
As a whole, the camp was full of life. Frustration and depression hung in the air, but it was combated by a sense of determination and gratitude for another day of existence. While I was there, I was in awe of the human ability to survive the unsurvivable, and create life out of ruins. In these moments, psychological theory fails me and I can only understand it as God’s tangible grace. Even in the wake of the ugliest human perpetrated atrocities, God is not absent, but intimately present in the reconstruction of human hearts and lives.
It was hard, very hard to enter such a desperate place, but it was not hopeless.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Sense of time
Came across some wonderful descriptions of Ghana in the book In the Shadow of the Sun by a Polish journalist Ryszard Kapuscinski.
The European (and North American) and the African have an entirely different concept of time. In the European worldview, time exists outside man, exists objectively, and has measurable and linear characteristics. According to Newton, time is absolute: “Absolute, true, mathematical time of itself and from its own nature, it flows equably and without relation to anything external.” The American feels himself to be time’s slave, dependent on it, subject to it. To exist and function, he must observe its ironclad, inviolate laws, its inflexible principles and rules. He must heed deadlines, dates, days and hours. He moves within the rigors of time and cannot exist outside them. They impose upon him their requirements and quotas. An unresolvable conflict exists between man and time, one that always ends with man’s defeat - time annihilates him.
Africans apprehend time differently. For them, it is a much looser concept, more open, elastic, subjective. It is man who influences time, its shape, course, and rhythm (man acting, of course, with the consent of gods and ancestors). Time is even something that man can create outright, for time is made manifest through events, and whether an event takes place or not depends, after all, on man alone. Time appears as a result of our actions, and vanishes when we neglect or ignore it. It is something that springs to life under our influence, but falls into a state of hibernation, even nonexistence, if we do not direct our energy toward it. It is a subservient, passive essence, and most importantly, one dependent on man.
In practical terms, this means that if you go to a village where a meeting is scheduled for the afternoon but find no one at the appointed spot, asking, “when will the meeting take place?” makes no sense. You know the answer: “It will take place when people come”.
The European (and North American) and the African have an entirely different concept of time. In the European worldview, time exists outside man, exists objectively, and has measurable and linear characteristics. According to Newton, time is absolute: “Absolute, true, mathematical time of itself and from its own nature, it flows equably and without relation to anything external.” The American feels himself to be time’s slave, dependent on it, subject to it. To exist and function, he must observe its ironclad, inviolate laws, its inflexible principles and rules. He must heed deadlines, dates, days and hours. He moves within the rigors of time and cannot exist outside them. They impose upon him their requirements and quotas. An unresolvable conflict exists between man and time, one that always ends with man’s defeat - time annihilates him.
Africans apprehend time differently. For them, it is a much looser concept, more open, elastic, subjective. It is man who influences time, its shape, course, and rhythm (man acting, of course, with the consent of gods and ancestors). Time is even something that man can create outright, for time is made manifest through events, and whether an event takes place or not depends, after all, on man alone. Time appears as a result of our actions, and vanishes when we neglect or ignore it. It is something that springs to life under our influence, but falls into a state of hibernation, even nonexistence, if we do not direct our energy toward it. It is a subservient, passive essence, and most importantly, one dependent on man.
In practical terms, this means that if you go to a village where a meeting is scheduled for the afternoon but find no one at the appointed spot, asking, “when will the meeting take place?” makes no sense. You know the answer: “It will take place when people come”.
Sunday, July 03, 2005
Ghanaian Food
Fufu- This is the proud traditional food of the Ashanti tribe. It is part of many traditional legends and sayings. People here love it. One must have at least one fufu experience when visiting Ghana. Fufu is a soft doughy ball. It is made from yam, cassava and plantain. These starches are pounded together by a woman beating a stick into a hard ceramic bowl. The process is long and labor intensive. As she pounds, she adds water until the contents become moist and gooey. The fufu is then rolled into fist-sized balls and served alongside a stew. You use your hands to tear off a piece and dip it in a stew. Wha-la you are eating fufu! Unfortunately, I strongly dislike fufu. My rejection is based entirely on texture. It is too soft and slimy to chew and too thick to swallow. The first time I ate it, I was unprepared for the truly unique texture. I took a bite that was too big to swallow whole. As I tried to chew, I found that the slimy mess would not break apart or thin, it seemed to grow in my mouth like a sea monkey. To my utter embarrassment, I gagged to the point that I had to spit my bite discreetly into my hand and drop it at my feet for a stray dog (one advantage of outdoor dining). I have been fufu shy ever since. I just cannot figure out how to get it down.
Banku- The brother of fufu, however this dish is more operator friendly. It is made of corn and cassava which are pounded, mixed with water, formed into a ball and then fermented somehow. I’m not clear on this last step. It is also eaten with the hands and dipped into a stew. The wonderful thing about banku is that it can be chewed and properly swallowed. There is not the feeling of a slug crawling down your throat.
RedRed- this is by far my favorite dish! Red beans and meat cooked in palm oil with a side of fried ripe plantains. This dish is aptly named since almost all the ingredients are red. Palm oil is thick and bright red. It has a unique taste which this dish hard to reproduce without it. I have not really seen it in the States. My guess is that it is not at all good for you, but it tastes wonderful. Often it is served with a fish head on top.
Kelewele- small pieces of ripe plantain fried with ginger and chili powder. It is a tasty snack often eaten for dessert, but it can be very spicy. Extra points for a cool name.
Talapia- A small fish about the size of an adult hand. It is fried or grilled whole (eyeballs and everything). It is disconcerting when first served but a veteran knows that the meat is rich and tasty. Often combined used in the stew eaten with fufu and banku.
Apateshi- This is home-brew liquor- perhaps most similar to gin. It is bad, bad, bad. It is very strong, tastes horrible and can be dangerous. This week 30-40 Kenyans died of poisoning after drinking the Kenyan version of apateshi which was made with methanol alcohol (?). Check the BBC. The tricky thing about this drink is that it is served when one visits a chief. As a stranger in a small village, it is traditional and socially important to greet the chief if you plan to spend any time in his village. When one greets the chief one will inevitably be invited to sit under a tree to tell him your reason for being there and to learn about his village at length. You will be served a glass of apateshi (a tumbler, not a shot glass). This stuff is strong. The nose runs, the eyes water, the lungs gasp for better air. It is like drinking gasoline. One trick to getting around having to drink too much is that it is customary to pour some on the ground as a libation or tribute to the village ancestors. I like to make a very generous tribute, sometimes more than one. You can also make a tribute to the chief, to his family members, to his livestock etc. It is like toasting. The more toasts, the better for me.
Banku- The brother of fufu, however this dish is more operator friendly. It is made of corn and cassava which are pounded, mixed with water, formed into a ball and then fermented somehow. I’m not clear on this last step. It is also eaten with the hands and dipped into a stew. The wonderful thing about banku is that it can be chewed and properly swallowed. There is not the feeling of a slug crawling down your throat.
RedRed- this is by far my favorite dish! Red beans and meat cooked in palm oil with a side of fried ripe plantains. This dish is aptly named since almost all the ingredients are red. Palm oil is thick and bright red. It has a unique taste which this dish hard to reproduce without it. I have not really seen it in the States. My guess is that it is not at all good for you, but it tastes wonderful. Often it is served with a fish head on top.
Kelewele- small pieces of ripe plantain fried with ginger and chili powder. It is a tasty snack often eaten for dessert, but it can be very spicy. Extra points for a cool name.
Talapia- A small fish about the size of an adult hand. It is fried or grilled whole (eyeballs and everything). It is disconcerting when first served but a veteran knows that the meat is rich and tasty. Often combined used in the stew eaten with fufu and banku.
Apateshi- This is home-brew liquor- perhaps most similar to gin. It is bad, bad, bad. It is very strong, tastes horrible and can be dangerous. This week 30-40 Kenyans died of poisoning after drinking the Kenyan version of apateshi which was made with methanol alcohol (?). Check the BBC. The tricky thing about this drink is that it is served when one visits a chief. As a stranger in a small village, it is traditional and socially important to greet the chief if you plan to spend any time in his village. When one greets the chief one will inevitably be invited to sit under a tree to tell him your reason for being there and to learn about his village at length. You will be served a glass of apateshi (a tumbler, not a shot glass). This stuff is strong. The nose runs, the eyes water, the lungs gasp for better air. It is like drinking gasoline. One trick to getting around having to drink too much is that it is customary to pour some on the ground as a libation or tribute to the village ancestors. I like to make a very generous tribute, sometimes more than one. You can also make a tribute to the chief, to his family members, to his livestock etc. It is like toasting. The more toasts, the better for me.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Interesting Things
High speed internet has been down for the past few days- across the entire country. Can you imagine the fallout that would occur if high speed internet when down in the US for even an hour? It is not unordinary here. While waiting for pages to load on dial-up I’ve been reflecting on various parts of life in Ghana. Here are some experiences/observations:
It is perfectly acceptable for men to urinate in public. I took a taxi the other day and when we reached the destination he got out of the car and urinated while I sat there waiting to hand him the money. I stared at my hand for awhile and then left the money on the passenger seat.
It is incredibly rude to hand someone something with your left hand. The left hand is the dirty hand. It is used for dirty things (also bathroom related). To eat with your left hand, give something to someone or even wave with your left hand toward a person is insulting. This is not an easy culture for the leftys.
Greeting is a big deal. You must greet people. If you do not it is insulting. A greeting is much more than a hi or a wave. You must stop, say good morning, ask how the person is, ask how their spouse is, ask about the children, ask if they slept well (if it is morning), ask about anything that transpired since you last met the person. You respond in kind to each question. It takes awhile, but it is very important and reflects the paramount value of relationship. When people respond to “how are you?” with “fine”, they sing it, “fiiiiiiiiiiine”. The “i” is thick and airy. I particularly like this.
Things are interestingly named and decorated. Flag stickers are popular for taxi windshields. I rode in one today with the Australian flag and the Mexican flag. I have frequently seen a large sticker of a naked white crawling baby on the back of trotros. I have no idea where it comes from, what it means or why there seem to be so many floating around Ghana. Many business have religious names like “Blood of Our Savior Beauty Supply” and “Grace of God Bar”. I did not make those up. I should do a photo project on shop names and taxi decorations. It was be very interesting- mostly because it is so random.
Most housing is in compound form. In a rural area, earthen huts are clustered together and surrounded by a low fence to keep the livestock enclosed. The extended family lives together in one compound. In an urban area it is similar. Houses are large and hold multiple families. The guest house I am staying in has like 6-7 bedrooms in the main house and other living space in several small structures on the property. Granted it is a guesthouse, so of course it is large, but it was not originally built for this purpose. Many city houses have walls and watchmen. Crime is not particularly high in Ghana (very low compared to other African cities), but people are very conscious of security.
It is not rude to play loud music. It is considered favorable to share your music with your neighbors. Even at 6:30 AM on a Saturday. Let’s get the party started.
“Tomorrow” is a relative term that can mean anything from five minutes to eternity. When will the shipment arrive? Tomorrow. When will your sister visit? Tomorrow. When will we invade Mars? Tomorrow. It can literally mean the next day, or it can mean the person has no idea, or it can mean that the person does not want to be impolite by telling you that something is impossible or never going to happen. This can be annoying if you’re on a schedule or trying to plan something. (In general planning is kind of… um, pointless). However, I actually enjoy the acceptability of being vague. A young man very intently wanted to sell me a painting of Bob Marley. I could, in full cultural appropriateness, escape by politely saying “perhaps tomorrow”. I wonder if I could spread this cultural principle at home, say at school.
Oh, there are so many things I could talk about. I will certainly write more on this theme tomorrow.
It is perfectly acceptable for men to urinate in public. I took a taxi the other day and when we reached the destination he got out of the car and urinated while I sat there waiting to hand him the money. I stared at my hand for awhile and then left the money on the passenger seat.
It is incredibly rude to hand someone something with your left hand. The left hand is the dirty hand. It is used for dirty things (also bathroom related). To eat with your left hand, give something to someone or even wave with your left hand toward a person is insulting. This is not an easy culture for the leftys.
Greeting is a big deal. You must greet people. If you do not it is insulting. A greeting is much more than a hi or a wave. You must stop, say good morning, ask how the person is, ask how their spouse is, ask about the children, ask if they slept well (if it is morning), ask about anything that transpired since you last met the person. You respond in kind to each question. It takes awhile, but it is very important and reflects the paramount value of relationship. When people respond to “how are you?” with “fine”, they sing it, “fiiiiiiiiiiine”. The “i” is thick and airy. I particularly like this.
Things are interestingly named and decorated. Flag stickers are popular for taxi windshields. I rode in one today with the Australian flag and the Mexican flag. I have frequently seen a large sticker of a naked white crawling baby on the back of trotros. I have no idea where it comes from, what it means or why there seem to be so many floating around Ghana. Many business have religious names like “Blood of Our Savior Beauty Supply” and “Grace of God Bar”. I did not make those up. I should do a photo project on shop names and taxi decorations. It was be very interesting- mostly because it is so random.
Most housing is in compound form. In a rural area, earthen huts are clustered together and surrounded by a low fence to keep the livestock enclosed. The extended family lives together in one compound. In an urban area it is similar. Houses are large and hold multiple families. The guest house I am staying in has like 6-7 bedrooms in the main house and other living space in several small structures on the property. Granted it is a guesthouse, so of course it is large, but it was not originally built for this purpose. Many city houses have walls and watchmen. Crime is not particularly high in Ghana (very low compared to other African cities), but people are very conscious of security.
It is not rude to play loud music. It is considered favorable to share your music with your neighbors. Even at 6:30 AM on a Saturday. Let’s get the party started.
“Tomorrow” is a relative term that can mean anything from five minutes to eternity. When will the shipment arrive? Tomorrow. When will your sister visit? Tomorrow. When will we invade Mars? Tomorrow. It can literally mean the next day, or it can mean the person has no idea, or it can mean that the person does not want to be impolite by telling you that something is impossible or never going to happen. This can be annoying if you’re on a schedule or trying to plan something. (In general planning is kind of… um, pointless). However, I actually enjoy the acceptability of being vague. A young man very intently wanted to sell me a painting of Bob Marley. I could, in full cultural appropriateness, escape by politely saying “perhaps tomorrow”. I wonder if I could spread this cultural principle at home, say at school.
Oh, there are so many things I could talk about. I will certainly write more on this theme tomorrow.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Passing Days
I have spent the first part of this week organizing a research project for the team. I am sending reminder e-mails, making spreadsheets, and generally using my meticulous side. Later in the week I will begin working with a client who is coming to Accra from another West African country. The clinical work is intense and brief. We will meet in 2-3 hour chunks, sometimes twice a day for 5-6 days. It is very different than the weekly 50 minutes sessions I am used to in the States. Because people must travel across several countries, therapy cannot take a typical form.
I am also working on preparing to co-facilitate a support group for teen mothers at a nearby refugee camp. This will be quite an adventure! I face the multiple challenges of establishing rapport as an outsider, navigating the dynamics of a different culture, and trying to connect with teenagers which can be internationally difficult. Despite the challenge, I am really excited about it and confident that it will be a rich learning experience. There are few situations more difficult than refugee life. These people have had to leave everything- homes, villages, family, businesses, school, even their country, in order to save their lives. They relocate in a foreign country where they may not speak the language, they have no ties, and must start over or at least wait out the conflict at home. They live as a community in a refugee camp which quickly becomes the size of a city. The one I will visit has over 40,000 inhabitants. Most of the camp is without running water or consistent electricity. Some people have been there as long as ten years. It is extremely difficult to reconstruct a country after a civil war or ethnic conflict. Africa’s poverty and instability make it an excruciatingly slow process. I hope that I can encourage or strengthen a few of the young women I will work with.
Days pass very quickly here. I cannot believe I’ve already been here for two weeks. Life goes slowly and normal tasks (like cooking) take much longer than at home. The day fills up fast with basic tasks. Some moments I want to slow it down so I can be sure I am really soaking in as much as possible. Other moments I am grateful that I do not have too much free mental time to dwell on being apart from Rob.
I am also working on preparing to co-facilitate a support group for teen mothers at a nearby refugee camp. This will be quite an adventure! I face the multiple challenges of establishing rapport as an outsider, navigating the dynamics of a different culture, and trying to connect with teenagers which can be internationally difficult. Despite the challenge, I am really excited about it and confident that it will be a rich learning experience. There are few situations more difficult than refugee life. These people have had to leave everything- homes, villages, family, businesses, school, even their country, in order to save their lives. They relocate in a foreign country where they may not speak the language, they have no ties, and must start over or at least wait out the conflict at home. They live as a community in a refugee camp which quickly becomes the size of a city. The one I will visit has over 40,000 inhabitants. Most of the camp is without running water or consistent electricity. Some people have been there as long as ten years. It is extremely difficult to reconstruct a country after a civil war or ethnic conflict. Africa’s poverty and instability make it an excruciatingly slow process. I hope that I can encourage or strengthen a few of the young women I will work with.
Days pass very quickly here. I cannot believe I’ve already been here for two weeks. Life goes slowly and normal tasks (like cooking) take much longer than at home. The day fills up fast with basic tasks. Some moments I want to slow it down so I can be sure I am really soaking in as much as possible. Other moments I am grateful that I do not have too much free mental time to dwell on being apart from Rob.
Monday, June 27, 2005
Market Day
If you have not had the opportunity to go to an outdoor market, I hope you go someday. Makola Market, the central market in downtown Accra is one of my favorites. Piles and piles of brightly patterned African fabrics are reminiscent of scenes from Wonderland. You can find anything in the market. All wares are neatly displayed on stands created from plywood and scraps of metal. The stands are packed in aisles so close together, there is hardly space for two people to walk past each other. The close quarters and sensory overload can make the market very overwhelming, especially the first time. When I lived in Ghana, I tried to make it to the market once every week or two. Few places afford such entertainment and cultural learning.
Particularly interesting are the loads that people manage to carry on their heads. Some of the loads are astoundingly heavy. Mission nurses tell stories about cracked vertebra and other injuries from carrying heavy loads. Many of the loads are carried by street children and young homeless women who make their living as kayayos, or transporters. On Saturday, I saw a woman carrying twenty-two plastic chairs on her head. The stack of chairs was taller than she was and very, very heavy. It was an amazing navigational feat to get the huge stack of chairs between the stalls. I am not sure how it was spatially possible. She needed help from two other women to get them up onto her head. Another interesting load was a large metal bowl full of 10-15 live chickens. Their feet were bound which apparently makes them go limp. They lay in the bowl clucking a bit, their eyes searching wildly.
I wish I could take pictures of everything I see. I’ve posted a few in an album you can reach by clicking on one of the other photo links.
Particularly interesting are the loads that people manage to carry on their heads. Some of the loads are astoundingly heavy. Mission nurses tell stories about cracked vertebra and other injuries from carrying heavy loads. Many of the loads are carried by street children and young homeless women who make their living as kayayos, or transporters. On Saturday, I saw a woman carrying twenty-two plastic chairs on her head. The stack of chairs was taller than she was and very, very heavy. It was an amazing navigational feat to get the huge stack of chairs between the stalls. I am not sure how it was spatially possible. She needed help from two other women to get them up onto her head. Another interesting load was a large metal bowl full of 10-15 live chickens. Their feet were bound which apparently makes them go limp. They lay in the bowl clucking a bit, their eyes searching wildly.
I wish I could take pictures of everything I see. I’ve posted a few in an album you can reach by clicking on one of the other photo links.
Friday, June 24, 2005
This Week
This week MMCT is leading a workshop on interpersonal skills and stress management. Expatriate mission workers and intra-African mission workers came from 5 or 6 different West African countries. People are from a variety of backgrounds- translators, librarians, doctors, brail teachers, accountants, pastors, and a variety of home countries: Canada, Congo, Benin, France, Japan, The Netherlands, and the US. It is amazing to see how many different ways people support the work that is happening in Africa.
I am here to participate in the workshop, but am also strategically interacting with certain people who are having difficulty or coming from particularly stressful situations. Several are working in the Ivory Coast or Togo; both countries are that bubbling with civil unrest bordering on war. One session focused on grief and it was particularly poignant for the group. There are so many losses that come along with international life, especially life in Africa. Most of the people have had at least one experience of being evacuated because of due to the outbreak of war, faced the threat of innumerable dangers, and all of them have left family and friends at home. Living here means giving up a certain degree of safety; it means being away from comfortable people and loved ones. It also means watching people come in and out of your life. Most people come for several years and then return to their home country for six months or a year, come back, or go somewhere else. There is a lot of coming and going, a lot of turnover and many organizational shifts. People do not always give themselves time to acknowledge loss, or grieve, especially because there are so many losses piled on top of each other.
In a way, some of the conversations here remind me of a conversation I had with a young gulf war vet. We talked about the deaths that he had witnessed while he was in Iraq. He knew that going to war would involve death. It did not surprise him- it was a predictable outcome of war, an expected risk. Yet, he was not prepared for the sadness he felt, his emotional reaction shocked him and made him uncomfortable. Because death was expected, even matter-of -fact, he expected himself to have a matter-of-fact reaction and was unprepared for the extent of depression and distress that followed the loss of his friends. International workers make calculated sacrifices, they expect separations and danger. However, the nature of the work and the decision to take risks do not undo the inner workings of the heart. Like with the soldier, it is unrealistic for them to expect to sail through incredibly difficult experiences without any type of emotional reaction. People still grieve when they loose friends, safety or experience death and poverty around them. As we have talked about loss and grief throughout the course of the week, I have watched people soften and become more open and real – perhaps giving themselves license to feel a bit. It is not a pity party, but an acknowledgement that all decisions (even good, brave, noble decisions) involve loss, and losses (big or small) come with pain.
I am here to participate in the workshop, but am also strategically interacting with certain people who are having difficulty or coming from particularly stressful situations. Several are working in the Ivory Coast or Togo; both countries are that bubbling with civil unrest bordering on war. One session focused on grief and it was particularly poignant for the group. There are so many losses that come along with international life, especially life in Africa. Most of the people have had at least one experience of being evacuated because of due to the outbreak of war, faced the threat of innumerable dangers, and all of them have left family and friends at home. Living here means giving up a certain degree of safety; it means being away from comfortable people and loved ones. It also means watching people come in and out of your life. Most people come for several years and then return to their home country for six months or a year, come back, or go somewhere else. There is a lot of coming and going, a lot of turnover and many organizational shifts. People do not always give themselves time to acknowledge loss, or grieve, especially because there are so many losses piled on top of each other.
In a way, some of the conversations here remind me of a conversation I had with a young gulf war vet. We talked about the deaths that he had witnessed while he was in Iraq. He knew that going to war would involve death. It did not surprise him- it was a predictable outcome of war, an expected risk. Yet, he was not prepared for the sadness he felt, his emotional reaction shocked him and made him uncomfortable. Because death was expected, even matter-of -fact, he expected himself to have a matter-of-fact reaction and was unprepared for the extent of depression and distress that followed the loss of his friends. International workers make calculated sacrifices, they expect separations and danger. However, the nature of the work and the decision to take risks do not undo the inner workings of the heart. Like with the soldier, it is unrealistic for them to expect to sail through incredibly difficult experiences without any type of emotional reaction. People still grieve when they loose friends, safety or experience death and poverty around them. As we have talked about loss and grief throughout the course of the week, I have watched people soften and become more open and real – perhaps giving themselves license to feel a bit. It is not a pity party, but an acknowledgement that all decisions (even good, brave, noble decisions) involve loss, and losses (big or small) come with pain.
Africa
Several friends have written and asked me what Africa is like. I do not think my writing skills can manage an accurate description, but I will ramble a bit on the topic…
To me, coming to Africa is coming closer to earth. Sometimes I feel like California life has been plasticized, like a rock wrapped in layers and layers of saran wrap. All the layers make it look sparkly and it feels nice and squishy between your fingers, but it is no longer a rock. Africa is pure rock. There is no protective or decorative coating between your bear skin and the course texture of the natural earth. If it does not rain, people starve. If it rains too much, people become infected with diseases carried by mosquitoes. Every part of human life is entwined with the ebb and flow of nature. There are very few shields. Earth is everywhere and everything smells like earth. People have a sweet, warm ripe scent. Homes are made from earth, food is grown from earth. Water, fire, all the necessities of daily life are gathered daily, directly from earth.
For me, being in Africa feels like a return to something inside me that preexisted modern life. In my courses, we’ve talked about post-modernity and modernity. Modern people operate based on facts, post-moderns on conversation, expression, intellect, ideas, etc. People in the States are kind of a mix based on generation and geography. Africa is pre-modern. Its highest values are survival and tribe. It is an entirely different way of life (and death). It is at once both simple and wild. The simple and wild parts of me feel at home here and I am drawn to a way of life that is unwrapped. It calms my raw American nerves and redefines the use of the word need. This life requires trust in the Creator of the earth for even the simplest of needs. I have tremendous respect for the African people and their ability to survive, and even thrive, in what some would call unbearable situations.
I do not mean to make poverty unduly poetic. I look around me with novel eyes that appreciate and love this place, but I have not lost a baby to disease, nor have I experienced the slow erosion of hunger. Also, I do not mean to create a caricature of Africa as a collection of huts and people with spears. There is tremendous innovation here and push toward modernization and development.
Perhaps the underlying issue is that when I stepped off the plane in 1998 I felt tremendous compassion for Africa. That compassion has grown, but in addition, I have developed a deep respect for this continent and even eyes to see what is good and beautiful here. I began wanting to help, I have shifted to wanting to learn and love.
Africa is like a home and predates the ones you have known. Whether or not one has been here before, there is a sense of return, of coming back.
To me, coming to Africa is coming closer to earth. Sometimes I feel like California life has been plasticized, like a rock wrapped in layers and layers of saran wrap. All the layers make it look sparkly and it feels nice and squishy between your fingers, but it is no longer a rock. Africa is pure rock. There is no protective or decorative coating between your bear skin and the course texture of the natural earth. If it does not rain, people starve. If it rains too much, people become infected with diseases carried by mosquitoes. Every part of human life is entwined with the ebb and flow of nature. There are very few shields. Earth is everywhere and everything smells like earth. People have a sweet, warm ripe scent. Homes are made from earth, food is grown from earth. Water, fire, all the necessities of daily life are gathered daily, directly from earth.
For me, being in Africa feels like a return to something inside me that preexisted modern life. In my courses, we’ve talked about post-modernity and modernity. Modern people operate based on facts, post-moderns on conversation, expression, intellect, ideas, etc. People in the States are kind of a mix based on generation and geography. Africa is pre-modern. Its highest values are survival and tribe. It is an entirely different way of life (and death). It is at once both simple and wild. The simple and wild parts of me feel at home here and I am drawn to a way of life that is unwrapped. It calms my raw American nerves and redefines the use of the word need. This life requires trust in the Creator of the earth for even the simplest of needs. I have tremendous respect for the African people and their ability to survive, and even thrive, in what some would call unbearable situations.
I do not mean to make poverty unduly poetic. I look around me with novel eyes that appreciate and love this place, but I have not lost a baby to disease, nor have I experienced the slow erosion of hunger. Also, I do not mean to create a caricature of Africa as a collection of huts and people with spears. There is tremendous innovation here and push toward modernization and development.
Perhaps the underlying issue is that when I stepped off the plane in 1998 I felt tremendous compassion for Africa. That compassion has grown, but in addition, I have developed a deep respect for this continent and even eyes to see what is good and beautiful here. I began wanting to help, I have shifted to wanting to learn and love.
Africa is like a home and predates the ones you have known. Whether or not one has been here before, there is a sense of return, of coming back.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Unhappy African Experience #1
As I was getting ready for bed tonight, I grabbed a dirty shirt from a small pile of dirty laundry at the bottom of my closet. I usually wash my clothes each night so that the dirty ones don’t pile up and lead to hours of hand washing. It has been a full week so, I’ve let a few items accumulate, mostly socks and underwear that I prefer to wash in hot water while I am more than half awake. When I touched the shirt, I felt some type of non-clothe item brush my hand. I looked and I saw a small flurry of movement, also not clothe-like. The movement was small so I leaned over, inspected and poked the pile with a hanger. To my shock and disgust a virtual multitude of roaches scattered all over my room. I jumped on the bed and let out a series of squeaking sounds (which may have been some kind of primordial roach communication), trying not to scream and wake up the house. After I composed myself a bit, I grabbed the hanger and begin to move each item of dirty clothing one by one, carefully examining for any evidence of remaining roaches.
Now, 90 minutes later, I have emptied the hot water tank by compulsively washing every item of clothing on the closet floor. After spraying enough Raid and mosquito repellant to asphyxiate a roach twice my body weight, I am sitting by the window with the fan on my face trying to muster up the courage to turn the light off and go to sleep.
I am not bug-phobic but, there was something so violating about seeing those little nasties scurrying over my underclothes. The fact that I didn’t kill them all allows me to entertain the paranoia that as soon as I turn off the light they are going to come back with big brother roaches, homey roaches, and fat roaches named Vinny and Sal. Then the mighty roach army will viciously pillage my newly washed clothes, already clean clothes, fabric not yet made into clothes, and worst of all worsts – crawl on me. Ugh! I can’t even think about it. I’m going to put my headlamp on and thoroughly inspect every inch of the sheets.
Now, 90 minutes later, I have emptied the hot water tank by compulsively washing every item of clothing on the closet floor. After spraying enough Raid and mosquito repellant to asphyxiate a roach twice my body weight, I am sitting by the window with the fan on my face trying to muster up the courage to turn the light off and go to sleep.
I am not bug-phobic but, there was something so violating about seeing those little nasties scurrying over my underclothes. The fact that I didn’t kill them all allows me to entertain the paranoia that as soon as I turn off the light they are going to come back with big brother roaches, homey roaches, and fat roaches named Vinny and Sal. Then the mighty roach army will viciously pillage my newly washed clothes, already clean clothes, fabric not yet made into clothes, and worst of all worsts – crawl on me. Ugh! I can’t even think about it. I’m going to put my headlamp on and thoroughly inspect every inch of the sheets.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Power Optional
We have spent 30 hours without power. It is amazing what can be accomplished by candlelight. Thankfully is has not been too hot so it was bearable to sleep without a fan. Life in Africa certainly demands flexibility and creative problem solving. People go about their business unphased by the lack of electricity. People are used to it. Of course it is novel to me, but I rather enjoy the excitement and the challenge to adapt.
Yesterday Laura and I took a trotro to the market. A trotro is the standard Ghanaian public transportation. Usually a trotro is a mini-bus with four or five rows of seats. Each seat sits four + adults. The whole experience completely violates any of my cultural standards about personal space. People sit on each other, climb over each other and hold each other’s children, suitcases, and baskets of chickens. It is hot and sweaty and often physically uncomfortable. Trotros have no schedule, no specific stops, no set route, no standardized licensure…. To a Westerner, they are pure chaos. They are manned by two people: a driver, who drives like a stuntman on speed, and a conductor who is a young man (age 13-25). The conductor has a very important job! He hangs out the open door or window and yells the destination to people outside. The destinations are abbreviated and often are accompanied by a hand signal. For a trotro going downtown to Kwame Nkruma Circle, the conductor yells “Circ Circ!” and waves his hand in a circular motion. At a busy intersection, 20 trotros line up with the conductors yelling the various destinations. At a big intersection or station, drivers do not like to leave until the trotro is absolutely full. Everyone has to sit in the hot trotro waiting until it fills up. This can take hours- literally, not hyperbolically. In the past I have been tempted to yell the destination myself in order to round up more people.
They are uncomfortable, dangerous, slow and confusing, but I have a special place in my heart for the trotro. It is such an African experience! I love rubbing shoulders with strangers and watching the landscape fly by. I did not really feel like I was back in Africa until I rode in a trotro. It is a great way to interact with “normal” folks, and watch life happen genuinely, without packaging or performance. I can sit and listen and watch (as long as I move my feet every few minutes so some blood can circulate down there)!
Yesterday Laura and I took a trotro to the market. A trotro is the standard Ghanaian public transportation. Usually a trotro is a mini-bus with four or five rows of seats. Each seat sits four + adults. The whole experience completely violates any of my cultural standards about personal space. People sit on each other, climb over each other and hold each other’s children, suitcases, and baskets of chickens. It is hot and sweaty and often physically uncomfortable. Trotros have no schedule, no specific stops, no set route, no standardized licensure…. To a Westerner, they are pure chaos. They are manned by two people: a driver, who drives like a stuntman on speed, and a conductor who is a young man (age 13-25). The conductor has a very important job! He hangs out the open door or window and yells the destination to people outside. The destinations are abbreviated and often are accompanied by a hand signal. For a trotro going downtown to Kwame Nkruma Circle, the conductor yells “Circ Circ!” and waves his hand in a circular motion. At a busy intersection, 20 trotros line up with the conductors yelling the various destinations. At a big intersection or station, drivers do not like to leave until the trotro is absolutely full. Everyone has to sit in the hot trotro waiting until it fills up. This can take hours- literally, not hyperbolically. In the past I have been tempted to yell the destination myself in order to round up more people.
They are uncomfortable, dangerous, slow and confusing, but I have a special place in my heart for the trotro. It is such an African experience! I love rubbing shoulders with strangers and watching the landscape fly by. I did not really feel like I was back in Africa until I rode in a trotro. It is a great way to interact with “normal” folks, and watch life happen genuinely, without packaging or performance. I can sit and listen and watch (as long as I move my feet every few minutes so some blood can circulate down there)!
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Orientation
I went for a jog this morning and watched the neighborhood begin its day. After zigzagging around huge puddles, I passed a crowd of children wearing tan and orange uniforms walking to primary school. I passed groups of people waiting for the bus to work, women setting up their fruit stands, boys selling papers, men opening their shops. The busy streets overflowed with life, activity and a sense of expectation for the day ahead. A jogging obruni (foreign person) is an anomaly on the Accra streets. People are too polite to comment but I sense being a specticle. I like the opportunity to get out and explore in a way that allows me to observe and take in daily life.
We have spent most of the day getting to know each other as a team. We had meetings this morning about our expectations, hopes and desires. We met for dinner tonight and began to tell our stories. The stories of how we grew up, came to faith, and ended up in psychology and Africa. It is a gift to be supervised by people who are willing to share not only their training and expertise but also their lives. The next few days will also be spent in orientation and rest. Next week, our schedule will be full with a training on interpersonal skills and beginning some counseling. The week after that we will be doing some work in a Liberian refugee camp. Not sure exactly what that will invovle but I am looking forward to working with Africans.
I have been sleeping well and feeling healthy. I am grateful for the light schedule and the gentle transition.
We have spent most of the day getting to know each other as a team. We had meetings this morning about our expectations, hopes and desires. We met for dinner tonight and began to tell our stories. The stories of how we grew up, came to faith, and ended up in psychology and Africa. It is a gift to be supervised by people who are willing to share not only their training and expertise but also their lives. The next few days will also be spent in orientation and rest. Next week, our schedule will be full with a training on interpersonal skills and beginning some counseling. The week after that we will be doing some work in a Liberian refugee camp. Not sure exactly what that will invovle but I am looking forward to working with Africans.
I have been sleeping well and feeling healthy. I am grateful for the light schedule and the gentle transition.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Travel and arrival
Long plane flights are the closest one comes to pausing time. A strange stage between asleep and awake. Substandard films stared at by mushy minds. Too tender to think backward to home. Too tired to think forward to months of learning and adventure. Too restless to be in the present. Too anxious and cramped to sleep. In a tiny capsule 50,000 miles above an unknown place. A night without darkness. Loosing hours of life to vertical lines on a map. Accompanied by strangers who become unnatural intimates- rubbing shoulders, sharing meals and bathroom schedules. Emerging from the daze on another day in another world.
I arrived in rainy season. Over the course of one hour a clear sky filled with dark clouds and hurled enough water to flood the city. Major streets were covered with water. Homes filled with a foot of muddy mess. Laura, Karen and I had to wade to mid calf through their driveway into their house. We scrubbed our legs thoroughly. We had to find someone with a 4x4 to drive us back to the guest house because the road was impassable for a small car. The situation is not serious, it happens frequently here. People have tile floors and keep valuable items up on tables or shelves. It does create some health concerns as the raw sewage in the gutters is spread around by the rain water. Never a dull moment in Ghana!
These first few days will be for rest, orientation and getting to know the team. "The team" (The Mobile Member Care Team) consists of Karen, Darlene and Marion- three wonderful women in their 40s-50s. Between them they have tremendous experience in Africa. Karen is a clinical psychologist and will be my supervisor and mentor while I am here. For more about them and their history visit www.mmct.org. Laura is the other summer intern. She is a Marriage and Family Therapist who graduated from Fuller. We will be sharing our lives for the next month- cooking together, sharing taxis, and talking through our impressions of this experience.
I arrived in rainy season. Over the course of one hour a clear sky filled with dark clouds and hurled enough water to flood the city. Major streets were covered with water. Homes filled with a foot of muddy mess. Laura, Karen and I had to wade to mid calf through their driveway into their house. We scrubbed our legs thoroughly. We had to find someone with a 4x4 to drive us back to the guest house because the road was impassable for a small car. The situation is not serious, it happens frequently here. People have tile floors and keep valuable items up on tables or shelves. It does create some health concerns as the raw sewage in the gutters is spread around by the rain water. Never a dull moment in Ghana!
These first few days will be for rest, orientation and getting to know the team. "The team" (The Mobile Member Care Team) consists of Karen, Darlene and Marion- three wonderful women in their 40s-50s. Between them they have tremendous experience in Africa. Karen is a clinical psychologist and will be my supervisor and mentor while I am here. For more about them and their history visit www.mmct.org. Laura is the other summer intern. She is a Marriage and Family Therapist who graduated from Fuller. We will be sharing our lives for the next month- cooking together, sharing taxis, and talking through our impressions of this experience.
Friday, June 10, 2005
Film for thought
I saw two movies within the last week that I am still thinking about. Hotel Rwanda tells the story of one man's heroism during the Hutu Tutsi genocide. Watching it helped me to think about the suffering that has gone on in Africa, particularly in countries that have had recent wars. It gave an image to the stories that I may soon here from Liberian refugees and aid workers who were stationed in Liberia, Sierra Leon, Cote d'Ivoire and other war-torn West-African countries. The film also touched on the relationship between Africa and the West: the nature of Western intervention, economic aid, and racism. In one scene, a white UN officer has to tell his Rwandan friend that there will be no aid or peacekeeping troops. He attributed this to race and the West's lack or interest or concern for Africa. In another scene, all of the foreign nationals were evacuated, sometimes ripped from the arms of their Rwandan friends, and the Rwandans are left to face almost certain death. There were no exit visas and no room on the bus to evacuate Rwandans- only (white) foreign citizens please. The Rwandans listened desperately to reports on the BBC, listening for any hint of rescue, and they hear deliberations about "acts of genocide" versus full genocide- and a lot of political jargon nonsense.
The second film that has been on my mind is Crash. It is about racial relationships in Los Angeles. It is brilliantly constructed and manages to address very difficult and volatile topics without being overwhelming. This film tracks a serious of interracial reactions and shows the way that people are dehumanized on the basis of their race. When I say dehumanized, I mean that their ability to parent, protect their spouses, make a fair living, be physically safe- very basic functions of being human - are taken away. This film, better than any other I've seen touches on the complexity of race. The conflicts are not just black and white (pardon the pun) but multidimensional. Good people do racist things. Criminals make ethical decisions. The film incorporates interactions that are redemptive. In these scenes people are forced to see past a general label and instead see the needs and pain of a specific human being.
Between the two films, I realize how dangerous thinking in the general can be. Actions that restore people, actions that are positive - love, compassion, heroism, forgiveness - are usually particular, between specific people or parties. Actions that destroy are general, they are directed toward all of something without distinction - racism, stereotype, genocide. It seems like a lesson to be as particular as possible, to look directly at a person and see them for their particular uniqueness, not their membership in a group.
The second film that has been on my mind is Crash. It is about racial relationships in Los Angeles. It is brilliantly constructed and manages to address very difficult and volatile topics without being overwhelming. This film tracks a serious of interracial reactions and shows the way that people are dehumanized on the basis of their race. When I say dehumanized, I mean that their ability to parent, protect their spouses, make a fair living, be physically safe- very basic functions of being human - are taken away. This film, better than any other I've seen touches on the complexity of race. The conflicts are not just black and white (pardon the pun) but multidimensional. Good people do racist things. Criminals make ethical decisions. The film incorporates interactions that are redemptive. In these scenes people are forced to see past a general label and instead see the needs and pain of a specific human being.
Between the two films, I realize how dangerous thinking in the general can be. Actions that restore people, actions that are positive - love, compassion, heroism, forgiveness - are usually particular, between specific people or parties. Actions that destroy are general, they are directed toward all of something without distinction - racism, stereotype, genocide. It seems like a lesson to be as particular as possible, to look directly at a person and see them for their particular uniqueness, not their membership in a group.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Going soon
Some of you may be wondering at the state of blog-silence that has persisted for the past month. Since I last wrote I have been almost fully immersed in academic life. I proposed my dissertation, a rare accomplishment for a third-year student. I have also completed all but four of the classes I need for my degrees. I have three years (12 academic quarters) to finish the rest. No more 10 week sessions of 5 classes, clinical work and research projects piled on top of each other. The era of classroom student is over. For the next several years my learning will take place in the research lab, the therapy room, and the classroom (from behind the podium). My work will be largely on my own schedule- something I am so, so ready for after almost 20 years of living life around scheduled classes. I feel like I can finally take a breath and dare to look back with satisfaction at all that has been completed.
I dare not linger too long in my reflection. I will be on a plane for Ghana in less than one week. I feel ready, even eager. The practical things have been taken care of: money, shots, visas. I even have a packing pile going. I have been amazed at the generosity of friends and family. Rob and I received more money than we asked for, meaning we will not have to use as much of our savings as we thought. That in itself feels like confirmation that we are meant to be going on this trip. We are sent by our community, sent with purpose and support.
I dare not linger too long in my reflection. I will be on a plane for Ghana in less than one week. I feel ready, even eager. The practical things have been taken care of: money, shots, visas. I even have a packing pile going. I have been amazed at the generosity of friends and family. Rob and I received more money than we asked for, meaning we will not have to use as much of our savings as we thought. That in itself feels like confirmation that we are meant to be going on this trip. We are sent by our community, sent with purpose and support.
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Now and then... Again
When I was in Nicaragua, I wrote an entry about how each individual's personhood is a summation of a multitude of moments, the sum total of unique experiences.... (see Now and Then in the archives from July). I feel like people easily loose their own sense of history- the sense of where they have been, what they have seen and how they have felt. Adulthood feels distant from childhood. Being focused on the present makes it easy to loose the awareness of other places. I've been thinking about this a lot. Perhaps because I am going through the developmental pains of becoming an adult- not just an adult- a professional, a doctor. Perhaps because the present demands of my life are so encompassing that I shake my head in disbelief when I think of long walks on dusty roads spent in unhurried conversation. I am constantly trying to stay in touch with the smattering of life experiences I have - hoping that at some point they will add up to wisdom.
Today I read something that more articulately expressed the idea that keeps swimming around in my head:
I am part of every place I have been: the path to the brook; the New York streets and my "short cut" through the Metropolitan museum. All the places I have ever walked, talked, slept, have changed and formed me.
I am part of all the people I have known. There was a black morning when a friend and I, both walking through separate hells, acknowledged that we would not survive were it not for our friends who, simply by being our friends, harrowed hell for us.
I am still every age I have been. Because I was once a child, I am always a child. Because I was once a search adolescent, given to moods and ecstasies, these are still part of me, and always will be. Because I was once a rebellious student, there is and always will be in me the student crying out for reform.
This does not mean that I ought to be trapped or enclosed in any of these ages, the perpetual student, the delayed adolescent, the childish aunt, but that they are in me to be drawn on; to forget is a form of suicide; my past is part of what makes the present and must not be denied or rejected or forgotten.
- Madeline L'Engle - A Circle of Quiet - page 200
Today I read something that more articulately expressed the idea that keeps swimming around in my head:
I am part of every place I have been: the path to the brook; the New York streets and my "short cut" through the Metropolitan museum. All the places I have ever walked, talked, slept, have changed and formed me.
I am part of all the people I have known. There was a black morning when a friend and I, both walking through separate hells, acknowledged that we would not survive were it not for our friends who, simply by being our friends, harrowed hell for us.
I am still every age I have been. Because I was once a child, I am always a child. Because I was once a search adolescent, given to moods and ecstasies, these are still part of me, and always will be. Because I was once a rebellious student, there is and always will be in me the student crying out for reform.
This does not mean that I ought to be trapped or enclosed in any of these ages, the perpetual student, the delayed adolescent, the childish aunt, but that they are in me to be drawn on; to forget is a form of suicide; my past is part of what makes the present and must not be denied or rejected or forgotten.
- Madeline L'Engle - A Circle of Quiet - page 200
A rebuttal to the empirically validated....
It's no coincidence that just at this point in our insight into our mysteriousness as human beings struggling towards compassion, we are also moving into an awkward interest in the language of myth and fairy tale. The language of logical argument, of proofs, is the language of the limited self we know and can manipulate. But the language of parable and poetry, of storytelling, moves from imprisoned language of the provable into the freed language of what I must, for lack of another word, continue to call faith. For me this involves not trust in "the gods" but in God. But if the word God has understandably become offensive to many, then the language of poetry and story involves faith in the unknown potential in the human being, faith in courage and honor and nobility, faith in love, our love of each other, and our dependence on each other. And it involves for me a constantly renewed awareness of the fact that if I am a human being who writes, and who sends my stories out into the world for people to read, then I must have courage to make a commitment to the unknown and unknowable (in the sense of intellectual proof), the world of love and particularity which gives light to the darkness.
-Madeleine L'Engle - A Cirlce of Quiet - page 194
-Madeleine L'Engle - A Cirlce of Quiet - page 194
Friday, May 06, 2005
5 years
Rob and I have been married for five years today.
We were engaged to be married during my last year at Davis. I didn't know anyone else who was engaged or even thinking about marriage. Among the highly educated in my generation, 21 is a ridiculous age to marry- you are still in Jr high for an age cohort that doesn't have children until 35. Although it was an oddity at the beginning, I get the feeling that our marriage is enviable to many of our friends. In our best moments we manage to balance being totally connected with allowing space to celebrate our uniqueness. In some ways I think we've "fallen into" more maturity than we've earned through experience or intelligence (gracious a Dios). Not to paint too rosy a picture... growing into adulthood together has certainly caused tension as we've struggled to carve out a life that has room for lots of personality, two careers and a whole host of different interests.
I am so grateful to have had the last five years with Rob. I am glad we met when we were young. I am glad we were brave enough to choose to commit to each other. I am glad that we fit easily beside each other in life. I'm glad that the time logged or the number of years married doesn't really matter to us because the particular markers are overshadowed by the timelessness of a lifelong love- I can't really remember life before Rob and don't anticipate much life after him- therefore it feels strange to step into a timeline for one day.
All this analysis- I am overjoyed to dress up and go out to a quiet dinner!
We were engaged to be married during my last year at Davis. I didn't know anyone else who was engaged or even thinking about marriage. Among the highly educated in my generation, 21 is a ridiculous age to marry- you are still in Jr high for an age cohort that doesn't have children until 35. Although it was an oddity at the beginning, I get the feeling that our marriage is enviable to many of our friends. In our best moments we manage to balance being totally connected with allowing space to celebrate our uniqueness. In some ways I think we've "fallen into" more maturity than we've earned through experience or intelligence (gracious a Dios). Not to paint too rosy a picture... growing into adulthood together has certainly caused tension as we've struggled to carve out a life that has room for lots of personality, two careers and a whole host of different interests.
I am so grateful to have had the last five years with Rob. I am glad we met when we were young. I am glad we were brave enough to choose to commit to each other. I am glad that we fit easily beside each other in life. I'm glad that the time logged or the number of years married doesn't really matter to us because the particular markers are overshadowed by the timelessness of a lifelong love- I can't really remember life before Rob and don't anticipate much life after him- therefore it feels strange to step into a timeline for one day.
All this analysis- I am overjoyed to dress up and go out to a quiet dinner!
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Wonderful procrastination
Instead of working on my literature review for my dissertation, I have been reading a book called A Circle of Quiet by Madeleine L'Engle. It is absolutely delicious. It is a journal-type book in which she reflects on middle adulthood and the challenges of raising her children and maintaining her career as an author. It has been wonderful to hear a voice that may foreshadow my own in twenty-five years. Hearing an older woman reflect on being fifty-something with joy, maturity, confidence and a deep sense of her own beauty, makes me feel hopeful that life will not always be as chaotic as it has felt recently. There will be times when I am more settled, when I can look back at the rich blessings of life with some of the blanks filled in. Youth is so idealized in our culture, but tonight I told Rob and I am looking forward to being fifty and knowing more and caring less.
Here are some tasty morsels-
about aging:
"So the challenge I face with children is the redemption of adulthood. We must make it evident that maturity is the fulfillment of childhood and adolescence, not a diminishing; that it is an affirmation of life, not a denial; that it is entering fully into our essential selves" (p. 106).
about caring (for me, about becoming a therapist):
"It takes a tremendous maturity, a maturity I don't possess, to strike a balance of immovableness/detachment which makes us creatively useful, able to be compassionate, to be involved in the other person's suffering rath than in our own response to it. False compassion, or sentimentality, always leads us to escape by withdrawing, by becoming cold and impassive and wouding" (p. 118).
I like the line about being creatively useful.
Here are some tasty morsels-
about aging:
"So the challenge I face with children is the redemption of adulthood. We must make it evident that maturity is the fulfillment of childhood and adolescence, not a diminishing; that it is an affirmation of life, not a denial; that it is entering fully into our essential selves" (p. 106).
about caring (for me, about becoming a therapist):
"It takes a tremendous maturity, a maturity I don't possess, to strike a balance of immovableness/detachment which makes us creatively useful, able to be compassionate, to be involved in the other person's suffering rath than in our own response to it. False compassion, or sentimentality, always leads us to escape by withdrawing, by becoming cold and impassive and wouding" (p. 118).
I like the line about being creatively useful.
Feminism and theology
I spent the weekend in lovely Portland attending the annual conference of the Western Psychological Association. Allegra and I presented a poster on the theoretical overlap between a feminist approach to psychotherapy and Christian theology. Sound bizarre? It is actually quite possible.
In case you are interested, here is a sample:
Feminist theory:
1. The personal is political. Personal struggles are connected to larger social and political structures. In addressing individual and social transformation, it is imperative that the therapist recognize the political nature of therapy and be committed to being an agent of socio-political change (Enns, 1997). As part of their individual healing process, therapists may encourage clients to pursue community and societal-level changes.
Theological response:
1. Faith is political. To participate in Israel’s covenantal relationship with God is to act politically by challenging the unjust status quo. The four main Hebrew and Greek words for justice are used 1,060 times in the Bible. Laments in both the Old and New Testaments challenge injustice, and oppressive power dynamics (Billman & Migliore, 1999). The Sermon on the Mount (Matt 5-7) is highlighted as a political and ethical discourse which asserts that Christ’s new kingdom is a practical mandate to struggle against mechanisms of bondage (Friesen, Langan, & Stassen, 1998). Therapeutic goals reflect an ethical principle that mental health involves alleviating injustice. In the Christian tradition, the Church body is an arena for ethical discernment for healthier and more just standards of living (Dueck, 1995).
Feminist theory:
2. Egalitarian therapeutic relationship. Feminist therapists address power differentials within society and the therapeutic relationship. Clients are viewed as competent, co-investigators and are invited to be active participants in defining and producing change. Therapists clearly state their values at the outset of therapy in an effort to demystify the process and prevent destructive power hierarchies (Enns, 1997). Most feminist approaches to therapy emphasize the importance of the therapeutic relationships. It is in solidarity with an equal other that the wounds of injustice are formed into sources of power.
Theological response:
2. Mutuality in relationships is Biblical. The Biblical narrative supports mutual thriving for men and women. Men and women were both created in the image of God, blessed as good creations, and entrusted with the care of other creatures. Although the Hebraic law considered only circumcised men to be legitimate members of the community, the incarnation of Jesus signified a new mutuality, equality, and ethic of gender reconciliation (Van Leeuwen, 1990). In the New Testament, Jesus invited both men and women to follow him. He defended women who wanted to learn and affirmed women’s authority to bear witness to important events. In the new church both men and women were baptized and participants in the Eucharist celebration.
In case you are interested, here is a sample:
Feminist theory:
1. The personal is political. Personal struggles are connected to larger social and political structures. In addressing individual and social transformation, it is imperative that the therapist recognize the political nature of therapy and be committed to being an agent of socio-political change (Enns, 1997). As part of their individual healing process, therapists may encourage clients to pursue community and societal-level changes.
Theological response:
1. Faith is political. To participate in Israel’s covenantal relationship with God is to act politically by challenging the unjust status quo. The four main Hebrew and Greek words for justice are used 1,060 times in the Bible. Laments in both the Old and New Testaments challenge injustice, and oppressive power dynamics (Billman & Migliore, 1999). The Sermon on the Mount (Matt 5-7) is highlighted as a political and ethical discourse which asserts that Christ’s new kingdom is a practical mandate to struggle against mechanisms of bondage (Friesen, Langan, & Stassen, 1998). Therapeutic goals reflect an ethical principle that mental health involves alleviating injustice. In the Christian tradition, the Church body is an arena for ethical discernment for healthier and more just standards of living (Dueck, 1995).
Feminist theory:
2. Egalitarian therapeutic relationship. Feminist therapists address power differentials within society and the therapeutic relationship. Clients are viewed as competent, co-investigators and are invited to be active participants in defining and producing change. Therapists clearly state their values at the outset of therapy in an effort to demystify the process and prevent destructive power hierarchies (Enns, 1997). Most feminist approaches to therapy emphasize the importance of the therapeutic relationships. It is in solidarity with an equal other that the wounds of injustice are formed into sources of power.
Theological response:
2. Mutuality in relationships is Biblical. The Biblical narrative supports mutual thriving for men and women. Men and women were both created in the image of God, blessed as good creations, and entrusted with the care of other creatures. Although the Hebraic law considered only circumcised men to be legitimate members of the community, the incarnation of Jesus signified a new mutuality, equality, and ethic of gender reconciliation (Van Leeuwen, 1990). In the New Testament, Jesus invited both men and women to follow him. He defended women who wanted to learn and affirmed women’s authority to bear witness to important events. In the new church both men and women were baptized and participants in the Eucharist celebration.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Sunday morning service
Sometimes Rob and I find it difficult to make it to church. There is a Saturday evening service we like, but it doesn't always work out. Then there is the standard Sunday morning, but that has its own problems, if for instance we want to go surfing (which is best in the morning). Some weekends we are bad about communicating what we are expecting to do. We are often out of town. Sometimes we just don't feel like going.
Because of our organizational inaptitude, this morning we made a last minute decision to go to the church nearest to our house, a Methodist church one block away. It is a small church with an even smaller congregation. The choir wore robes and sang traditional hymns with a little bit of sway. The minister was an African American woman who greeted us with hugs and insisted we come back.
The sermon was about the role of spiritual discernment or "sitting with Jesus" in the midst of education. A different type of topic, surprisingly specific. She used the Amaeus (sp?) Road story from Luke. It was very encouraging to me for the literal reason that I have been struggling with school for the last few days. "Am I making the right decisions? Can I make it through the rest of the program without falling apart? Is this the best field for me? Will I ever be a good therapist?" The minister's talk reminded me that even the details of the life can have profound spiritual meaning. Education, the forming of intellect and vocation, is particularly important from a spiritual perspective. It reminded me that I am not filling my mind for myself alone, but so that I can speak, as one who is taught, a word that might bring healing to my fellow human. Thinking about my training as an activity that God is involved with allows me to breath easier. It is not all up to me.
I know some of you reading this may think that faith in general and church in specific is a crutch or a sham or waste of time. I've had my own journey through all those thoughts. Most simply what I've concluded is well expressed by Anne Lamott in the book Traveling Mercies:
"Most of the people I know who have what I want - which is to say, purpose, heart, balance, gratitude, joy - are people with a deep sense of spirituality. They are people in community, who pray, or practice their faith- people banding together to work on themselves and for human rights. They follow a brighter light than the glimmering of their own candle; they are part of something beautiful" (p. 100).
I felt that today, in the tiny group of people who looked different than me, who I had never met before. I felt convicted of trying too hard to read with only the dim light of myself. I needed the brighter light of other followers to help me see more clearly. Thank you.
Because of our organizational inaptitude, this morning we made a last minute decision to go to the church nearest to our house, a Methodist church one block away. It is a small church with an even smaller congregation. The choir wore robes and sang traditional hymns with a little bit of sway. The minister was an African American woman who greeted us with hugs and insisted we come back.
The sermon was about the role of spiritual discernment or "sitting with Jesus" in the midst of education. A different type of topic, surprisingly specific. She used the Amaeus (sp?) Road story from Luke. It was very encouraging to me for the literal reason that I have been struggling with school for the last few days. "Am I making the right decisions? Can I make it through the rest of the program without falling apart? Is this the best field for me? Will I ever be a good therapist?" The minister's talk reminded me that even the details of the life can have profound spiritual meaning. Education, the forming of intellect and vocation, is particularly important from a spiritual perspective. It reminded me that I am not filling my mind for myself alone, but so that I can speak, as one who is taught, a word that might bring healing to my fellow human. Thinking about my training as an activity that God is involved with allows me to breath easier. It is not all up to me.
I know some of you reading this may think that faith in general and church in specific is a crutch or a sham or waste of time. I've had my own journey through all those thoughts. Most simply what I've concluded is well expressed by Anne Lamott in the book Traveling Mercies:
"Most of the people I know who have what I want - which is to say, purpose, heart, balance, gratitude, joy - are people with a deep sense of spirituality. They are people in community, who pray, or practice their faith- people banding together to work on themselves and for human rights. They follow a brighter light than the glimmering of their own candle; they are part of something beautiful" (p. 100).
I felt that today, in the tiny group of people who looked different than me, who I had never met before. I felt convicted of trying too hard to read with only the dim light of myself. I needed the brighter light of other followers to help me see more clearly. Thank you.
Friday, April 08, 2005
Relationships and artichokes
I ate a lovely artichoke for dinner tonight. I particularly like artichokes, because they are a recreational food. Eating an artichoke is an event. It takes time to cook it, carefully peel all those leaves and then pull out the little furry strings... it all climaxes in the small, but deliciously yummy heart.
To my knowledge I was the first one in my immediate family to eat an artichoke. During my second year of college I came home for a weekend wanting to show my family all the new foods I'd learned from my vegitarian roommates (humus & asparagus were also on the list). My parents, who were raised in Indiana, had never experienced the arduous, and distinctly Californian artichoke. It was fun to "introduce" them to a new food (I have since also introduced sushi into the family diet!).
I've been trading voicemails with my brothers this week. It has been almost ten years since I left my parent's house. My youngest brother has gone from an 11-year-old to a man in the time I've been gone. As I grew up, I assumed that my family would always be there to bother me, play with me and take care of me. At the same time, I always assumed that I would leave home and create my own life for myself. I didn't realize that the two assumptions were not necessarily in line. Independence is in my blood. I never wanted to stay in my hometown and I don't think I would last longer than one week under the same roof as any of my family members. I have a thriving separate life, yet, lately I have had a deep longing for less separateness.
Before we moved here, people warned us that Los Angeles is a lonely city. Rob and I didn't pay much attention. We are social, proactive people. We figured we wouldn't have trouble finding friends. We have not had trouble finding friends.... but it has been difficult to find people who "do" friendship the same way that we do. It seems like people are too busy, or they live too far away. We had a difficult conversation with one couple that helped us realize that their expectation for a close friendship was seeing each other once a month. Our expectation is like once a week! My schedule changes every 10 weeks and it feels like my friendship circle changes that often too. For two academic quarters I was good friends with B and then I have not seen her for three months. Grad students do friendship according to convenience. All of us are too busy and not many people create space to live a relational life. There is are also elements of pettiness and competitiveness that can poison friendships. I want to say that I am still different, that my high commitment to relationships has survived LA and grad school. Yet, I often don't return e-mails and calls, or feel too busy to linger in casual conversation. To say I am different would be to lie to myself. I am critiquing a trend that I am part of, even though I desperately want out of it.
In a class this week, Dave Foy, a well-known trauma expert and one of my research advisors, made the off-hand comment that if he had to go through a traumatic experience, the protective factor that he would choose would be social support. Some things make trauma worse, some things "buffer" the negative impact of horrible experiences. Research shows that friends and family are perhaps the most valuable asset during difficult times. Across the board, people who are isolated, lonely and don't feel like they have friends and family to help, have the worst mental health.
Dave's comment touched a nerve with me. With some wonderful exceptions (D&K), I feel like my LA friendships are precarious and would not necessarily withstand a crisis. I deeply miss the years in Sacramento, when we lived near people who thought as highly of friendship as we do, people I still count on for counsel and comfort. I also miss being near my parents and brothers, the people who are obliged to love me no matter what.
Rob and I both feel like we are in a holding pattern, like we are waiting out school at which time we can go back to "real life". It just doesn't feel like real life without strong relationships. Life is little more than monotony without someone to introduce you to artichokes.
To my knowledge I was the first one in my immediate family to eat an artichoke. During my second year of college I came home for a weekend wanting to show my family all the new foods I'd learned from my vegitarian roommates (humus & asparagus were also on the list). My parents, who were raised in Indiana, had never experienced the arduous, and distinctly Californian artichoke. It was fun to "introduce" them to a new food (I have since also introduced sushi into the family diet!).
I've been trading voicemails with my brothers this week. It has been almost ten years since I left my parent's house. My youngest brother has gone from an 11-year-old to a man in the time I've been gone. As I grew up, I assumed that my family would always be there to bother me, play with me and take care of me. At the same time, I always assumed that I would leave home and create my own life for myself. I didn't realize that the two assumptions were not necessarily in line. Independence is in my blood. I never wanted to stay in my hometown and I don't think I would last longer than one week under the same roof as any of my family members. I have a thriving separate life, yet, lately I have had a deep longing for less separateness.
Before we moved here, people warned us that Los Angeles is a lonely city. Rob and I didn't pay much attention. We are social, proactive people. We figured we wouldn't have trouble finding friends. We have not had trouble finding friends.... but it has been difficult to find people who "do" friendship the same way that we do. It seems like people are too busy, or they live too far away. We had a difficult conversation with one couple that helped us realize that their expectation for a close friendship was seeing each other once a month. Our expectation is like once a week! My schedule changes every 10 weeks and it feels like my friendship circle changes that often too. For two academic quarters I was good friends with B and then I have not seen her for three months. Grad students do friendship according to convenience. All of us are too busy and not many people create space to live a relational life. There is are also elements of pettiness and competitiveness that can poison friendships. I want to say that I am still different, that my high commitment to relationships has survived LA and grad school. Yet, I often don't return e-mails and calls, or feel too busy to linger in casual conversation. To say I am different would be to lie to myself. I am critiquing a trend that I am part of, even though I desperately want out of it.
In a class this week, Dave Foy, a well-known trauma expert and one of my research advisors, made the off-hand comment that if he had to go through a traumatic experience, the protective factor that he would choose would be social support. Some things make trauma worse, some things "buffer" the negative impact of horrible experiences. Research shows that friends and family are perhaps the most valuable asset during difficult times. Across the board, people who are isolated, lonely and don't feel like they have friends and family to help, have the worst mental health.
Dave's comment touched a nerve with me. With some wonderful exceptions (D&K), I feel like my LA friendships are precarious and would not necessarily withstand a crisis. I deeply miss the years in Sacramento, when we lived near people who thought as highly of friendship as we do, people I still count on for counsel and comfort. I also miss being near my parents and brothers, the people who are obliged to love me no matter what.
Rob and I both feel like we are in a holding pattern, like we are waiting out school at which time we can go back to "real life". It just doesn't feel like real life without strong relationships. Life is little more than monotony without someone to introduce you to artichokes.
My ankles were on MTV
Last summer, when Rob and I were going through customs at LAX on our way home from Costa Rica, we watched a film crew capture a young woman and two children greet a man arriving on a plane. Rob, the expert on pop culture, identified the man as the drummer from Blink-182. We were flipping through channels tonight when we had a strange sense of deja vu. The airport scene was on MTV. In the background of the scene, we saw our legs, my red flowered skirt, flip-flops, and backpacks. Strange reality trip.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Settling in
I have been home for several days. I am enjoying wireless internet, my own bed, and looking at stars while sitting in the hot tub (this is one of the wonderful months of the year that we can see stars in LA). It has been more difficult than expected to settle back into the schedule. I have been waking up around 3 a.m. and feeling really tired in the late afternoon. Wednesday afternoon I had a consultation meeting led by the dean of my school. I feel asleep in the middle of it. Humbling.
Although I am tired, there is a deep place inside of me that has been set on fire by my experience in China. It is emerging gently from the tiredness. It is a mixture of gratitude, wonder, respect and thoughtfulness. My favorite things were my talks with Angela about the challenges of being a young, female professional (in China and the US), watching Elizabeth come alive in her home culture, leading a group of academics in the hokey pokey, and interacting with counseling students who were hungry to help the hurting people around them.
Business cards are important in China. I had some specially printed before I went. When someone gives you their card, you receive it in both hands, read it carefully, and put it in a safe place. The business card represents the person. When you give or receive a card, you give or receive a part of yourself. Perhaps it is not romantic, but the symbolism is important. I now have a stack of Chinese cards on my desk. I have no idea what I will do with them, but there they sit because I can't throw them away and I don't want to put them in a drawer. They represent the gift that I received from every person that I met in China. They are from the people who hosted me, told me their story, answered my questions, listened to me talk, or simply smiled because that was the best exchange possible. They proudly represented China to me and invited me to know and appreciate their culture. I attempted to reciprocate by giving them my card, rethinking my knowledge and training from their perspective, listening carefully to a language I did not understand, and trying to absorb all that I could from one of the deepest, most diverse, complex countries in the world. I clearly received much more than I gave.
Although I am tired, there is a deep place inside of me that has been set on fire by my experience in China. It is emerging gently from the tiredness. It is a mixture of gratitude, wonder, respect and thoughtfulness. My favorite things were my talks with Angela about the challenges of being a young, female professional (in China and the US), watching Elizabeth come alive in her home culture, leading a group of academics in the hokey pokey, and interacting with counseling students who were hungry to help the hurting people around them.
Business cards are important in China. I had some specially printed before I went. When someone gives you their card, you receive it in both hands, read it carefully, and put it in a safe place. The business card represents the person. When you give or receive a card, you give or receive a part of yourself. Perhaps it is not romantic, but the symbolism is important. I now have a stack of Chinese cards on my desk. I have no idea what I will do with them, but there they sit because I can't throw them away and I don't want to put them in a drawer. They represent the gift that I received from every person that I met in China. They are from the people who hosted me, told me their story, answered my questions, listened to me talk, or simply smiled because that was the best exchange possible. They proudly represented China to me and invited me to know and appreciate their culture. I attempted to reciprocate by giving them my card, rethinking my knowledge and training from their perspective, listening carefully to a language I did not understand, and trying to absorb all that I could from one of the deepest, most diverse, complex countries in the world. I clearly received much more than I gave.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
East and West
China must have one of the most complex cultures in the world. Chinese people are very proud of their old culture- one of the oldest surviving cultures on earth, going back more than 5000 years. One university student commented, "Long history makes me feel thicker, like I have a better or longer perspective that those with a shorter history." At moments, I could feel the depth of this history, visiting the Great Wall and the Forbidden City, or talking with my new Chinese friends... A solidness and depth come with being part of a culture that has survived so long. It seems to give people a strong identity, or a sense that certain parts of life are permanent and can be deeply trusted. I think being Chinese has a very different connotation than being American. A proclamation of American identity may be followed up by a "WOOHOO!!!" or an "and damn proud!" Americans are eager to celebrate our innovation, wealth and center position on the world stage. Expression of Chinese identity would never be so trite or close to the surface. My guess is that one would express what it means to be Chinese by making an analogy with a mountain or an old, giant tree. A Chinese person does not proclaim cultural greatness but smiles demurely and reflects on belonging to a culture that has survived every conceivable danger. In this way, China is the tortoise and America is the hare.
It has been difficult for me to wrap my mind around the presence of the west in the east. In spite of the deep cultural roots and a clear desire to respect and preserve the essence of being Chinese, China also seems very hungry to consume western values and ways of thinking. The cities are thoroughly modern. The academy is thoroughly modern. I met a nine-year old who was beginning algebra; abstract, representative reasoning at age nine. She asked a series of questions about God, all of which were logically deduced, evidence based inquiries. Not that evidence questions are bad questions, but I found them suprising in someone so young who grew up in the land of Confusious. Her questions left very little space for mystery or faith. My wise professor whispered, "she is a modern thinker." In our seminars, we constantly got solution-oriented questions. “How do you fix….” “What is the treatment for….” As if there is an answer or remedy for human suffering. In every city I visited, someone took me to a shopping mall. China seems to be increasing western in its emphasis on convenience, absolutes, competition, market economy and linear thinking.
Linear thinking... but not freethinking. Blogs are blocked in China. I cannot view my own blog. I have to email my posts to Rob who puts them up for me. The BBC website is blocked. I was doing a little research on google and could not view about half of the links. For all the western influence, there is almost no evidence of movies or music (not that this is a bad thing, but it is interesting). While we have been in Beijing, many people have made comments like, "we're in the capital, and you have to be careful." I am not sure what I am supposed to be careful of... or what could possibly happen if I am not careful (keep in mind our objectives on this trip are to work with the registered church and various academic institutions).
China is a complex, mysterious culture navigating the arduous fence between ancient and modern, east and west.
It has been difficult for me to wrap my mind around the presence of the west in the east. In spite of the deep cultural roots and a clear desire to respect and preserve the essence of being Chinese, China also seems very hungry to consume western values and ways of thinking. The cities are thoroughly modern. The academy is thoroughly modern. I met a nine-year old who was beginning algebra; abstract, representative reasoning at age nine. She asked a series of questions about God, all of which were logically deduced, evidence based inquiries. Not that evidence questions are bad questions, but I found them suprising in someone so young who grew up in the land of Confusious. Her questions left very little space for mystery or faith. My wise professor whispered, "she is a modern thinker." In our seminars, we constantly got solution-oriented questions. “How do you fix….” “What is the treatment for….” As if there is an answer or remedy for human suffering. In every city I visited, someone took me to a shopping mall. China seems to be increasing western in its emphasis on convenience, absolutes, competition, market economy and linear thinking.
Linear thinking... but not freethinking. Blogs are blocked in China. I cannot view my own blog. I have to email my posts to Rob who puts them up for me. The BBC website is blocked. I was doing a little research on google and could not view about half of the links. For all the western influence, there is almost no evidence of movies or music (not that this is a bad thing, but it is interesting). While we have been in Beijing, many people have made comments like, "we're in the capital, and you have to be careful." I am not sure what I am supposed to be careful of... or what could possibly happen if I am not careful (keep in mind our objectives on this trip are to work with the registered church and various academic institutions).
China is a complex, mysterious culture navigating the arduous fence between ancient and modern, east and west.
Monday, March 21, 2005
Pile of Stones
I began to learn about China in Miss Montgomery’s sixth grade class. We read a book about Chinese people living in America called The Year of the Dragon and Jackie Robinson. We watched National Geographic specials and read Chinese poetry. The unit culminated in a final project for which I decided to make a model of the Great Wall. I checked out books from the library that showed photos and used them as the basis for constructing my model. My mom helped me make thick play dough with salt, flour and water and on a piece of thick cardboard I fashioned mountains and a neat little wall with several guard towers. After it dried, I painted it green, brown and gray. I was so proud of it!
Today, 14 years later, I visited the Great Wall. The area accessible from Beijing is a popular tourist spot. The base of the wall was crawling with people making it hard to find a space to walk. The walking was tough, the stone steps are uneven, and some are worn to the point of being slick. Parts of the Wall were very steep, I had to put my hands on the stairs in front of me and climb with all fours. The air was thin and cold. Elizabeth has an injured ankle so I walked alone. I walked and I walked until the crowd thinned out. As I approached each guard tower, I could see the next one which inevitably did not look that far away. I walked through six guard towers until I reached the highest point and the end of that part of the Wall. At the top there were only a few people scattered here and there within my range of sight. I walked alone on the wall. The cloudy day felt ancient and the stones were cold and stately against my palm. I continuously marveled at the incredible task of building such a huge wall on steep mountains without modern machines. Many people died during construction. Incidentally, the Mongolian army surmounted the wall and invaded Beijing. The wall, the only human-made structure visible from the moon, failed to fulfill its purpose.
As I walked, random thoughts floated in and out of my head… the human desire to defy nature… the challenge of protecting an ancient city… a ruler’s willingness to sacrifice lives in order to fulfill some goal… It seems that history repeats itself and as Ecclesiastes says, there is nothing new under the sun. As I walked alone on the highest parts of the Great Wall of China, I felt like a very small part of the cycle of history. Very small, but a part nonetheless.
Today, 14 years later, I visited the Great Wall. The area accessible from Beijing is a popular tourist spot. The base of the wall was crawling with people making it hard to find a space to walk. The walking was tough, the stone steps are uneven, and some are worn to the point of being slick. Parts of the Wall were very steep, I had to put my hands on the stairs in front of me and climb with all fours. The air was thin and cold. Elizabeth has an injured ankle so I walked alone. I walked and I walked until the crowd thinned out. As I approached each guard tower, I could see the next one which inevitably did not look that far away. I walked through six guard towers until I reached the highest point and the end of that part of the Wall. At the top there were only a few people scattered here and there within my range of sight. I walked alone on the wall. The cloudy day felt ancient and the stones were cold and stately against my palm. I continuously marveled at the incredible task of building such a huge wall on steep mountains without modern machines. Many people died during construction. Incidentally, the Mongolian army surmounted the wall and invaded Beijing. The wall, the only human-made structure visible from the moon, failed to fulfill its purpose.
As I walked, random thoughts floated in and out of my head… the human desire to defy nature… the challenge of protecting an ancient city… a ruler’s willingness to sacrifice lives in order to fulfill some goal… It seems that history repeats itself and as Ecclesiastes says, there is nothing new under the sun. As I walked alone on the highest parts of the Great Wall of China, I felt like a very small part of the cycle of history. Very small, but a part nonetheless.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
A place to lay my head
We arrived in Beijing last night after sitting on the runway in the plane for over an hour. It felt like a long trip. We arrived at a hotel illuminated with neon Budweiser signs. A bass drum beat filled the air. The lobby was full of men smoking and lounging around looking listless and hungry. We checked into our room which was dark and old. The grout in the bathroom was black and peeling. The place was a dive! Elizabeth and I double checked the dead bolt. This morning we made an executive decision to pursue an upgrade. Elizabeth called a friend from her church in LA who called her father who called his sister who called her daughter who is an influential engineer here in Beijing. She told us she would find us a new hotel. Several hour later she picked us up in her Audi and drove us to the hotel that the government uses to host foreign dignitaries. It is like a park. Lots of grass and open space (something rare so far in urban China). The interior is decorated with marble, crystal chandeliers, and rare works of art. This woman arranged for us to pay about $60 a night. We found a card in our room indicating that our room usually goes for $200 a night. It is all about the connections.
The woman, Lili, spent the evening with us. She took us out on the town which consisted of visiting several malls (complete with Chanel, Versace, and Chinese style clothing priced over $100), stopping in at Starbucks, and a huge meal that we could only eat half of. (Hmmm, just like America.) Beijing flaunts its development. The city is gearing up to host the Olympics in 2008 so there is building and beautification everywhere. I feel like I have yet to see the real China. The cities are veiled in a thick western make-up and you can't quite see the real face.
The woman, Lili, spent the evening with us. She took us out on the town which consisted of visiting several malls (complete with Chanel, Versace, and Chinese style clothing priced over $100), stopping in at Starbucks, and a huge meal that we could only eat half of. (Hmmm, just like America.) Beijing flaunts its development. The city is gearing up to host the Olympics in 2008 so there is building and beautification everywhere. I feel like I have yet to see the real China. The cities are veiled in a thick western make-up and you can't quite see the real face.
Friday, March 18, 2005
Around Nanjing
Today was our day off. Elizabeth and I visited several tourist sites in Nanjing including the Sun Yetsen Mausoleum, the Purple Mountain, and the Nanjing Massacre Memorial. It was a very cold rainy day so we did the best we could with limited time and the desire to not get too cold.
Sun Yetsen was the father of modern China. He made China a republic (before the Communist revolution). He is comparable to Washington, Lincoln or FDR. When he died, they created a huge memorial. It is an entire park. Hundreds of steps lead up to his grave. His marble casket is on display in a marble room. A life-size marble image of him lies on top of it. It is quite a spectacle. I put some pictures up if you click on the photo link.
Purple Mountain is so named because it is covered with plum trees. It is a huge area containing many historical sites. To amuse myself and a medium-sized crowd of strangers, I tried on a queen’s dress from the Qing dynasty. At 5’5, I was the tallest person in the courtyard, not to mention the only blond one. I put on a very entertaining show by trying on a queen’s dress
The visit to the Nanjing memorial well suited to the rain. The Japanese invaded China in 1931. Their occupation was brutal and mercilessness. In the city of Nanjing, over 300,000 people were massacred. The memorial is built over a mass gravesite. The graves have been excavated but the remains have not been removed. The skeletons are encased in a glass room and visitors walk around the outside of the room to view them as they lay. There are several skeletons of small children. To say that it is moving is an understatement. The museum part of the memorial contains pictures and artifacts from the massacre. It is similar to a visit to Auschwitz or Dachau. There are pictures of many, many bodies, executions, and rape victims. Many are gruesome. One famous picture is of a decapitated head sitting on a log. I wonder how often I have seen images like that in movies… yet, it feels very, very different seeing a real picture.
I encountered a woman who told me her family’s story. Her father was a leader in a political party. When the communists came, they wanted to arrest him. He fled, walking for three months to safety. He had to leave his wife and children behind in order to protect their lives. His parents were murdered as punishment for his escape. Time passed. He started a new family in his country of exile. After his children were grown, he received a letter telling him that his first wife and children were still alive. He arranged for them to visit. Apparently, this is a common story in the chaotic political history of China. I cannot imagine my dad sitting me down and telling me he had another family in another country and then telling me they were on the way to visit.
Sun Yetsen was the father of modern China. He made China a republic (before the Communist revolution). He is comparable to Washington, Lincoln or FDR. When he died, they created a huge memorial. It is an entire park. Hundreds of steps lead up to his grave. His marble casket is on display in a marble room. A life-size marble image of him lies on top of it. It is quite a spectacle. I put some pictures up if you click on the photo link.
Purple Mountain is so named because it is covered with plum trees. It is a huge area containing many historical sites. To amuse myself and a medium-sized crowd of strangers, I tried on a queen’s dress from the Qing dynasty. At 5’5, I was the tallest person in the courtyard, not to mention the only blond one. I put on a very entertaining show by trying on a queen’s dress
The visit to the Nanjing memorial well suited to the rain. The Japanese invaded China in 1931. Their occupation was brutal and mercilessness. In the city of Nanjing, over 300,000 people were massacred. The memorial is built over a mass gravesite. The graves have been excavated but the remains have not been removed. The skeletons are encased in a glass room and visitors walk around the outside of the room to view them as they lay. There are several skeletons of small children. To say that it is moving is an understatement. The museum part of the memorial contains pictures and artifacts from the massacre. It is similar to a visit to Auschwitz or Dachau. There are pictures of many, many bodies, executions, and rape victims. Many are gruesome. One famous picture is of a decapitated head sitting on a log. I wonder how often I have seen images like that in movies… yet, it feels very, very different seeing a real picture.
I encountered a woman who told me her family’s story. Her father was a leader in a political party. When the communists came, they wanted to arrest him. He fled, walking for three months to safety. He had to leave his wife and children behind in order to protect their lives. His parents were murdered as punishment for his escape. Time passed. He started a new family in his country of exile. After his children were grown, he received a letter telling him that his first wife and children were still alive. He arranged for them to visit. Apparently, this is a common story in the chaotic political history of China. I cannot imagine my dad sitting me down and telling me he had another family in another country and then telling me they were on the way to visit.
Teaching and Learning
For the past two days, we have given a training seminar to people interested in counseling. Our audience is eager to learn and very attentive. I have given four lectures. Three went very well. On the third one, I got spooked (as Al put it). As I began talking, I suddenly felt flooded by all the information that I wanted to present. I think I over prepared and then in the moment I could not sift through what I wanted to say and what I didn’t. It was like system overload and I totally lost my ground. I went on for a while, but finally I felt so unsure about it, I stopped and said, “I don’t know if this is how I want to do this.” I then I began to ask them questions about what they wanted to know, which actually caused me more problems. Chinese students do not follow a Socratic learning method. The teacher teaches and they listen, there is no interaction. When I paused and asked for feedback, they looked at me plainly. Then, one of the leaders got up and somehow encouraged them to give me feedback. It was awkward. Finally they gave me some suggestions and I was able to reconstruct myself and go on, albeit a bit hesitantly.
It was a difficult inner struggle. At the beginning of my talk I began to feel like “I don’t know these people; I don’t know what they need. I don’t know any information that could be useful for them.” I felt incompetent, not at all like the expert whose role I was playing.
I was selected to come to China because I have a significant amount of cross-cultural experience and a desire to have a cross-cultural career. I felt confident in preparation, like “I have seen places like this before. I know how to handle myself.” I kept telling myself, “It will be like this in Africa or that in Nicaragua.” Not to mention the numerous times that I have been to Chinatown or had conversations with Chinese American friends... I did myself a disservice by expecting myself to act as if this cross-cultural stuff is “old hat.” China is completely new. It is unlike anything I have experienced. I do not know very much about this country, its history or its people. I have to begin this experience as new, with the eyes of someone who has never left home before. Today, while I was speaking, I was overwhelmed with the uniqueness of this place and these people. Not the best timing, but a good lesson for me to appreciate the depth of this experience and how it is unlike any other.
It was a difficult inner struggle. At the beginning of my talk I began to feel like “I don’t know these people; I don’t know what they need. I don’t know any information that could be useful for them.” I felt incompetent, not at all like the expert whose role I was playing.
I was selected to come to China because I have a significant amount of cross-cultural experience and a desire to have a cross-cultural career. I felt confident in preparation, like “I have seen places like this before. I know how to handle myself.” I kept telling myself, “It will be like this in Africa or that in Nicaragua.” Not to mention the numerous times that I have been to Chinatown or had conversations with Chinese American friends... I did myself a disservice by expecting myself to act as if this cross-cultural stuff is “old hat.” China is completely new. It is unlike anything I have experienced. I do not know very much about this country, its history or its people. I have to begin this experience as new, with the eyes of someone who has never left home before. Today, while I was speaking, I was overwhelmed with the uniqueness of this place and these people. Not the best timing, but a good lesson for me to appreciate the depth of this experience and how it is unlike any other.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Last minute shifts
Ahh, cross cultural experiences... This trip has been in the planning phase for months. I worked my tail off for the last four weeks to prepare numerous presentations for conferences here. Tonight, two days before a three-day conferences begins, the host wants to change many of our presentations. It is hard to hear after so much stress and preparation. It seems like things were not effectively communicated in the planning phases. I am tired and half sick and hearing that I have to go back and rearrange my presentations is making me crabby. Tomorrow was supposed to be our day off. For the last two days we have been busy from 7:45 a.m. until 9 p.m. and I am sharing a room with someone so my "down time" is not totally mine. The introvert in me is screaming for a little more space and time. Having the added task of shifting the presentations pushes me to the point of frustration. I am trying to flexible, patient and optimistic; hopefully my forced attitude improvement will help me get my presentations ready.
Monday, March 14, 2005
Nanjing Day 1
Today we presented on program evaluation for Amity, a Chinese humanitarian aid agency. We went in blind without really knowing who would be attending or what they wanted. It turned out to be a great day. The organization's staff is amazing. They do wonderful work like blindness prevention, rural medical care, education, etc. It was a pleasure to sit with people who have such a genuine desire to improve the lives of the impoverished people in their country. I felt privileged to be there.
After the full day of training, Elizabeth and I went to the store so that I could buy a coat. It was about 36 degrees today, much, much cooler than we were expecting it to be. I have developed a bad cold the last two days. My raincoat was not keeping me warm. I bought a lime green down coat with faux fur trim for about $7. Of course, I had to buy XL because my arms are much longer and shoulders are much wider than the average Chinese woman. If anyone has any clothing needs, e-mail me your requests.
After shopping, we were treated to a Chinese feast by the Amity leaders. There was so much food. 20-25 dishes. I am so, so full right now. It is hard to refuse food, so the hosts kept offering and I kept eating. It was incredibly tasty! Panda Express is such an injustice. Some of tonight's dishes included marinated pigeon (complete with the head), fish balls, pumpkin soup, grilled mushrooms, shrimp, mini cucumber, and my favorite, duck tongue. The food was so, so good. I am currently suffering from the double wammy of jet lag and food coma.
I uploaded some pictures. Click on the "My China Photos" link to the right to check them out.
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