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.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
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.
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