I was going to write about the kitchen in our house (which we called simply Crick), and snickered a little thinking about the patriarchy (I wouldn't call them sexist) jokes that flew around our house. Of course, the fact that I loved cooking and baking and making tea and coffee helped to place me squarely in the large kitchen with tall windows (from which I know as a fact a grown man can leap quite easily). Wearing the aprons which hung from hooks on the back of the door also added to my domestic appearance. Housemates noticed and we loved to joke (I even dressed as a 50s housewife for Halloween).
I love Crick kitchen, probably empty now, unless Jonathan is making himself a very early breakfast. For 24 people we had 4 ovens, 8 hobs, 2 sinks, 2 tables, and 2 commercial-sized refrigerators, one with a large poster of Shakespeare and his plays. Considering location, and the fact that I was in the minority of non-English majors in our home, William seemed to be quite an appropriate face to stare back at us as we contemplated what to next shove into our faces and go off to study. Actually, we weren't exactly like that.
Indeed, though many meals were eaten in a hurry, this kitchen was also like an art studio. It was there that T.J. and Dave created their peach dessert which we savoured twice with melty ice cream all over it (and which we came to just call "peaches"). Stacia made apple cake and the ever popular no-bake cookies (so good when scooped out of the leftovers bag after the final Tuesday afternoon tea at Frewin). Heather made pumkin almost everything, including happy engagement muffins for Rob, and for Aubrey and Jeff. Garlic bread, we cannot forget, was plentiful, and the French press rarely empty. Jonathan was always producing something exquisite with mushrooms or puff pastry or something quite exotic. I baked several batches of scones in this kitchen (which disappeared quite rapidly), and Amanda made Aunt Amanda's good time oatmeal bake on the days I needed it most it seemed. :)
Food groups of about eight people ate together several nights a week, sending in chefs each night, usually two at a time. We always made the kitchen smell so good! I would often walk in after a long day to hear music playing from speakers by the window (usually Noah and the Whale), and to be offered a cup of tea or coffee. There is also nothing like the sound of the front door opening, and going to the kitchen to turn on the kettle! I had my first taste of roasted chestnuts in Crick kitchen, and ate Jon's homemade guacamole with my fingers and from a big wooden spoon.
On Thanksgiving, we celebrated with a Dia de Gracias fiesta! We all made some dish of Mexican food to share. Lizzie was in the kitchen for four hours making tortillas, where I joined here an hour into the process, followed by others as we all cycled in and out of the kitchen, dancing to music, singing, and sneaking bites of Lizzie and Cameron's chips and T.J.'s salsas.
"Crickmas" was similar to El Dia de Gracias, full of people coming in after turning in essays to help set up for a meal of breakfast foods and baked goods. And the night our first departers headed to the Gloucester Green bus station, we scheduled a pot luck before seeing them off. There was salmon and mushroom puffs, salad, toasty nuts and granola, mashed potatoes, flat bread, sparkling lemonade, and more. It really was a magical kitchen, and I mean that with no melodrama whatsoever, no sarcasm either (though the sarcasm flew through that kitchen on a regular basis). I am the feminist who baked and cooked and served people tea and felt like had I found a place in Crick kitchen.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Remembering Oxford (1): Cornmarket Street and North Parade
Dear readers, perhaps my greatest gain from the Oxford experience (besides learning that I can function on very little sleep, or that crepes can be launched between stairwells and even up through 2nd (3rd in the U.S.) story windows) has been an enlivened appreciation for history and memory. Britain's history goes back so much farther than that of the United States, and sadly it seems that there is very little passion for U.S. history outside using it to promote some political agenda. Whatever happened to history for the sake of illuminating a place, for welcoming guests into a place much broader than today? Don't get me wrong, I do have American friends who love history. But there is something significant about not only knowing the history of war and policies,and knowing the history of a place and people. This is something diverse, it is found in memory passed on from fathers and mothers to their children, and then their grandchildren. So, while the Internet may be obsolete by the time we have children or grandchildren, I think it's vital that we remember and share our memories. I'll start.
Cornmarket Street, Oxford, England, United Kingdom:
The first day I awoke in Oxford Cornmarket street seemed to be the desired destination of every explorer setting off from our house on Crick Road. I had stayed behind to finish unpacking, have a leisurely breakfast and then head out for a little walk. Well, I'm actually quite terrible with directions and didn't want to wander far on my own, so I made it only to North Parade that morning, discovering little grocers-- some with licenses and some who proudly advertised that they were off license (I still have no idea what that means)-- and cafes where you can get a latte for a pound. Later in the term, North Parade became the go-to place of the desparate, especially on our way to, or on breaks from, British Landscapes lectures and videos.
I don't remember exactly when my next attempt to Cornmarket took place. I imagine not long afterwards. But it soon became a daily habit to walk the 15 minutes to Cornmarket (and then usually to High Street on another trip that day) to visit Frewin Court and check my mail, or to get groceries, or study in Borders. The thing about Cornmarket is that it is only one segment of an ongoing road which begins as St. Giles, turns into Magdalen, turns again into Cornmarket, then St. Aldates, etc. . .
Cornmarket, however beautiful the other streets are, was my favorite street in this neverending story of pedestrians. A man with scruffy hair could often be heard playing the pipes, stomping out the rhythm. No matter how tired, stressed or rushed I was I couldn't pass him without smiling. It just happened. A young woman played her penny whistle on Cornmarket as well, though not as well as the piper piped. She had short, dark hair and put her heart and soul into every penny of that whistle, though. Towards Christmas, little brass bands and a Capella groups sang Christmas carols, and the whole street was decorated with icy blue lights that looked like icicles dripping water (they probably were dripping water, seeing as it was Oxford).
Then there were the red poppies. They are to me a memory of remembrance. In Britain as in much of Europe, there is a strong collective memory of the world wars. With the 90th annaversary of the end of WWI, the street was flooded with lapel poppies, the red flowers of Flanders Fields. Almost everyone wore one, young and old, people my age to my great-grandparents' age. At first this was hard for me to see without thinking of the Imperial War Museum, without thinking of the violence and death, the mourning and loss. Then I realized that this is exactly what we need to remember when we think of war, in some way, and what the poppies represent. We need to remember the red. I've blogged about this a bit earlier, but that was before I saw the poppies. Here at home, I do not wear flag pins or yellow ribbons. I do not give money to military organizations. But I found myself asking the woman outside Pret a Manger for a poppy, and donating my 50 pence into her dark blue bucket. Because these poppies do not feign glory, they do not shine like buttercups, and they do not smell of one nation. They are the deep color of blood, of the fields painted with pain, asking us to remember. I bought a poppy on Cornmarket Street, and wept.
Cornmarket Street, Oxford, England, United Kingdom:
The first day I awoke in Oxford Cornmarket street seemed to be the desired destination of every explorer setting off from our house on Crick Road. I had stayed behind to finish unpacking, have a leisurely breakfast and then head out for a little walk. Well, I'm actually quite terrible with directions and didn't want to wander far on my own, so I made it only to North Parade that morning, discovering little grocers-- some with licenses and some who proudly advertised that they were off license (I still have no idea what that means)-- and cafes where you can get a latte for a pound. Later in the term, North Parade became the go-to place of the desparate, especially on our way to, or on breaks from, British Landscapes lectures and videos.
I don't remember exactly when my next attempt to Cornmarket took place. I imagine not long afterwards. But it soon became a daily habit to walk the 15 minutes to Cornmarket (and then usually to High Street on another trip that day) to visit Frewin Court and check my mail, or to get groceries, or study in Borders. The thing about Cornmarket is that it is only one segment of an ongoing road which begins as St. Giles, turns into Magdalen, turns again into Cornmarket, then St. Aldates, etc. . .
Cornmarket, however beautiful the other streets are, was my favorite street in this neverending story of pedestrians. A man with scruffy hair could often be heard playing the pipes, stomping out the rhythm. No matter how tired, stressed or rushed I was I couldn't pass him without smiling. It just happened. A young woman played her penny whistle on Cornmarket as well, though not as well as the piper piped. She had short, dark hair and put her heart and soul into every penny of that whistle, though. Towards Christmas, little brass bands and a Capella groups sang Christmas carols, and the whole street was decorated with icy blue lights that looked like icicles dripping water (they probably were dripping water, seeing as it was Oxford).
Then there were the red poppies. They are to me a memory of remembrance. In Britain as in much of Europe, there is a strong collective memory of the world wars. With the 90th annaversary of the end of WWI, the street was flooded with lapel poppies, the red flowers of Flanders Fields. Almost everyone wore one, young and old, people my age to my great-grandparents' age. At first this was hard for me to see without thinking of the Imperial War Museum, without thinking of the violence and death, the mourning and loss. Then I realized that this is exactly what we need to remember when we think of war, in some way, and what the poppies represent. We need to remember the red. I've blogged about this a bit earlier, but that was before I saw the poppies. Here at home, I do not wear flag pins or yellow ribbons. I do not give money to military organizations. But I found myself asking the woman outside Pret a Manger for a poppy, and donating my 50 pence into her dark blue bucket. Because these poppies do not feign glory, they do not shine like buttercups, and they do not smell of one nation. They are the deep color of blood, of the fields painted with pain, asking us to remember. I bought a poppy on Cornmarket Street, and wept.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
They Will Keep on Remembering
In the words of Naomi Shihab Nye, "This is not a game. This was never a game."
What can I say as an outsider, watching from afar, caught in a different time zone, peering through news reports? Does anyone hear the bombs, the screams? According to BBC News, today was the most violence-filled day in the history of the Gaza Strip. You would think that would be hard to accomplish. I really don't know what to say right now as I take it all in, sitting on my sofa late at night. Inside I want to scream with each Palestinian woman, man, and child.
Will this day, this year be remembered as another 1948, another 1967? Will next year be different?
What can I say as an outsider, watching from afar, caught in a different time zone, peering through news reports? Does anyone hear the bombs, the screams? According to BBC News, today was the most violence-filled day in the history of the Gaza Strip. You would think that would be hard to accomplish. I really don't know what to say right now as I take it all in, sitting on my sofa late at night. Inside I want to scream with each Palestinian woman, man, and child.
Will this day, this year be remembered as another 1948, another 1967? Will next year be different?
Friday, December 26, 2008
I Miss
I just realized that I wrote hardly anything about Oxford, almost nothing really. So, I will begin with a list of what I miss about it now that I am home, and we will go from there. In no particular order, except that I like to number things for easier reading:
1) The Victorian house in which I lived in North Oxford
2) The kind, fun, intelligent, hard-working, inquisitive, loving, faithful people who lived there with me, and who studied with me
3) Our Jr. Dean's antics. You know who you are.
4) Rick-rolling, and being Rick-rolled
5) Getting engaged and unengaged, and proposing and being turned down
6) The libraries
7) My philosophy tutor kindly pushing me to be critical and yet not overly skeptical
8) My poetry tutor telling me to write what I think, no matter what. No matter what.
9) Walking through the University Parks
10) Walking to student theatre productions (and enjoying them!)
11) The beautiful city of Oxford
12) Baking disappearing scones ;)
13) Conversations-- about theology, literature, feminism, history, identity, pacifism, poetry and how it breaks and heals us, etc.
14) Jane Eyre (that woman was all over our house)
15) Impromptu dance parties
16) Sarcasm and sardonicism with people I love
17) History vaster than my imagination
18) Red poppies on lapels
19) Girl time
20) Sunday tea
21) Dancing and singing along to Noah and the Whale with a kitchen of people
22) Scotland, and jokingly (and seriously) making fun of English custom in comparison)
23) I'm running out of words for the sounds and images flashing through my memory, the faces, the kind words, the laughter, the books, poems, walks, scoops of ice cream, biscuits, cups of tea and coffee, pheasant soup, proof-reads, hugs, and for that I am thankful. And glad I didn't miss a bit of it!
1) The Victorian house in which I lived in North Oxford
2) The kind, fun, intelligent, hard-working, inquisitive, loving, faithful people who lived there with me, and who studied with me
3) Our Jr. Dean's antics. You know who you are.
4) Rick-rolling, and being Rick-rolled
5) Getting engaged and unengaged, and proposing and being turned down
6) The libraries
7) My philosophy tutor kindly pushing me to be critical and yet not overly skeptical
8) My poetry tutor telling me to write what I think, no matter what. No matter what.
9) Walking through the University Parks
10) Walking to student theatre productions (and enjoying them!)
11) The beautiful city of Oxford
12) Baking disappearing scones ;)
13) Conversations-- about theology, literature, feminism, history, identity, pacifism, poetry and how it breaks and heals us, etc.
14) Jane Eyre (that woman was all over our house)
15) Impromptu dance parties
16) Sarcasm and sardonicism with people I love
17) History vaster than my imagination
18) Red poppies on lapels
19) Girl time
20) Sunday tea
21) Dancing and singing along to Noah and the Whale with a kitchen of people
22) Scotland, and jokingly (and seriously) making fun of English custom in comparison)
23) I'm running out of words for the sounds and images flashing through my memory, the faces, the kind words, the laughter, the books, poems, walks, scoops of ice cream, biscuits, cups of tea and coffee, pheasant soup, proof-reads, hugs, and for that I am thankful. And glad I didn't miss a bit of it!
Monday, December 8, 2008
Philosophical Inquiry
This is a fresh poem, composed the other night, the night before my last philosophical theology tutorial (and the night before my second-to-last philosophy essay was due). Enjoy!
Philosophical Inquiry
I just want to know how
you are doing, my love—
how time, a distant relative,
has sketched your face
in lines and circles,
how you see the world
when your eyes are shut
and you are sleeping,
consciousness only memory,
or how you fill space
with your body, moving
past wholes and halves
of steps towards me,
this moment a justified belief.
Philosophical Inquiry
I just want to know how
you are doing, my love—
how time, a distant relative,
has sketched your face
in lines and circles,
how you see the world
when your eyes are shut
and you are sleeping,
consciousness only memory,
or how you fill space
with your body, moving
past wholes and halves
of steps towards me,
this moment a justified belief.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
I Am Very Bad at This Sort of Thing
It has been over two months since my last blog post, so basically I fail.
Thus far I have completed 12 out of 16 essays since the semester began.
And I am a tired person.
Thus far I have completed 12 out of 16 essays since the semester began.
And I am a tired person.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Remembering War
I should be working on my essay about faith. I really should, but everyone needs a little break now and then. My readers, that is, if they are still around, have not heard anything about Oxford. Well, you're not really going to hear any now either, but this has to do with the academic experience.
We went to London on a fieldtrip to the Imperial War Museum. It was relatively tasteful in its memoriam to those who experienced wars of several periods and places. But I still could not stifle the pained desire to be able to walk away from all these artifacts and forget war, to forget who shot who, who was a tyrant and who was an angel. Because if we don't forget some of that, we may continue to perpetuate war and hate for the sake of getting even, or simply by way of justification using past experience.
But we can't forget can we? To do so would dismiss the voices of persons' experiences. And isn't that war often does-- dismisses voices? If I were to have my memory erased of all traces of war and war history, where would the voice of non-violent resisters go? Where would I learn from our ancestors what is NOT worth dying or killing for? At the same time, I would not remember the voices of those who believe to kill for peace is just, or that violence can beget something other than more violence.
If we forget, we forget history, good or bad, the steps and struggles that have brought us to where we are. If we forget war, we forget the voices of women and men living their normal lives in the midst of a narrative more focused on conflict of the battlefield and political engagements than the conflict to put food on the table, to have hope, to survive.
In the Children and War exhibit, there were little boxes with trinkets children had been given or tried to take with them when they were evacuated during WWI. A little plush pony, an amber necklace, farm animals carved from wood, letters from parents to children on ships sunk by missiles. They never received those letters. They were written after the children were dead by parents unaware.
In the main room fighter planes hung from the ceiling with huge propellers. Tanks of many shapes parked in various places shone with green paint. And the largest bullet stood straight up, looking to the sky. But this was dwarfed by the massive bomb in the middle of the atrium, visible from all balconies.
And I can't help but think, that is not the stuff of life. Manipulated metal and explosives are not the stuff to base our memories upon. I'm pulled back to a poem by Eavan Boland about a piece of amber with its little bits, and I see the amber heart pendent in the war museum. And the little toys. Could we please remember those when we think of war? Could we please remember not only what was fought for and who fought on the front lines, but what was sacrificed by all, whose voices were disregarded, whose letters were never received.
I know we must remember, but I wish we could forget.
We went to London on a fieldtrip to the Imperial War Museum. It was relatively tasteful in its memoriam to those who experienced wars of several periods and places. But I still could not stifle the pained desire to be able to walk away from all these artifacts and forget war, to forget who shot who, who was a tyrant and who was an angel. Because if we don't forget some of that, we may continue to perpetuate war and hate for the sake of getting even, or simply by way of justification using past experience.
But we can't forget can we? To do so would dismiss the voices of persons' experiences. And isn't that war often does-- dismisses voices? If I were to have my memory erased of all traces of war and war history, where would the voice of non-violent resisters go? Where would I learn from our ancestors what is NOT worth dying or killing for? At the same time, I would not remember the voices of those who believe to kill for peace is just, or that violence can beget something other than more violence.
If we forget, we forget history, good or bad, the steps and struggles that have brought us to where we are. If we forget war, we forget the voices of women and men living their normal lives in the midst of a narrative more focused on conflict of the battlefield and political engagements than the conflict to put food on the table, to have hope, to survive.
In the Children and War exhibit, there were little boxes with trinkets children had been given or tried to take with them when they were evacuated during WWI. A little plush pony, an amber necklace, farm animals carved from wood, letters from parents to children on ships sunk by missiles. They never received those letters. They were written after the children were dead by parents unaware.
In the main room fighter planes hung from the ceiling with huge propellers. Tanks of many shapes parked in various places shone with green paint. And the largest bullet stood straight up, looking to the sky. But this was dwarfed by the massive bomb in the middle of the atrium, visible from all balconies.
And I can't help but think, that is not the stuff of life. Manipulated metal and explosives are not the stuff to base our memories upon. I'm pulled back to a poem by Eavan Boland about a piece of amber with its little bits, and I see the amber heart pendent in the war museum. And the little toys. Could we please remember those when we think of war? Could we please remember not only what was fought for and who fought on the front lines, but what was sacrificed by all, whose voices were disregarded, whose letters were never received.
I know we must remember, but I wish we could forget.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Poetry of War
I'm in England, congested and tired. So this will be brief. Much has happened since my last post, in my life, my community and the world.
But I will now go back in history. I'm currently writing an essay on the poetic contributions of women in the World Wars. It is difficult for me to turn objective, analytical eyes on these poems-- to dissect these women's efforts to pull something, no matter how small, together when everything around them was in shambles. But that is what I am doing. And it breaks my heart. I have not stated this on this blog before, though I'm sure by now it is quite obvious, but I am a pacifist. I believe in non-violent reconciliation. It is not easy or simple, and often times it is not logical by the standards of many. I understand this, and do not seek a debate, just to preface what I have to share tonight.
Reading the poems of women faced with war, some of them pacifists, many of them not, I lose myself to their pain and the little hopes they tell themselves to believe. I lose myself in wanting them to believe for the sake of their sanity and perseverance that what their men are doing is just. And I lose myself in the sadness that I know these men are broken (I'm also reading poetry by men). This makes me want to visit the places where these poets walked and lived, like St. Giles (I walk there every day) where May Cannan was born and raised, and Somersville College where Vera Brittain visited friends after receiving news her fiancee, Roland, had been killed at war. What will happen if I go there, stop there for a moment? Will I be able to walk away?
But I will now go back in history. I'm currently writing an essay on the poetic contributions of women in the World Wars. It is difficult for me to turn objective, analytical eyes on these poems-- to dissect these women's efforts to pull something, no matter how small, together when everything around them was in shambles. But that is what I am doing. And it breaks my heart. I have not stated this on this blog before, though I'm sure by now it is quite obvious, but I am a pacifist. I believe in non-violent reconciliation. It is not easy or simple, and often times it is not logical by the standards of many. I understand this, and do not seek a debate, just to preface what I have to share tonight.
Reading the poems of women faced with war, some of them pacifists, many of them not, I lose myself to their pain and the little hopes they tell themselves to believe. I lose myself in wanting them to believe for the sake of their sanity and perseverance that what their men are doing is just. And I lose myself in the sadness that I know these men are broken (I'm also reading poetry by men). This makes me want to visit the places where these poets walked and lived, like St. Giles (I walk there every day) where May Cannan was born and raised, and Somersville College where Vera Brittain visited friends after receiving news her fiancee, Roland, had been killed at war. What will happen if I go there, stop there for a moment? Will I be able to walk away?
Friday, August 15, 2008
Questions to Ask Our "Enemies"
Today, after making berry custard ice cream and what I will call "toasty toffee," I found an issue of World Magazine and began reading it (not something I normally do with that publication, if ever, but it was there). In an article titled "Trial of the Century," I read, according to Lynn Vincent, the World contributor (I will assume her figures are accurate), there were 2,973 people involved in the event of violence and brokeness that shattered us on 11 Septemeber, 2001. 2,973! As the article continues, Vincent discusses the question of whether these individuals detained on the charge of terrorism should be entitled to the rights of habeas corpus. My question is: Are they human? Then shouldn't they be alloted what we have deemed a basic "human right"? There are, of course, exceptions and conditions applied to habeas corpus. Something to think about, I suppose.
Let us step back a little and look at that number again-- 2,973.
2,973.
My first question, as I sat in shock, was not "How could a group of people be so violent?" or "Why are Muslim fanatics so plentiful?" Rather, all I could think was "Why?" "Why would that many people hate another nation so strongly?"
I am reminded by something Wendell Berry writes in his essay "In the Presence of Fear". Berry advises that now we are in a conflict with peoples of the Middle East, that we learn their history, they culture, their arts and fears. And then we can perhaps learn why they hate us. Berry, being who he is, uses strong language by employing the term "hate us." Perhaps the people we think "hate us" don't hate us, but simply an idea of us. And I think we need to ask why. Peace is an open dialogue of questions, images, feelings, histories mingling with one another.
We ought to ask our neighbors with whom we find ourselves in conflict:
Who do you think I am?
What do you think I do, believe, value that is in such sharp contradiction to your own convictions?
What are your convictions?
Tell me about your life.
What kinds of poems do you read? Books? Plays?
Do you like your food spicy, bland, sweet?
Did your parents read to you at night before bed?
What do you want to be when you grow up, and why?
What do you mean by what you say and do?
What has brought you to this point (think personal and national history)?
What can I do to bring peace to this relationship?
And we should also ask ourselves:
Do I know this person who I supposedly hate or who supposedly hates me?
Am I acting on a belief that someone hates me who may not actually hate me?
Has something been lost in translation?
Are we even bothering to translate?
Have I confused defensive thinking with offensive thinking (I must be proactive before this person devastates me and not let them get too close)?
What is my history?
What do I truly believe and value?
Will doing what I can to bring peace conflict with any of my foundational beliefs?
If yes, are those really beliefs I ought to hold?
If no, then why am I not doing what I can to bring peace here?
What kind of world do we want live in?
And there are so many more questions to ask.
By the way, I like to read poems by Naomi Shihab Nye and Eavan Boland. What about you?
Let us step back a little and look at that number again-- 2,973.
2,973.
My first question, as I sat in shock, was not "How could a group of people be so violent?" or "Why are Muslim fanatics so plentiful?" Rather, all I could think was "Why?" "Why would that many people hate another nation so strongly?"
I am reminded by something Wendell Berry writes in his essay "In the Presence of Fear". Berry advises that now we are in a conflict with peoples of the Middle East, that we learn their history, they culture, their arts and fears. And then we can perhaps learn why they hate us. Berry, being who he is, uses strong language by employing the term "hate us." Perhaps the people we think "hate us" don't hate us, but simply an idea of us. And I think we need to ask why. Peace is an open dialogue of questions, images, feelings, histories mingling with one another.
We ought to ask our neighbors with whom we find ourselves in conflict:
Who do you think I am?
What do you think I do, believe, value that is in such sharp contradiction to your own convictions?
What are your convictions?
Tell me about your life.
What kinds of poems do you read? Books? Plays?
Do you like your food spicy, bland, sweet?
Did your parents read to you at night before bed?
What do you want to be when you grow up, and why?
What do you mean by what you say and do?
What has brought you to this point (think personal and national history)?
What can I do to bring peace to this relationship?
And we should also ask ourselves:
Do I know this person who I supposedly hate or who supposedly hates me?
Am I acting on a belief that someone hates me who may not actually hate me?
Has something been lost in translation?
Are we even bothering to translate?
Have I confused defensive thinking with offensive thinking (I must be proactive before this person devastates me and not let them get too close)?
What is my history?
What do I truly believe and value?
Will doing what I can to bring peace conflict with any of my foundational beliefs?
If yes, are those really beliefs I ought to hold?
If no, then why am I not doing what I can to bring peace here?
What kind of world do we want live in?
And there are so many more questions to ask.
By the way, I like to read poems by Naomi Shihab Nye and Eavan Boland. What about you?
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Why Poetry
After a somewhat mundane day (funny how days that involve packing are often also somewhat depressing), I come to learn my blog has been blessed with a poem (Thanks, Peter!), and this got me to thinking. . .
Somehow poetry has acquired an image of snobbery, of unattainability, of. . . intellectualism in a negative sense. So, what do we do? Well, I don't know about you, but I grew up a little bit afraid of poetry, because it was a distant, unreal thing by mythical creatures we call poets.
Well, that's simply not true, unless I have been fooled all along and the world's poets are secretly faeries (I wish!). By reading each other's poetry, we enter into reality--of the specific, the concrete, the personal, the nitty gritty, the language, the politics, the passion and compassion of another human being. I'm still afraid of poetry, but because I'm afraid of who I will meet and no longer be able to think of as merely an idea, what images I will face, and what questions I may have to consider.
Now I'm getting preachy, and that has to stop. And I have to finish packing.
Somehow poetry has acquired an image of snobbery, of unattainability, of. . . intellectualism in a negative sense. So, what do we do? Well, I don't know about you, but I grew up a little bit afraid of poetry, because it was a distant, unreal thing by mythical creatures we call poets.
Well, that's simply not true, unless I have been fooled all along and the world's poets are secretly faeries (I wish!). By reading each other's poetry, we enter into reality--of the specific, the concrete, the personal, the nitty gritty, the language, the politics, the passion and compassion of another human being. I'm still afraid of poetry, but because I'm afraid of who I will meet and no longer be able to think of as merely an idea, what images I will face, and what questions I may have to consider.
Now I'm getting preachy, and that has to stop. And I have to finish packing.
Poems by Children
As my exploration of poetry as peacemaking continues, I find that not only do different poets have their own specific focuses stemming from cultural experience--Naomi Shihab Nye and her Palestinian-American heritage, William Stafford and WWI, Christian Peacemaking Team members in Columbia-- but age itself also makes its mark on poetry. Sure, sure, you may be thinking, "Well, of course. Children are not self-aware, or culturally aware, or linguistically aware enough to write poems like adults do, just quality-wise." To think that, my friends, could be one of the biggest mistakes in human history. Not joking.
Granted, children may not have many years under their metaphorical belts (although they may be able to come up with a less over-used idiom than I just used), but what they lack in quantity they often make up for in clarity. I will not go off on theory or mechanics; my young poet friends do not. Please, read this poem found in A Chance To Live: Children's Poems for Peace in a Nuclear Age, edited by Gayle Peterson and Ying Kelley. And listen to children.
Please Don't Kill
Please don't kill
Other people
In a war
'Cause God made people
to live.
~Daryl Williams
2nd Grade
Granted, children may not have many years under their metaphorical belts (although they may be able to come up with a less over-used idiom than I just used), but what they lack in quantity they often make up for in clarity. I will not go off on theory or mechanics; my young poet friends do not. Please, read this poem found in A Chance To Live: Children's Poems for Peace in a Nuclear Age, edited by Gayle Peterson and Ying Kelley. And listen to children.
Please Don't Kill
Please don't kill
Other people
In a war
'Cause God made people
to live.
~Daryl Williams
2nd Grade
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Reading Irish Poetry
For the past two weeks I had left a stack of books in the Religious Studies office on a shelf. With so many books to read, I let a few wait for me there. Today I retrieved them, and as if it were Christmas, was surprised by all the lovely titles I rediscovered. No wonder I requested them from other libraries!
One of the books is a very large, green volume with a golden emblem pressed into the front cover. It's titled Ireland in Poetry. Page after page has old and new poems and color photographs or images of paintings. And I don't know what it is about Irish poetry, but it makes me feel a deep sense of mourning, fear, and inspiration, almost anticipation (of what? I do not know). I don't even know that much about Ireland's history or conflicts, it's people or places. The most intimate look at Ireland I have (besides my Lit. professor Kathy) comes from Eavan Boland's Memoir-ish Object Lessons.
What is it about Irish poetry?
One of the books is a very large, green volume with a golden emblem pressed into the front cover. It's titled Ireland in Poetry. Page after page has old and new poems and color photographs or images of paintings. And I don't know what it is about Irish poetry, but it makes me feel a deep sense of mourning, fear, and inspiration, almost anticipation (of what? I do not know). I don't even know that much about Ireland's history or conflicts, it's people or places. The most intimate look at Ireland I have (besides my Lit. professor Kathy) comes from Eavan Boland's Memoir-ish Object Lessons.
What is it about Irish poetry?
Monday, July 28, 2008
Remembering the Gardens
This morning I am working on a few things: my reflection paper on poetry and peacemaking, packing and sorting for MN and the U.K., random life happenings, and a poem about the gardens in the Bethlehem refugee camp we visited in June. Only a month ago. All the images came flooding back of the home we visited with the garden planted into the ground, and the metal arch for vines. And I saw in my imagination the gardens comprised of sawed off plastic jugs and handleless buckets. Anything that would hold dirt was used to incubate life. Someday I want a garden like that. A garden that doesn't really care where it is or what could become of it; it climbs or spreads, or stands tall without fear or second thoughts.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Confessions of a Frequent Flyer
I know what it feels like to be completely lost in that limbotic land between terminals. Bags in hand in a country where I don’t speak the language, no less. I know what it feels like to only understand the hand motions of an airport security worker, and to look like a fool when I go through the line that she specifically motioned me to bypass.
I know what it feels like to wander around Frankfurt for three hours with no place to sit, the sound of a gate alarm screeching when I choose to buck the system. I know what it feels like to be caught in a cattle call boarding session.
I know what it feels like to be culturally ignorant, to have no idea what is socially acceptable. I know what it’s like to be at the mercy of another person’s pursuit of a language not their own to help me in mine. I know what it feels like to not know who I can ask, who will understand my question, who will treat me with kindness.
And I know what it feels like to experience grace, to be the recipient of hospitality. I know what it feels like to receive sympathy from those who cannot help me. I know what it feels like, also, to be turned away, to be dealt with harshly, to not be trusted by people of my home country. To be perceived as a foreigner because of the shape of my facial features and my quiet mannerisms.
I also know what shame feels like—to stand again in the country of my childhood and to witness inhospitality. To hear guards question why international visitors continue to go to the incorrect passport check line when they have been speaking exclusively in English and signs are posted in English and Chinese. And we expect incoming French passengers to understand? I know what it feels like to want to yell at a security guard for snapping at a woman rudely. Then to realize that would not solve any of our problems.
And this knowledge makes me want to throw my arms around the world and shout out in every language known to humanity, “Bienvenidas, bienvenue, ah’len wa sah’len, welcome!” You are welcome in my life.
I know what it feels like to wander around Frankfurt for three hours with no place to sit, the sound of a gate alarm screeching when I choose to buck the system. I know what it feels like to be caught in a cattle call boarding session.
I know what it feels like to be culturally ignorant, to have no idea what is socially acceptable. I know what it’s like to be at the mercy of another person’s pursuit of a language not their own to help me in mine. I know what it feels like to not know who I can ask, who will understand my question, who will treat me with kindness.
And I know what it feels like to experience grace, to be the recipient of hospitality. I know what it feels like to receive sympathy from those who cannot help me. I know what it feels like, also, to be turned away, to be dealt with harshly, to not be trusted by people of my home country. To be perceived as a foreigner because of the shape of my facial features and my quiet mannerisms.
I also know what shame feels like—to stand again in the country of my childhood and to witness inhospitality. To hear guards question why international visitors continue to go to the incorrect passport check line when they have been speaking exclusively in English and signs are posted in English and Chinese. And we expect incoming French passengers to understand? I know what it feels like to want to yell at a security guard for snapping at a woman rudely. Then to realize that would not solve any of our problems.
And this knowledge makes me want to throw my arms around the world and shout out in every language known to humanity, “Bienvenidas, bienvenue, ah’len wa sah’len, welcome!” You are welcome in my life.
Monday, July 14, 2008
A Letter to the President of the United States
To the President of the United States:
I am not a politician, or an official diplomat.
I am a university student, a philosopher, a poet,
a theologian, a woman, a novice world traveler,
a feminist, a peacemaker.
I love God, most of the time, and at others, do not know
how to love God, but like any honest
theologian, I must admit I often do not understand
what she/he has in mind for this world,
a world that is both beautiful and broken.
People do many things in the name of “God”
that I also do not understand. Contradiction
is everywhere. And Jesus, let’s not get started
on the things people say about Jesus. I believe
he was God and human, but schizophrenic? Well,
it’s possible. I find it dangerous to talk about
what Jesus could or could not be.
But enough about theology and those confusions.
I recently traveled to the Middle East. My goal
was to speak with women, hear their stories, see
their faces. And from that, write poems about their lives
in their voices, about their homes, their families, their
thoughts, their struggles, their power. Some of these women
were of Jordanian heritage, one an Iraqi, a couple more
Lebanese, most were Palestinian, forced from their homes
and welcomed by Jordan, but Jordan is a small country.
For five and a half weeks, I was based in Amman, and traveled
for too short a time to Jerusalem and Bethlehem.
Do you want to know why? Because of peace.
I am sure, Mr. President, that you know Jerusalem
is in Israel, and Bethlehem is in the West Bank.
I am sure you also know the United States gives a disproportionate
amount of funds to the Israeli government to use to their “benefit.”
I think it’s great to live in a country that helps others.
A country that makes friends of other countries.
But true friends hold each other accountable.
True friends do not let each other do harm.
True friends stay close, and ask questions.
True friends treat each other as equals, not spoiled children.
And I mean no disrespect,
but after my visit, I am sure you do not know these women’s
stories. You do not know their land or their voices,
their struggles, their thoughts, their homes,
their families, their power. You do not know Palestinians.
You do not know hot tea with mint, directions from a kind stranger,
breakfast and lunch that could make you pop—all daily
occurrences, not rare kind Arabs. Normal kind Arabs, who are pained
by their rare, violent cousins.
You do not know the empty streets of Bethlehem,
fresh plums—a gift—from a woman in the market whose land
has been taken from her. I am sure, though, you know who
took it. You do not know the horror of a checkpoint gate, the wall,
or how long six hours waiting at the Israel border for wanting to
visit Bethlehem feels. You do not know the humiliation
human beings suffer every day. You do not know the inequity.
You do not know how closely refugee camps resemble the ghettos
of Eastern Europe during the Holocaust of WWII,
how much hurt the Israelis are still facing, and how much healing
I wish I could bring them. You do not know how they remind me
of children who grew up with abusive parents, vowing to never
be like that, but who bruise and batter their children. When they are old,
they cry themselves to sleep, and whisper prayers of regret.
Their children cry too.
Mr. President, do you want to know why I believe you
do not know these things?
Because if you did, if you knew them, they would be different.
You would be different.
Knowing details makes peace possible. Our enemies become
neighbors. People have faces that cannot be blown up.
I do not know your reasons for aiding Israel with such gusto.
Perhaps you wish to help God’s “chosen” people. But aren’t we all?
Perhaps you want to make up for America’s late entry into WWII,
and the masses of human beings with families and wishes who
should not have been treated as they were. But is this the way to do that?
Won’t our next generation have a debt to pay the Palestinians?
Perhaps you want Americans to feel safe from Arabs. But aren’t we
more afraid?
Again, I do not know, and I am sure it is complicated.
Perhaps we should make it simple again.
I will make a few things
simple for you.
I do not support any violence Palestinians inflict, on anyone.
I do not support any violence Israelis inflict, on anyone.
I do not support any violence Americans inflict, on anyone.
I do not support any violence any humans inflict, on anyone.
I do support the kindness of Israelis. The kindness of Arabs.
The kindness of Americans. The kindness of humanity.
I do not want tax money that comes from my paycheck, that I
have earned in peaceable ways, to go toward the systematic
destruction of lives, those of Arabs or Israelis or Americans.
When we are no longer inspired by the humanity of our neighbors,
something has been destroyed. Many Israelis have been destroyed,
as they destroy Palestinians. And the United States pays for this.
Is that being a good friend?
This is the United States’ conflict. We are involved.
This, quite simply, must stop.
Mr. President, what have you done this week to bring peace
among Israel, Palestine, and the United States?
I will ask again next week. And the week after that. Like the mother
in Bethlehem who will wait 500 years for her son’s prison sentence to end,
I will keep asking, until we are free. Until we have peace.
Salaam, Peace, Shalom.
Respectfully and with great hope,
Kohleun A.
I am not a politician, or an official diplomat.
I am a university student, a philosopher, a poet,
a theologian, a woman, a novice world traveler,
a feminist, a peacemaker.
I love God, most of the time, and at others, do not know
how to love God, but like any honest
theologian, I must admit I often do not understand
what she/he has in mind for this world,
a world that is both beautiful and broken.
People do many things in the name of “God”
that I also do not understand. Contradiction
is everywhere. And Jesus, let’s not get started
on the things people say about Jesus. I believe
he was God and human, but schizophrenic? Well,
it’s possible. I find it dangerous to talk about
what Jesus could or could not be.
But enough about theology and those confusions.
I recently traveled to the Middle East. My goal
was to speak with women, hear their stories, see
their faces. And from that, write poems about their lives
in their voices, about their homes, their families, their
thoughts, their struggles, their power. Some of these women
were of Jordanian heritage, one an Iraqi, a couple more
Lebanese, most were Palestinian, forced from their homes
and welcomed by Jordan, but Jordan is a small country.
For five and a half weeks, I was based in Amman, and traveled
for too short a time to Jerusalem and Bethlehem.
Do you want to know why? Because of peace.
I am sure, Mr. President, that you know Jerusalem
is in Israel, and Bethlehem is in the West Bank.
I am sure you also know the United States gives a disproportionate
amount of funds to the Israeli government to use to their “benefit.”
I think it’s great to live in a country that helps others.
A country that makes friends of other countries.
But true friends hold each other accountable.
True friends do not let each other do harm.
True friends stay close, and ask questions.
True friends treat each other as equals, not spoiled children.
And I mean no disrespect,
but after my visit, I am sure you do not know these women’s
stories. You do not know their land or their voices,
their struggles, their thoughts, their homes,
their families, their power. You do not know Palestinians.
You do not know hot tea with mint, directions from a kind stranger,
breakfast and lunch that could make you pop—all daily
occurrences, not rare kind Arabs. Normal kind Arabs, who are pained
by their rare, violent cousins.
You do not know the empty streets of Bethlehem,
fresh plums—a gift—from a woman in the market whose land
has been taken from her. I am sure, though, you know who
took it. You do not know the horror of a checkpoint gate, the wall,
or how long six hours waiting at the Israel border for wanting to
visit Bethlehem feels. You do not know the humiliation
human beings suffer every day. You do not know the inequity.
You do not know how closely refugee camps resemble the ghettos
of Eastern Europe during the Holocaust of WWII,
how much hurt the Israelis are still facing, and how much healing
I wish I could bring them. You do not know how they remind me
of children who grew up with abusive parents, vowing to never
be like that, but who bruise and batter their children. When they are old,
they cry themselves to sleep, and whisper prayers of regret.
Their children cry too.
Mr. President, do you want to know why I believe you
do not know these things?
Because if you did, if you knew them, they would be different.
You would be different.
Knowing details makes peace possible. Our enemies become
neighbors. People have faces that cannot be blown up.
I do not know your reasons for aiding Israel with such gusto.
Perhaps you wish to help God’s “chosen” people. But aren’t we all?
Perhaps you want to make up for America’s late entry into WWII,
and the masses of human beings with families and wishes who
should not have been treated as they were. But is this the way to do that?
Won’t our next generation have a debt to pay the Palestinians?
Perhaps you want Americans to feel safe from Arabs. But aren’t we
more afraid?
Again, I do not know, and I am sure it is complicated.
Perhaps we should make it simple again.
I will make a few things
simple for you.
I do not support any violence Palestinians inflict, on anyone.
I do not support any violence Israelis inflict, on anyone.
I do not support any violence Americans inflict, on anyone.
I do not support any violence any humans inflict, on anyone.
I do support the kindness of Israelis. The kindness of Arabs.
The kindness of Americans. The kindness of humanity.
I do not want tax money that comes from my paycheck, that I
have earned in peaceable ways, to go toward the systematic
destruction of lives, those of Arabs or Israelis or Americans.
When we are no longer inspired by the humanity of our neighbors,
something has been destroyed. Many Israelis have been destroyed,
as they destroy Palestinians. And the United States pays for this.
Is that being a good friend?
This is the United States’ conflict. We are involved.
This, quite simply, must stop.
Mr. President, what have you done this week to bring peace
among Israel, Palestine, and the United States?
I will ask again next week. And the week after that. Like the mother
in Bethlehem who will wait 500 years for her son’s prison sentence to end,
I will keep asking, until we are free. Until we have peace.
Salaam, Peace, Shalom.
Respectfully and with great hope,
Kohleun A.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Here's to Strong Arab Women!
This will be a growing tribute list to Arab women who still dare to hope in the presence a world-wide epidemic--social inequality. You all touch my life, even those whom I have never met face-to-face.
Naomi Shihab Nye: Palestinian-American poet
Her Majesty Queen Rania of Jordan: social advocate for Jordan, the Middle East, and the world, breaking stereotypes and breaking new ground humankind.
Mary: Gracious Palestinian woman who has been all over the world, learning, growing, and celebrating faith and culture.
All the women and girls who will remain anonymous: whose stories, no matter how grand or small, have weight and worth.
. . .
Naomi Shihab Nye: Palestinian-American poet
Her Majesty Queen Rania of Jordan: social advocate for Jordan, the Middle East, and the world, breaking stereotypes and breaking new ground humankind.
Mary: Gracious Palestinian woman who has been all over the world, learning, growing, and celebrating faith and culture.
All the women and girls who will remain anonymous: whose stories, no matter how grand or small, have weight and worth.
. . .
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Food
Ironic, isn't it, that the United States hosts the cultural phenomenon of wanting to whittle the waist and tighten thighs, but it also suffers from a very high obesity rate. To balance another oddity on this tower, consider how food is consumed and valued in the U.S. versus in other countries.
In the U.S. food is big. Big Mac. Supersize. Big Gulp. Not only grande, but venti. We eat on the run, eat at our desks, I've seen people practically inhale food. Resturaunts serve enough food for an average person to have three meals, but often times leftover don't make it home. Thanksgiving is called "turkey day." Coffee shops fill our cups with sugar and flavors and lots of milk.
In France I saw very few overweight people (especially in Paris), but food was all over the place. Patisseries were at least two to a block, and you could always find a brassarie with its street-facing tables and chairs. To my great pleasure, the French understand some key foods very well: coffee (served strong, and if you order cafe au lait or cafe creme, it's still strong with rich milk), yaourt (yogurt- the best I've had in the world came from French supermarkets), pastries (try pain au chocolat or pain au amandes avec chocolat), and bread and soft cheeses. I hear that food is so important to French social life that many people would rather go all day without eating than eat alone. It's worth it to wait.
In Italy food and wine go together (in France wine is important as well, but I did not experience that first-hand). Even at our hostel they served (cheap) wine with dinner every night. Again, food was everywhere, in resturaunts, open markets, fruit stands, and grocery markets. We weren't in Italy long enough to pick up on their food traditions, but I have a feeling they are similar to those in France. I suppose the only way to find out for sure is to return for another visit.
And this brings me to Jordan. Food in the Middle East is diverse, but there are a few staples in every kitchen: couscous, bread, lamb, coffee, coriander, and mint, as well as seasonal fruits and veggies. Meals are a family affair, and if you happen to be in the house (regardless of whether you live in this particular house), you're family, and you will eat.
In the household where I am spending the summer, dinner time is quite the production and it takes at least most if not all the family to prepare and serve the meal. When we host guests, the kitchen is a lively place of simmering pots, hands chopping vegetables, slicing fruit, and scooping melon into neat little balls. Then we take food out in Palestinian serving dishes of blue and white pottery.
Today I ate "fast food" like no other fast food I have ever eaten (I must note, however, the posh atmosphere of McDonald's in Italy-- very nice, with free toilets). I went to Lebnani Snack, a Lebanese fast food chain. They have fresh fruit cocktails and fresh squeezed juices. The food is also fresh, made after it has been ordered. And oh so yummy. If they did fast food in the States like the do Lebnani Snack here, I would eat fast food.
In the U.S. food is big. Big Mac. Supersize. Big Gulp. Not only grande, but venti. We eat on the run, eat at our desks, I've seen people practically inhale food. Resturaunts serve enough food for an average person to have three meals, but often times leftover don't make it home. Thanksgiving is called "turkey day." Coffee shops fill our cups with sugar and flavors and lots of milk.
In France I saw very few overweight people (especially in Paris), but food was all over the place. Patisseries were at least two to a block, and you could always find a brassarie with its street-facing tables and chairs. To my great pleasure, the French understand some key foods very well: coffee (served strong, and if you order cafe au lait or cafe creme, it's still strong with rich milk), yaourt (yogurt- the best I've had in the world came from French supermarkets), pastries (try pain au chocolat or pain au amandes avec chocolat), and bread and soft cheeses. I hear that food is so important to French social life that many people would rather go all day without eating than eat alone. It's worth it to wait.
In Italy food and wine go together (in France wine is important as well, but I did not experience that first-hand). Even at our hostel they served (cheap) wine with dinner every night. Again, food was everywhere, in resturaunts, open markets, fruit stands, and grocery markets. We weren't in Italy long enough to pick up on their food traditions, but I have a feeling they are similar to those in France. I suppose the only way to find out for sure is to return for another visit.
And this brings me to Jordan. Food in the Middle East is diverse, but there are a few staples in every kitchen: couscous, bread, lamb, coffee, coriander, and mint, as well as seasonal fruits and veggies. Meals are a family affair, and if you happen to be in the house (regardless of whether you live in this particular house), you're family, and you will eat.
In the household where I am spending the summer, dinner time is quite the production and it takes at least most if not all the family to prepare and serve the meal. When we host guests, the kitchen is a lively place of simmering pots, hands chopping vegetables, slicing fruit, and scooping melon into neat little balls. Then we take food out in Palestinian serving dishes of blue and white pottery.
Today I ate "fast food" like no other fast food I have ever eaten (I must note, however, the posh atmosphere of McDonald's in Italy-- very nice, with free toilets). I went to Lebnani Snack, a Lebanese fast food chain. They have fresh fruit cocktails and fresh squeezed juices. The food is also fresh, made after it has been ordered. And oh so yummy. If they did fast food in the States like the do Lebnani Snack here, I would eat fast food.
Much reality, too many words, not enough words-- a la vez
In the time frame of a month, I have been in 5 different countries (counting my layover in Frankfurt), which have their own distinct cultures, and their own distinct languages. Since I have never traveled overseas before this summer, I was gearing up my psyche for serious culture shock. And while there has been much cultural richness to process along the way (details to follow shortly), I have actually experienced language shock. Funny, considering I have never studied or spoken French, Italian, German, or Arabic.
Regardless of my linguistic background, I found (and find) myself struggling to acclimate to each new language. In France, I listened carefully for commonly used phrases and mimicked them, while making reasonable connections between French and my knowledge of Spanish, un otro idioma romantico. This, of course, led to some moments of complete confusion, and I would break down and ask French locals if they spoke Spanish. Haha.
Italy was not as difficult a switch, since I was used to hearing French and I missed English and Spanish (Italian is a close relative of French and Spanish-- it's rather amusing how it seems to be a mix of the two-- and Portuguese. Sometimes I could fake Italian by slurring Spanish really fast. :D
But the shift into hearing Arabic has been, predictably, the toughest. I hear no Latin roots, and when I do hear things that sound similar, I cannot be safe in assuming that they mean what they would in a Romantic language. I'm finding it hard to write here in Jordan. Yes, I believe the reality of our humanity far surpasses the limitations of languages and symbols; that is why I'm here. But it is foolish to think that I can fully understand another's story when I know so little of her language, of the way she interacts with reality.
There are so many words, so many, and yet so few. How do we share our stories in the first place? Through more than words, I suspect. Dangerous words for a poet to write (could be out of a job, but it's not like poetry has ever been written for its grand monetary income). We share our stories through silence, what's not said along with what is; an embrace; in sobs and laughter; in the books we pass to others with exclamations scribbled in the margins, saying, "You must read this. It changed my life" (always read books that have changed friends lives); in our poetry; our music; the way we fidget with serviettes at the table or pamphlets at a recital. How do we share our stories? I don't know how exactly, how they transfer from one person to another (maybe we don't own them as individuals in the first place). How do we share our stories? By the grace of God? Perhaps. Perhaps.
Regardless of my linguistic background, I found (and find) myself struggling to acclimate to each new language. In France, I listened carefully for commonly used phrases and mimicked them, while making reasonable connections between French and my knowledge of Spanish, un otro idioma romantico. This, of course, led to some moments of complete confusion, and I would break down and ask French locals if they spoke Spanish. Haha.
Italy was not as difficult a switch, since I was used to hearing French and I missed English and Spanish (Italian is a close relative of French and Spanish-- it's rather amusing how it seems to be a mix of the two-- and Portuguese. Sometimes I could fake Italian by slurring Spanish really fast. :D
But the shift into hearing Arabic has been, predictably, the toughest. I hear no Latin roots, and when I do hear things that sound similar, I cannot be safe in assuming that they mean what they would in a Romantic language. I'm finding it hard to write here in Jordan. Yes, I believe the reality of our humanity far surpasses the limitations of languages and symbols; that is why I'm here. But it is foolish to think that I can fully understand another's story when I know so little of her language, of the way she interacts with reality.
There are so many words, so many, and yet so few. How do we share our stories in the first place? Through more than words, I suspect. Dangerous words for a poet to write (could be out of a job, but it's not like poetry has ever been written for its grand monetary income). We share our stories through silence, what's not said along with what is; an embrace; in sobs and laughter; in the books we pass to others with exclamations scribbled in the margins, saying, "You must read this. It changed my life" (always read books that have changed friends lives); in our poetry; our music; the way we fidget with serviettes at the table or pamphlets at a recital. How do we share our stories? I don't know how exactly, how they transfer from one person to another (maybe we don't own them as individuals in the first place). How do we share our stories? By the grace of God? Perhaps. Perhaps.
Monday, April 28, 2008
The Beginning
Day one:
Here I sit in PDX with a Typhoid pill dissolving in my tummy and yogurt chasing it five hours behind. I can claim only 16 hours of sleep in the last four days (2 1/2 last night), and I am not caffeinated. France (by way of Minneapolis), Italy, and Jordan, here we come!
All of my possessions for the next ten weeks fits into one blue, rectangular carry-on case that I mom bought at Goodwill; a large, often overloaded backpack; and my brand spanking new money belt (that's the best part-- woot woot!).
I plan to either sleep after out layover, or give into my coffee/tea addiction and caffeinate. What would be the wise thing to do? Ha! What do I WANT to do? No clue (for reasons, please read the first paragraph).
When I am no longer cranky, without sleep, incoherent, and loopy, I will post a . . . post (that was disgustingly redundant, but what else can I call it?) detailing what I will be doing with myself this summer.
Peace-- it's possible,
Kohleun
Here I sit in PDX with a Typhoid pill dissolving in my tummy and yogurt chasing it five hours behind. I can claim only 16 hours of sleep in the last four days (2 1/2 last night), and I am not caffeinated. France (by way of Minneapolis), Italy, and Jordan, here we come!
All of my possessions for the next ten weeks fits into one blue, rectangular carry-on case that I mom bought at Goodwill; a large, often overloaded backpack; and my brand spanking new money belt (that's the best part-- woot woot!).
I plan to either sleep after out layover, or give into my coffee/tea addiction and caffeinate. What would be the wise thing to do? Ha! What do I WANT to do? No clue (for reasons, please read the first paragraph).
When I am no longer cranky, without sleep, incoherent, and loopy, I will post a . . . post (that was disgustingly redundant, but what else can I call it?) detailing what I will be doing with myself this summer.
Peace-- it's possible,
Kohleun
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)