Christ, Christmas and Coca Cola

I don't normally write in response to news or editorials because I normally don't get access to any news magazines until months later. But Anna Quindlen had an interesting point in her Jan 2 column in Newsweek.

One idea she touched on was that it is ridiculous to think that a religion that has lasted 2000 years is somehow at risk if it isn't acknowledged in an advertisement at OfficeMax. Actually I'd rather not have WalMart use "Merry Christmas" to sell plastic Santas or toys or loads of junk. I'd much rather have McDonalds sell us special holliday shakes and local bars have holiday specials. Does tooth rotting cans of Coke really need nativity-visiting polar bears on them? Does that really lead to a greater spiritual understanding - even by a postmodern definition?

Keeping Christ's name sacred has value. There's something to be said for the people who holiday is know Him being the ones who share His name. Wasn't that what "thou shall not take the Lord's name in vain" all about? Keep it separate and sacred. I know that some would take the view that any publicity is good publicty but does the King of Kings need greater name recognition or just greater understanding of what His name means?

10 Days in December

Now that most of the Christmas festivities are over I'm just beginning to process (mourn?) the loss of a city I was falling in love with and in. To let you know what we went through I offer an abbreviated day by day account of the last few days we spent there. Or at least as best as I can remember it.

December 8 - Called in by Immigration where we were informed that we had until Christmas to leave the country. Applied for exit visas (basically asking for permission to leave a country we were told we had to leave). Began looking for plane tickets out but could only find tickets to Dubai for the 21st. Began informing friends about our departure. Told the University I would be unable to complete the semester's courses. Started packing. Started organizing an everything must go garage sale. Didn't sleep much and wonder what I may have said on people's blogs during my 3 am surf.

December 9 - Continued packing and organizing the sale. Paid for and picked up our exit visas. Had our resident permits taken from us. Packed up my office at the University. Began to let our local friends know about our departure. Friend found us tickets all the way to the US - only three days earlier than even our 21st tickets. Met with several early shopper friends as we loaded our carport with all our household furnishings. Ate lots of our saved-up treats like bacon and chocolate chip cookie dough - often at the same time.

December 10 - Were nearly overwhelmed at our garage sale with people waiting half an hour before we opened the gates. Most of the puzzles were opened and destroyed. Lots of theft but ended up selling almost everything we put out in the three hours of the sale. Realized how much we hadn't put out for the sale. Turned away people for the rest of the day wanting to know if we had anything left or if we would be willing to give them things we no longer had. Sold a few thousand dollars worth of things. Moved into a furnished place with at least some of our remaining possessions. Were fed a wonderful Indian meal just when we needed to be cared for.

December 11 - Spent our last Sunday at the international church. Began saying goodbyes, often to people we didn't know. Double checked with our landlord's son that he had told his mother we'd be moving out. I began outlining a sermon for that night's service. I had not told Amanda I'd be speaking that night for fear that she might talk some sense into what I was planning to say.
Amanda (noticing that Jonathan has his Bible open while surrounded by unpacked
laundry): What are you doing with your Bible out? Are you preaching tonight or
something? (Snicker, snicker)
Jonathan (having not told Amanda he'd be preaching one last time): Er...yeah. I am.

Spoke on Esther and "For such a time is this..." at the int'l church. Only got in a little trouble for mentioning that we had been thrown out of the country. More goodbyes.

December 12 - 14 - More packing. Dividing things into "must keep," "forgot to sell" and "who would pay money for this?" piles. Think we can get things home in only 11 pieces of luggage. Prepare for sale #2 - this time a couple of tables at a group sale with the international school on Thursday. Begin the more formal visits with friends to say goodbye and accept small gifts. Giving away books and teaching materials. Trying to come to terms with saying goodbye to W., our houseworker who became family. Attempting to keep Atticus' room warm enough to fight off the cold he's suffering through. Spending some time at the university to let the seniors know what will happen with their final projects. Gave my rendition of Roger's "You've wasted four years" speech to my Public Speaking students. Met a former student's fiance and gave my blessing on their marriage. Think I may still know where my Palm Pilot is. Know I can't find my sanity.

December 15 - Was double-parked and still got boxed in while trying to sell a computer monitor. Stuck for 40 minutes. Continued to clear out old house. While doing so I ran into our landlord. It turns out that her son never did tell her we were moving out. I think the empty boxes may have clued her into it but not entirely sure. Ended up having to show her the door after she sat down in the hallway and watched me pile things into Dave's pickup.

Took two carloads of unsold items to the international school's sale. We were the main attraction. Sold everything including a beautiful bench that meant a lot to us (sorry Matt). Now down to junk and the items we'll try and pack.

December 16 - Finally able to see some of the furniture in our temporary dwelling. Have pretty much decided to take an extra bag with us rather than have it shipped later. Handed back the keys to our old house now that everything is cleared out.

Said my final goodbyes at the University. One of which will be the subject of a future blog. Sad to meet with the Dept. head one last time. Finally crashing from a week long adrenaline rush.

Met one last time with Son - godly Indian who prayed with us. Other visitors stopped by to say goodbye.

Went to a Christmas/farewell party at a friend's house. Said goodbye to good people. I hope Emily likes "Thirteen Things About Ed Carpolotti". I hope her parents (Dad is a Presb. Theological prof.) don't disown us for putting "Blue Like Jazz" in her hands. We'll miss AN's 50th anniversary of her arrival in Africa. Wonder how long some of those there will remain. This was really the first time I started processing that some of these people I will never see again.

December 17 - Day of departure. On the way to taking bags to be weighed at the grain market got a flat tire. Layed in the dirt to change it. Got all bags within a pound or more under weight. Found a closet of dress clothes that still needed packing. Went to find zip ties to secure bags. Lots of visitors saying goodbye.

All the power in the city goes out with three hours before we need to leave.

Had to stop off at Department Head's house one last time. Picked up a gift from the department and a letter of rec.

Packing up the last few bits for the carry-ons. Trying not to leave anything important behind (we left Amanda's pregnant wedding ring and a wireless card for the computer). Took a shower in the dark as visitors continued to stop by. Loaded up the trucks with bags. Counted garage sales money.

Thankfully only a couple of friends met us at the airport. Steve helped us move our bags to the terminal. After only some confusion over how to put luggage tags on rubbermaid containers and what to do with the stroller, we get on the plane just before midnight.

December 18 - Arrive at O'Hare only to find that our tickets to Bloomington are for Monday, a day later. Get most of our bags through customs. See Mohammed Ali and realize that he had probably been on our plane from Germany. Rearrange tickets so we can arrive Sunday rather than Monday night. Get Gretchen to make sure someone can meet us.

Crashed out at my parents' new house.

So if we ignored your email that week or didn't send you a Christmas card, that's why.

Back in the US

Friends,

So we've made it back to the US with almost all of our luggage and sanity intact. We're still missing a suitcase, two bags, a $200 stroller and any real sense of where we currently are living. I'll go back to the airport this morning and see about the bags. Hopefully going there in daylight might help the more geographic problems.

Atticus, it must be said, was just amazing. He had his squirmy moments on the planes but really didn't have much in terms of tantrums. He didn't run away at the airports and despite throwing up on Nana as we waited for our bags at our final destination, was a gem.

Now the tasks before us include renting a car for the next few days, setting up our cells so you all can call us, getting those remaining bags, and, oh yeah, Christmas.
We'll look at relocating after the new year so if anybody knows of an available (cheap) house and has a need for us to be near them, let us know.

I'm thinking Kevin Moon party sometime in February.

Jonathan

And the hits just keep on comin'

I've really come to terms with leaving but I feel a bit guilty for the reason. If you know where we live, do a news search. Entire organizations are being split based on nationality. Tensions are rising. Police seem to have gone home but Tuesday and Wednesday things were a bit tense. Diplomats are not allowed to leave the city

It's a bit like realizing you don't have enough money to supersize and then you see the homeless guy outside.

Our plans now are to be home for Christmas then take some down time in New Orleans in January to figure out where God wants us. (Yes, I see the irony in being kicked out of a country only to leave for a hurricane disaster area. But it is a step up.)

Oh, a plug for Tina Lowry. I bet if enough people bug her, she'll post one of those pregnant belly pics. Now if only Phil Stowers or Sheri Storer would start blogging...

Three million people can't be wrong

So we're leaving. It’s official. We’re out. Or at least it looks like we will be within a week or so.

Our meeting on Thursday was short and to the point. The gov’t wants us out by Christmas. No explanation was given. No, we can’t know which gov’t office gave the order. No, you can’t have an extension through the New Year or until the semester ends. And yes, you’ll need to pay for the exit visas and a departure tax at the airport.

On the plus side, we at first thought we’d have to be stuck in Dubai for a while and try to find a way home from there but now it appears that we’ll be able to fly from here to Frankfurt and then home. Even with a delay or two, we’ll definitely be home for Christmas.

The negative is that we now have a total of 8 days to close up things here.

Our gate opens in five and a half hours for our garage sale and I still haven’t priced my tools.

Could the last one to leave the country...

Please turn off the lights?

It’s Wednesday which must mean we got our weekly call from Immigration. Tomorrow at 8 am (an hour earlier than the two previous meetings) we will sit in a room that probably is not really the office of the man asking the questions. We will tell them the truth and then get frustrated when they can’t understand what a check is or why Amanda doesn’t work. This time they didn’t even pretend that it was because of my poor handwriting.

This, along with some recent int’l developments, confirms that the garage sale we’re having this weekend is the right thing to do. Maybe tomorrow we’ll have a better idea of just how much we need to try and sell.

During my freshman year at Eastern, I got in the habit of simply not sleeping on Sunday nights throughout speech season. We’d normally get back too late on Sunday and since we missed our Friday classes I’d need to play catch-up. Now I’m getting in the same habit only on Wednesdays only I spend my time reading and reflecting and wanting to sleep.

Keep us in your thoughts.

A Victim of Prophecy???

I remember in college hearing someone (maybe Pete H. or Jason Hel. or one of the Johns) tell me about an encounter he had with someone who knew all sorts of things about him that this person shouldn’t have known. I don’t remember details but I do remember coming away from the conversation skeptical. At the time, I think I could have accepted supernatural acts of healing, vague glimpses of the future, or even the odd David Copperfield miracle but that particular act wouldn’t qualify.

In the last few years, I have come to accept that the Spirit does more than offer nudges in the right direction. While the voice isn’t loud yet, I have no doubt that it does speak when I’m in the right place and listen.

So several months ago when Tor and his wife, two internationals I’ve known since arriving, told Amanda and I that they’d had visions about us, I listened openly but with some of that past hesitation. In the visions, it was clear that Amanda and I would be having this problem with Immigration. In Tor’s version, it included another international friend. Ignoring the obvious fact that everyone has problems with Immigration sometimes, it does bring up an interesting dilemma.

If it is a true prophecy, what should my response be? What can I do about? Nothing. Neither of the two people were given the discernment to offer a direction for Amanda or I. Does the vision mean that we should pack up now? Not from what they said. Does it mean we should move or stop doing what we’re doing or distance ourselves from our friends? No. Did it really offer anything in terms of guidance? Not really.

So we continue to be light and salt. We attempt to be good stewards and be prepared without being led by fear. We use the wisdom we have been given and continue on with life. We listen. We try and take the opportunities presented. We try and grow and learn.

I guess that’s all any of us can do anyway.

Update

The past seven days have been a bit of a whirlwind around here. On Wednesday we received a message that immigration would like to see us on Thursday. So in addition to trying to coordinate a Thanksgiving gettogether we had the stress of the unknown hanging over our heads.

Thursday’s meeting was…curious. In addition to refilling our an immigration form we’d already filled out nine months ago, we were asked a series of questions ranging from our educational background, to our past travels, to our known associates, to our financial status.

Since then we have been looking at ways of downsizing our lives. We’re selling off major pieces of furniture. We’re giving back things we’d been storing for other people. We’re looking at ways of possibly getting things home. Basically, we’re gleaning our lives downs to what we need.

It seems more than coincidental that at the same we’re coming to terms with getting rid of stuff, John is talking about having a greater dependence on God and Jake is talking about existentialism and an old episode of “Ed” (remember the bowling alley lawyer?) is talking about Walden and the need to simplify. Songs like Remember Surrender by Sarah Groves and references to “Be still and know that I am God” keep running through my head. My conclusion – we are not in control but know who is. We can attempt to focus our dependence on Him but we still need to realize that no earthly methodology or formula can prepare us for the unpredictable and absolutely abundant blessings He will be giving us

Yesterday afternoon, a week after we were first called to the Immigration office, we again received a message that we needed to come in. This time it is to follow up on the questionnaire we initially filled out. Apparently it is because they had problems reading my handwriting.
The “B” I got for handwriting in the third grade may finally be coming back to haunt me.

For your immediate concern

Just a quick request that today as you're thanking God for your turkey or turkey shaped soy substitute, think of Amanda, Atticus and I. We'll be meeting with some gov't officials today for an unexpected meeting. A similar meeting took place with some of our friends this summer and they were asked to leave.

Please lift this up.

Hopefully we'll have an update for you before your dessert is served.

Blessings

An Unemployed University?

Imagine what would happen if all of us had a sudden, fair and accurate job evaluation. It wouldn’t look at qualifications or past performance, just are you doing what you’re supposed to be doing. And are you doing it well. A positive evaluation (say C+ or better) would allow you to keep your job. A lower mark would require immediate retraining and a failure would result in your termination. Would you still have a job?

Or more importantly, would any of your colleagues still have a job? (Since anyone reading this is, of course, the perfect employee.) I’m frustrated with teachers who don’t teach or seem to want to. I have a friend who recently complained that students taking his graduate course, a course he specializes in, were “horrible”. Ah, it must be the lack of preparation; the poor standards set while they were undergrads; the rotten teachers from years before; the third and fourth year classes that failed to challenge, prepare or accurately familiarize them with the material…Except for the fact that he was their professor for those preparatory classes. His field of specialization is unique enough that only he could have taught them, or failed to teach them, the relevant material.

Another colleague rarely uses English to talk to majors or graduate students in the subject. Imagine two people trained in the field of English talking about a paper written in English that outlines problems with teaching students how to use spoken English effectively only the whole conversation is taking place in some other language.

And of course there are stories of PhDs bought through the internet, sold A’s, sexual harassment, non existent office hours, fifteen minute class sessions and so on.

In all fairness, there are those I work with who are still interested in helping students learn. There is my boss; an underpaid, overworked mother of three, underdog opponent of the Indian boy’s club. And the one who works for free since the gov’t decided that they’d been mistakenly paying her an extra couple of dollars a month for the last couple of years. And the graduate students who would love to think for themselves but know that if they challenge their professors too much, they might not get the grades needed to go for their PhDs elsewhere. These, along with the students so desparate to learn, are why I am able to continue teaching.

I accept that I may not have the credentials of some of the staff I work with but I do actually love teaching. I enjoy having students come to me to discuss what they’re learning and interested in. I love showing them that it is ok to have original ideas. And that it’s even ok to change those ideas. I suppose that since I’ve only been teaching a few years, I shouldn’t be so critical about those who may have burned out. But I’d like to think that when I do burn out, I’d have the grace to allow myself to be replaced rather than hold on to a profession I should be fired from.

After the Scramble

So I’m finally back in the land of the blogging after being stuck in 738 pages of literary purgatory. A while back a friend picked up a copy of Thomas Pakenham’s “The Scramble for Africa” and, like any idiot, I figured that since I live here I should read it. How difficult could it be? The whole book covers less than forty years (1876-1912) and in pages is shorter than most of the Harry Potter books. Over fifteen years ago I conquered my first one thousand page book, and that was during junior high basketball season. Piece of cake.

But L. Ron Hubbard didn’t write with a British accent. And Rowling doesn’t make obscure references to 16th century British parliamentary history. And neither is printed in a ten point font. With the exception of Ulysses, which I still haven’t gotten through, it may have been the most difficult book I’ve tried reading. (Barry, how goes your attempt?) Too many names and difficult to name places. Lots of anecdotes that seem insignificant until three chapters later by which time you’ve forgotten the details. Lots of blood, hands and ears but not nearly as graphic as “King Leopold’s Ghost.”

But the book was insightful into how the lines got drawn here in Africa. Some negotiation but a lot of it was determined by minor battles, when the supplies of scouting parties got low or when disease simply destroyed caravans. People like Churchill and von Bulow and quite a few others I’d largely forgotten about, got their starts in dealing with the “savages” – normally by killing off entire villages of those who wouldn’t allow themselves to be bought off by blank treaty forms or rolls of velvet cloth. Other leaders who could have come to power because they had the right sort of pedigree or professional background became obsessed with, ignored because of, or financially destroyed by this last unknown place on the planet.

If you’ve got some time on your hands – like while in prison or stuck in a hospital room with three channels with a hacking insomniac for a roommate – it’s worth the read.

Don't Stop Giving

It 's the fallout that results a short time after any tragedy that really motivates people to act. They pull out their wallets to help the less fortunate, be them victims of 9/11, the typhoon-tsunami in Asia or Hurricane Katrina.

Those are all worthy causes but what normally happens is that people don't give more, they give differently. They stop giving to their normal charities and simply shift that money over. Most of those groups that depend on consistant funding to remain afloat see their accounts dwindle after a tragedy like Katrina.

I'm not saying don't give to the victims, I'm saying that we need to be sure that we don't forget about those who still need our support. Give sacrificially. Dig deeper.

Please, keep giving to your church, to campus house or CSF, to the local shelters (for animals and people) to the schools and little leagues. Don't forget them.

Friends and stuff

I’m trying to come to terms with my friendship with a man based almost exclusively on the fact that he has stuff that I want. We started meeting because I had some political questions that he had answers to. His wife and daughter were out of the country and he needed to vent some culture-shock stuff so we had tea.

Come to find out that they have some baby food that their daughter has outgrown so, sure, we can take it off their hands. Oh, and since they are leaving the country soon and have stocked too much food ordered through the embassy commissary, we get first dibs on purchasing their American toilet paper and sugar and ziplock bags and vegetable oil and…Would we be interested in buying an older computer? – No – but it comes with a media card and a satellite dish – Absolutely.

I genuinely like the guy but I doubt we’d have become friends if he didn’t have more than I did. Like the kid in the neighborhood with the Atari or ping-pong table that kids used to hang out with because he had all the stuff…(Isn’t that from Seinfeld? “He had a ping-pong table! I would have been friends with Satan if he’d had a ping-pong table.”). He and his wife just don’t seem happy here. They don’t seem to enjoy the people or the culture or the food or the weather. They seem like they’re just here to do a job. It’s sad.

On most days, this would be a “There but for the grace of God go I” or “What good is it if a man gains the whole world but loses…?” entry but what is most disturbing is that even as I view his life as unhappy, his purpose less fulfilling than mine, I find myself envious. I want to be able to have meat and cheese shipped in from the states on dry ice. I want to be able to get Hershey’s chocolate syrup whenever I want. I want a job that, at least by the title, appears prestigious. I want to know ambassadors and world leaders. I want a fountain in my front yard and a guard on the other side of the gate. I want the stuff he has.

So even though I’m truly happy, even though I love my jobs, even though I couldn’t ask for a better family, even though I feel like I am exactly where I am supposed to be right now, I still want the stuff of this world.

Some days I just feel shallow

Gas

For all those growling about the cost of gas:

Our price for regular: $6-7 per gallon. (If they have it.)

Stupid Katrina!!!

The Birthday Boy

Just a photo or two (depending on how many they'll let me load) of our beautiful birthday boy.

Birthday Thoughts

Atticus is now officially one year old. It only took two visits to the hospital, thirty-six hours of labor, several thousand miles of travel (some of it by plane), three continents and two scrape/bump-leaving falls to get this far.

The party was simple. Local food and a cake. Presents and cards. No traditional white suit or stick. Maybe twenty-five people covering four nationalities. Atticus got banana cake with a taste of the chocolate one when mom left the room. After everyone left, some additional friends stopped by to break a loaf of bread on Atticus’ back to guarantee strong bones (maybe that’s what went wrong with mine). He was down for a nap three and a half hours after the festivities began.

I wonder how different it would have been in the States. It would have been hotter. There would probably only be one language used as people sat in their little groups. The cards would have been Hallmark. The toys would have been from Wal-Mart or Kaybee’s or Toys R Us. Nobody would have been concerned about which water was safe to drink but somebody might be concerned about the potato salad. Mostly it would have been the same except all of you would have been invited. Consider this your invitation for next year.

Not giving away the ending...

Just over a week ago I finished reading Donald Miller’s Searching for God Knows What. Earlier tonight Amanda and I finished reading The Half Blood Prince. I don’t know with which ending I am most disappointed.

One peaks with an analysis of Romeo and Juliet as a deeply profound retelling of Christian reconciliation. (For those of you who haven’t read either Miller’s or Rowling’s books, I won’t say which one. Oh, and climb out from under your rock.) I loved the book and was a bit let down by this “let me prove I was an English major” stretch that, while I could accept the premise, seemed so unlike the rest of the text. Having forced my share of comparisons – Ngugi/Wordsworth, Mau Mau Rebellion/Industrial Revolution, The Tick/The Nixon Presidency – I proudly admit to the plank in my eye but offer my disappointment nonetheless.

The other book was an equally engrossing book that I also loved reading. My disappointment came with the “now you’re forced to by the next book whether you want to or not” ending. What kind of Back to the Future II kind of closure is that? And now I have to wait another six months to, maybe, get some resolution.

Oh, and if you dig Miller’s lifeboat metaphor (which I really did) you might want to try reading Yann Martel’s Life of Pi. Better yet, skip the whole lifeboat thing and take an elevator with Colson Whitehead’s The Intuitionist.

Finally, a Picture!!!

This may or may not be my son's residual self image. Let's hope he grows out of it. Or at least learns how to crawl bakwards.

A Tail of a Residual Self Image

This is hardly an original idea. For those of you who don’t live under a rock (or some developing country), you might remember The Matrix brought up the idea that we all have a true image of who we are. My wife and I have discussed this and Tammy’s blog reminded me that even as we grow up (and out), there is still a kernel of who we are that really doesn’t change. On a recent Sunday as I was getting ready to go out, I looked in the mirror and saw my (almost) exact residual self image.

Thin, metal-framed glasses. Ancient, huge, Ironman watch. Khaki pants with a brown belt. Brown shoes. Long sleeve dress shirt in a solid primary color (sometimes blue but in this case white). Sleeves rolled up. Unremarkable tie, loosened slightly.

If you have a picture of me at some planned, even remotely formal gathering, I probably am dressed in some variation of that. Maybe I have a suit jacket on. Maybe I’m in a polo shirt or have jeans on (likely with a suit jacket). The watch might be different. But those are just variations.

When I really think about it, though, I’m missing a tail. My residual self image needs a long tiger tail curled around to the front. When I was something like five I used to wear a tiger costume whenever I could. I would chew on that tail. Maybe it was some fascination with the Wizard of Oz – I would also jump out from around corners and try to scare people when I wore that. I think that’s part of me that I just can’t shake. And I don’t think I want to get rid of that part of me.

Yeah, even now, I’m pretty sure I need a tail.

Missing Home...r

Today I was watching my son play with his favorite toy and I realized how much I miss my family. There’s something to be said for visiting every night, or at least every Sunday night, with those you truly love.

I miss living in the shadow of the power plant. I miss riding my bike up to the lemon tree – or where it used to be. Or listening to the Lovejoys on Sunday mornings. Remember what we used to learn at the chalkboard after school? We gave Principal Skinner such a hard time. I miss visiting Moe at his tavern and Grandpa Simpson at the old folks’ home. I hear that a certain someone finally came out of the closet. I miss Maude (may she rest in peace). I miss stopping by the comic book store.

I wonder if Bart and Lisa and Maggie have changed. I wonder if the Mayor has finally been charged with a crime…I wonder if Barney is okay. Is Crusty still funny? Is does life continue there without me? Does everyone still remember me there? And would they call out my name when I come to visit or would I be like every other Cliff who stops by?

I miss my Springfield.

Getting older

I got older this week (Thanks Jessica for pointing this out.) But it has little to do with age.

We don't get old simply because we live longer. Days, weeks, months, years really don't matter. I got old when I moved out of my parents' house. I got old when I stopped being mistaken for a student at Eureka. I got old last year when I fell out of a tree and a month later was back in the hospital for the birth of Atticus (if I was a different person this might have confirmed my immortality but that was determined only by an invitation from someone else.) We get old when events force us to leap from who we were to who we are to who we will be.

Two people who Amanda and I are very close to left this country on Wednesday. They taught us a ton by loving us and putting up with us. They were and are amazing, talented, gifted people who will do great things whereever they are. We continue to be busy with work but now so much of what we do will lack their counsel, insight and passion. We have to grow up.

Their absence will mean that Amanda and I have some growing to do. Atticus will have noone to call him Gizmo. The learning curve will be steep for a while as we grow into the next part of our lives here. Sitting at lunch yesterday, it was clear that two chairs were empty. During a meeting, two voices weren't being heard.

I clearly still have some grieving to do.

My point is that getting old is much more than counting coffee spoons.

Juggling porcupines

One of the things I love about my current home is that "porcupine quills" really are one of their major exports. You can get them on ashtrays and bowls and nicknacks. It's great!

But for the last week I feel like Amanda and I have been juggling live, hyperactive porcupines. Suddenly I am not just a professor and father and husband. I've had to learn to fix computers, calm the nerves of two college visitors and one mother-in-law, practice my pediatric dental expertise by reassuring my wife that that our son is fine even though it appears that he will be getting forty-seven teeth in at the same time (it's like he's getting multi-row shark teeth or something). I'm also becoming an expert packer/mover/papershredder. It's a good thing that my car's odometer doesn't work because I've been making runs all over town. Today is the first day I've been in the office in a week.

So what I want to hear is your most stressed out, porcupine juggling story. I'd tag some people but I'm too busy. I figure it'll be good for me to hear somebody else's stories. Revisit that time in the airport, snowstorm or being locked in your grandmother's bathroom...

Anybody can juggle chainsaws. Let's see Sheri Storer do this.

Running for cover

I teach at a university where many students don’t have a mailing address. Fewer have email addresses. So at the end very semester, grades (often handwritten are) are passed out individually. If students are unable to pick them up, they can stop by in at the beginning of the fall semester in September or October. During the next week students will decide whether to accept the grades or, for about $4.50, have the grades reviewed in hopes of receiving a higher grade. Rather than going to a committee which would determine whether the grade was fair based on examination of the student’s quizzes, homework and exams, the appeal consists of a group of people double-checking the professor’s math. At no point is the student allowed to present evidence, question the teacher or in any way explain why the grade should be changed. The student isn’t even allowed to look at his/her final exam. If the appeal is successful, the student’s money is refunded. Grade changes are rare.

Even with the cards obviously being in favor of the teacher, most will stay away from campus for the next week. It’s a conflict avoidance thing. Those who do come in to work on summer projects will hide within the confines of their offices, scurrying from doorway to doorway hoping to avoid detection by their students. We look like rodents peeking out of our tunnels, watching the skies for predators which might swoop down on us at any moment.

Suddenly I have a craving for cheese…

Me, A Heart Breaker???

While walking across campus today I was stopped by a young man who, after inquiring about my health and the health of my family, my summer and the weather, began to explain that "My heart is breaking because of you." While slightly flattered but more disturbed by the comment, I needed an explanation. You see, I am straight, married and hopelessly in love with my partner.

After discussing the concern in my office with the door open (a must whenever a conversation with a student might involve matters of the hear), it became clear that his heartbreak had nothing to do with my khaki pants, Cub Scouts conditioned sense of humour (all my jokes, even now, come from old issues of Boy's Life - the official publication of the Scouts), or flatlander accent. It was all about the grade the young man had just recieved in his sophomore English class.

Yes, I'm a hard grader. At Eureka College I frequently heard from students that I expected too much from them or that I required too much work from them. My papers were written on obscure topics or bizarre comparisons ("Compare one of the central characters in Death of a Salesman to your favorite Neal Patrick Harris mini-series character). I would often spend more time grading a paper than most students spent writing it. I would take some degree of pleasure in writing essay questions that even I wasn't sure how to answer. But since moving to Africa, my standards have fallen significantly. Spelling is overrated. Grammer is just an artificial construct of rules. Sentence and paragraph structures should be fluid and fit into a jellyfish shaped outline. So it is a surprise when students complain to me about grades.

But here is does make a difference...sort of. If a student is removed from the university or simply never attends, he or she immediately begins working for the government. This could mean a job with the post office or telephone company but it also could mean teaching highschool in a village ten hours from home. Or it might get you a spot on the front lines digging trenches in 100 degree heat. It certainly would mean something more difficult than sitting in a classroom listening to some American or Indian talk about the beauty of language.

But it is only a delay. When a student does graduate, his or her fate is the same. In this case they may be digging trenches with a diploma in hand. A 3.75 doesn't keep the sun off your back any more than a 2.0 or a highschool certificate. After 18 months or two years or six years a person is released and typically placed or directed to a job a bit more suited to his or her degree. Usually.

And my grades are justified. Walking into the final all my students should be aware of what grade they will likely recieve. My syllabus is clear, my scale is defined, my requirements are logically explained. Objective and "fair" (whatever that means).

So I guess I really shouldn't feel guilty about being such a heart breaker.

Altered Perspective

This morning while on the phone I had one of those Santa Claus epiphanies. Or maybe it was more like learning that Pete Rose gambled on baseball. Or that the "Sunday Morning" guy had a secret family nobody knew about until he died.

It's tough when your perspective about someone is shattered but even more so when you realize who else is being hurt. I was bothered that Jesse Jackson had an affair not because I like Jesse Jackson or because I thought he was an exceptionally good man. I was bothered those years ago because I was thinking about his wife and if he had kids and what it would be like for them when they went to school. I wondered how much of their life together she also questioned. I thought about those people who did look to him as a moral role model.

People with secrets can claim they were decieved into decieving or that the lies they told were necessary or sacrificing. They can blame addictions or events in their past or chemical imabalances. And I do sympathize and accept that sometimes people have little control over their own thoughts or actions. But it still hurts.

I'm thankful that my wife has nothing to hide from me. Neither of us have the time or energy to be deceptive. We're barely smart enough to correctly spell charade - I know we could never pull one off.

When a perspective-altering event occurs, it's tough not to rewrite history or second guess past actions of the individual...

I don't know where else this needs to go...

So much for writing a blog saying why Pete Rose should be allowed into the Hall of Fame!?!

Money for Nuttin'

I feel like I need to start by saying that I am a skeptic about anything on the Web proclaiming "free" or "money" but I do think this site put out by the State of Illinois is worth looking into. Cash Dash is where financial institutions go when they can't find you. The government will require some paperwork but eventully you'll get your money. I found it when I was looking for my sister's blog and realized she had money owed her (or at least to her husband).

I haven't found anything due me but I think Ken B. has between $10 and $100 owed to him.

Let me know if you have any luck. I may even waive my finder's fee.

For Wafflers Only

This will make no sense to anyone who does not use a waffle maker.

My overly-simplistic global division of people is that there are waffle makers who pour in too much batter (thus, spilling batter out the sides of the waffle maker) and those of us who pour in too little (thus leaving underdeveloped half waffles with holes). I don't like having to clean up the goo. I suppose those in the other waffle camp have something against imperfection.

And I guess there are those who simply pop an Eggo into the toaster instead.

I dunno. It's just a theory.

Blessing others on accident

Sometimes Christ's love shines through me in spite of me. Last night was one of those times.

Duane (another American) and I teach a spoken English class at the university together. Since there are only six students in it we decided it'd be nice to have them over for an end of the year meal. I didn't think much of it since Amanda and I had done the same thing in Eureka for a couple of classes. But I guess it did mean something to them.

After the simple meal of local food, one of the students stood up to present us each with a gift from the class. What they gave us didn't matter; what he said did:

The night before Christ died, he invited his friends to share meal with him. This was the
most intimate connection he could offer them. Thank you for inviting us into your home.

I hadn't thought about the fact that most of these students had never been invited into a teacher's home before. None had ever been invited to the home of a forengi before. I didn't think it was going to be meaningfull or significant or important in any way. Now I wish I had invited them earlier.

I thought it was just a meal. To them it was a blessing.

A Class Not Offered at Eastern

Final exams begin tomorrow and, in the process of checking to see where mine had been moved (so far they’ve changed the date, time and/or location three times in two weeks), I noticed the title of a course not listed in the college catalogue at Eureka College or Eastern:

Ag/Econ 401 - Camel Production: 3 Jun., 8am. Room 319.

After doing some checking, I found out that this listing is only for the written part of the final. There is also a practical exam.

Three Poems (Give or take a few...)

As per Josh H., a list of three favorite poems:

My all time favorite:

“Love Poem” by John Fredrick Nims

My clumsiest dear, whose hands shipwreck vases,
At whose quick touch all glasses chip and ring,
Whose palms are bulls in china, burs in linen,
And have no cunning with any soft thing,

Except all ill-at-ease fidgeting people:
The refugee uncertain at the door,
You make at home: deftly you steady
The drunk clambering on his undulant floor.

Unpredictable dear, the taxi driver’s terror,
Shrinking from far headlights pale as a dime
Yet leaping before red apoplectic streetcars –
Misfit in any space. And never on time.

A wrench in the clocks of the solar system. Only
With words and people and love you move at ease,
In traffic of wit expertly maneuver
And keep us, all devotion, at your knees.

Forgetting your coffee staining our flannel,
Your lipstick spreading on our coat,
So gaily in love’s unbreakable heaven
Our souls on glory of spilt bourbon float.

Be with me darling early and late. Smash glasses –
I will study wry for your sake.
For should your hands drop white and empty
All the toys of the world would break.

I think the poem reminds me of every girl I’ve ever fallen for – slightly broken, maybe not totally polished but connecting with people on some amazing level. Are there a better closing two lines than “for should your hands drop white and empty/ all the toys of the world would break” ??? A bit melodramatic but then again so am I.

A solid choice for #2

“Dream Deferred” – Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore –
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugary over –
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

Maybe a bit over used but that’s because it really is a great poem. Plus it’s easy to use for class when talking about apathy or indecision (The Road Less Traveled by Frost) or race (A Raisin in the Sun). Or imagery. Or form. Or…

But I just can’t come up with a third. Stephanie reminded me about Edna St. Vincent Millay – “Apostrophe to Man” is all about man destroying civilization and how maybe he should. Or there’s “The Man I Killed” or Shakespeare’s “My Mistress’ Eyes Are Nothing Like the Sun”.

And I have to admit I do love Dunne’s “The Flea” and some of Browning’s cheesier stuff.

William Carlos Williams – besides having a great name – has written some of those great poems I like despite myself. “The Red Wheelbarrow” and “This is Just to Say.”
But he’s a love him or hate him sort of writer. (I’d be curious to hear what the general consensus is.)

And Maya Angelou and AI and some of the other newer poets doing stuff without punctuation. Lucille Clifton has this great sassy, AMC church-attending, hip swaying, big Easter hat wearing African American voice.

And of course the African poets from Kenya and Nigeria and Ghana who I am not allowed to appreciate because, as one person told me, I can never truly relate to “the struggle.”

Signing off,

The Man

I've Been Tagged! Books

Argh!! I love talking about books but when Johnny D tagged me to narrow my discussion to five…It’s like he asked me which of my children I love the best. Sure, easy enough of a question to answer when you only have one but almost impossible to answer when you have hundreds (books…er…not children). But since I never back down from a tag (insert Michael Jackson’s Beat It into the soundtrack for the rest of this blog) here’s my answer at this moment.

How many books do you own? Hundreds, not thousands. Maybe a few less in the US than here in Africa.

The last book I bought: Locally - Some Sweetly Held Thoughts by Rahel Asgedom.
The author is a good friend and colleague and the book is her first collection of short stories and poetry. Plus, at less than two bucks I had to buy it.

Books from the States are almost impossible to buy here but we do some shopping through the internet. Real Questions, Real Answers About Sex should be arriving shortly. Here people don’t ask their parents about sex and are about as likely to talk to their priest or Muslim religious leader so the white married couple with a child get a lot of questions.

Last book I read: I just reread Kurt Vonnegut’s Cat’s Cradle. There go four hours I’ll never get back. Because we don’t have access to many new books, I find myself going back to some of the classics to reread – Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, The Chronicles of Narnia, Where the Wild Things Are, Charlotte’s Web, The Things They Carried...

Last book I read for the first time: The Revolutionary Communicator by Jedd Medefind and Erik Lokkesmoe. Good discussion of communication techniques used by Christ written by experts who understand communications without pretending to know absolutely everything about God.

Oh, and I finally got around to reading Brave New World which was kind of a letdown. The hype set me up for a fall.

Five books that mean a lot to me…: Ok, I can’t do this one directly so I’ll group.

Invisible Man by Ellison, The Intuitionist by Colson Whitehead and Native Son by Richard Wright. All three gave me a new perspective on race and race relations. The Intuitionist is definitely on my all-time-favorites list. If you like allegories centered around elevator inspectors, this is the book for you.

A New Kind of Christian, Where Do We Go From Here? and Blue Like Jazz. I don’t always agree with everything in them but all three had me reevaluating my faith. Also introduced me to the idea of thinking about Christianity and its function in a postmodern age. (For those of you who think “Post-Modern Christianity” is blasphemy, read them and then if you still think so please accept my apologies.)

The Great Brain, A Series of Unfortunate Events, The Chronicles of Narnia, A Swiftly Tilting Planet and Harry Potter. Great children’s books. The Great Brain is the first series of chapter books I remember reading on my own. Most are also viewed as blasphemy by some.

This Side of Paradise, The Great Gatsby, The Sun Also Rises. I love Lost Generation Literature. Is there anything better than books filled with people who are miserable because there is nothing to really be miserable about? Plus I’m still hopelessly in love with Lady Brett Ashley and Daisy Miller.

King Leopold’s Ghost, The Last King of Scotland, A Passage to Africa and Things Fall Apart. Especially the first and last books are great introductions to understanding Africa. King Leopold’s Ghost may be the best book on African history I’ve ever read – it is certainly the most readable and most graphic.

Eighteen books instead of the suggested five. No wonder I only lasted about six weeks as a journalism major…

But the literature discussion isn’t done yet. I haven’t even touched on “books I once thought were great but have now learned better,” “books I know I should read but haven’t/can’t,” “favorite literary villains,” “books I wish I hadn’t have read,” “books my spouse likes but I can’t stand” etc.

Anyone have suggestions for books on marriage and relationships? If Amanda and I are expected to be the resident experts, we need some help.

And is Ben Miller blogging? Or Phil, Yes Phil? I’d love to see their literature lists.

5 Meaningful Books - Short version

Here are my five:

A Prayer for Owen Meany – John Irving
Perhaps the greatest opening lines in all of literature and a huge influence on me just when I was trying to figure out where my life was going.

The Sun Also Rises – Hemmingway
Tragic, brilliant, pathetic people. Oh, and Lady Brett Ashley…sigh. I fell in love with this book before I burnt out on Hemmingway.

The Last King of Scotland
A fictional book about Idi Amin’s doctor. “If you could have killed Hitler, would you?” sort of question only in Africa.

The Intuitionist – Colson Whitehead
If this was in order, my #1 pick. Amazing writing but more than a little off. A book you’ll either absolutely love or be stuck in a permanent confused-dog look after reading. Think Invisible Man with elevators.

And of course,
Blue Like Jazz
I kept finding myself objecting to and judging the narrator at the beginning of chapters only to be nodding my head in agreement with him by the end. Great ideas that every Christian needs to think about. I don’t know if it’ll make the list in another few years but right now I’m still chewing on it.

Internet takeover

I thought I'd gotten past this when we opened a secure email account. I thought "It happens to banks and Hardee's and even gas station chains but it won't ever happen to my nice little secure internet system." I'd been waiting for the announcement that Eureka College had been taken over and was now the Bradley University Campus in Eureka. Or for Eureka, the city, to be officially renamed Yahoo, Illinois. It was ok when the college football bowl games started getting renamed things like the "Office Depot Bowl". I was even fine with Tom Cruise being bought out by L. Ron Hubbard's little Hollywood religion and Madonna moving from New Testament to Old with her new name but not my stable little internet company.

Right now I am trying to figure out how to open email through a company that, like everything else in this world, has been bought out by a more aggressive thriving company who in all likelyhood will be bought out by another, more aggressive thriving company sometime in the next sixteen minutes. Somehow I'm now working through wingnet instead. New protocols to learn, new format. I'll probably even need to learn to write with a new font.

And I'm the one whose supposed to be good at accepting change. Can't wait for Amanda to have to learn the new system.

All this is to say that if you are trying to contact Amanda or I through our "headsail" account, it may take us a while to respond.

Sincerely, Best Buy Jonathan

Three weeks left!!!

As usual, as the semester winds down I feel like there's so much a need to cover and not nearly enough time. That's why I didn't cancel class despite the horrible head cold and runny nose. In the middle of the lecture, cough drop lodged in my cheek and pockets filled with kleanex, I began speaking about the need to use proper source citation when researching.

Without warning a bubble roughly the size of a basketball errupts from my right nostral. I reached for a kleanex and turned away from the class but the damage had been done. The class roared.

In attempt to save myself some dignity I explained "That may be the most embarrassing thing I do all year." Without missing a beat a student replies, in perfect English, "The semester isn't over yet."

Sure, he can't pass a quiz to save himself but he can nail a punchline.

Learning Humor

At only 8 months, it's tough to define my son's personality. He'll let anyone hold him. He'll eat anything. He likes to squeeze lemon and banana peels in his hands. He is a sleep fighter. He loves looking at people's faces. He hates loud noises. I'm not sure what he'll be like later but right now what is developing most is his sense of humor.

One of the things Amanda and I brought with us from the US is our hayfever. From birth, one of the few constants in our son's life has been sneezing. It's not so much the sneeze that he finds hilarious as the "Bless You" that follows. Sometimes he'll sneeze, hear the "Bless You" and then fake another sneeze so he'll hear it again.

At least he doesn't react that way when someone burps.

I don't get it. Goofy

Onomatopoeia no more

My favorite word used to onomatopoeia. It flows and has lots of vowels and I love to share examples of it with my English classes. “Slurp” and “bang,” “splash” and “baptismo” (thank you Roger for sticking that forever in my brain).

But I think my new favorite word is “expatriate.” Is there any other word that is so pretentious yet so shallow and empty? The word is very much Hemmingway’s. Like the romantic idea of Gertrude Stein’s Lost Generation, it presents the image of having given up something or having given up on something. This is a word that should only be spoken if you regularly discuss bullfights and safaris over drinks while watching the sun set over Kilimanjaro.

It’s true some of the expats I know here are lost. Is there a well adjusted member of the Foreign Service who chooses this assignment? Some of the foreigners here don’t really identify with Africa or home. I know a lady who was here when the British were still in charge and can’t imagine going back. Others have their satellite dishes and access to the embassy’s regular imports of Chips Ahoy and Twinkies or they take an occasional dip in the diplomatic pouch. They send there kids to the American school and eat at the foreign restaurants. They manage to take a bubble of America with them wherever they go. There are the Peace Corps/VSO workers who have run out of things to protest in the US so they had to travel here to find new cause worth fighting for. Some of us must be CIA or MI6 or whatever the Canadian equivalent is for no other reason than there is no other reason for bringing a family here. We all must be lost or else why would we have ended up here. (This of course ignores nearly perfect weather, low crime, inexpensive cost of living, beautiful people, great food and a laid-back culture.)

Maybe we’re here as tour guides, to show others the way.

There are other words I could use to describe myself. Here I am forengi (like those big eared, big nosed traders on Star Trek). But I am also Italiano (all white people, naturally, come from Italy). It’s curious how rarely I am American. If I was from Ethiopia, I would be amache (named after an auto assembly plant). Sudanese? You’re a lorry like the big trucks that trek back and forth from there. But all of us living away from home are expats – once part of something else, now removed.

I must end this. I have lions to hunt, wine to drink and Gatsby to read. Nick Adams calls.

I Love This Town

I live thousands of miles from where I was born and yet I am HOME!! Capital letters and exclamation points. (OK, not home in an eternal, spiritual sense but as home as a person can be in this world.) Despite its size and problems, I just love this city. Sitting on my roof I can see mosques and cathedrals and churches. I watch horses and carts go by being passed by UN SUVs going way too fast.

The beggars know me as teacher and the little girl who sells gum always shows me her teeth- to prove that her product hasn't rotted them, despite what I say. The waiter at the Casa knows that whatever the specials, I'll get the one with the most meat in it. There's a grocery where I only by a candy bar once a week, nothing else. I walk into the bookstore to talk literature with the high schooler who works there and to see if there are new paintings for sale. I walk around the city looking at artdeco houses that need saving that I'll never live in. Students stop me as I walk and invite me for tea or coffee.

This city, like the Seattle suburb of Ballard, just connects with me. I never could get used to Peoria. The people in Eureka were great but nobody walked anywhere. Bloomington had gotten too sprawling and stressfull. Indianapolis is one big strip mall. Nairobi is...if you've ever been there, you have your own reasons for feeling queer about that place. But I don't think you learn to love a city because it is perfect. You love a city because it reaches some part of you that others don't. For all its crazy drivers and broken sidewalks, despite having to dodge road apples when biking, even with the frustrations of dealing with shops that close just when you have time time to run errands, this city still makes me smile.

Toys

Even as an adult, I’ve kept some toys around. After all, I need them as educational aids in my classes. Legos help to teach about small group communication roles. Students use the giant talking Tick doll to evaluate it as a children’s toy. Even the “sold exclusively through the Home Shopping Network” Classic Video Games (Don’t you just love Pole Position and Ms. Pac Man???) have cultural value. And while I’m not exactly how to justify the rubber chicken or a bobbily-headed Jesus, I’m sure they have professional purposes too.

But now I find myself surrounded by toys. My eight month old son is by no means spoiled. Most of the toys he has are for the 0-6 month range and came with us on the plane. He also has the range of Baby Einstein toys, stuffed animals and whatever people in the States have sent. His whole collection of plastics and fur could fit in an average toy box and yet they often seem to move on their own.

On a typical morning his toys are typically found in three areas. We keep a blanket and pile of them in his bedroom, the living room and the dining room/kitchen. But it’s like building a tower of pudding. Soon they leak into the hallway and on to mommy and daddy’s bed. You need to dodge the Stackable trucks to get to the computer in the office. Link-a-doos litter the inside of our SUV. Right now a teddy bear is trying to help me type. His toys are underneath tables and cabinets and chairs.

I could accept this if he was walking or crawling but right now all he does is roll. So the fault is either placed on my wife and I or it’s one of those Erma Bombeck, “where do socks end up when they get lost in the dryer?” sort of things. Neither answer is good.

Right now his toys hold little interest for me but eventually I look forward to a time when his toys become my toys. The good news for our pocketbook is that here there are no Toys R Us or Kaybee’s or even Wal-Mart. Instead we have closet size stores selling the best of cheap Chinese plastics. And we draw the line at purchasing Craiolla Crayons or Funstation Vidio System. Plus, our normal “resupply center” has just been closed to us now that the “easy” five hour flight to Kenya has stopped flying. So much for getting brown sugar, rootbeer and DVDs. Still, waiting for the occasional trips to the US isn’t too bad. As long as my boy has empty boxes and crinkly wrapping, he’s happy.

Indigestion Confession

Last night, as I lay curled in a fetal position on my bathroom rug, I found myself pondering two not unrelated topics. 1. Would I even realize it if I accidentally flushed one of my kidneys? and 2. Death.

As the far too often repeated mantra “I’m going to die…in a bathroom…in Africa, I’m going to die…in a bathroom…in Africa,” mouthed across my lips I reflected how if I did, with the exception of to a handful of people, it would be little more than a short footnote in the lives of people around me. Don’t panic. Don’t think of this as a cry for help. My life is great - exceptional really. Amazing wife, brilliant son, good job, clear purpose. Other than choosing to eat far too much Indian food at a recent birthday party, I don’t have many regrets.

Think about how quickly people become passing anecdotes shared as pages are flipped through a yearbook.
“Her husband books travel for Brittany Spears. Or maybe he drives the bus”
“Isn’t he in jail?”
“She’s married to a guy from The Normals.”
“I should have asked her out.”
“This guy died when he washed down an empanada with a Coke and then his colon exploded - just like that Mikey kid and the Pop Rocks.”

And yet there’s nothing wrong with that. In the country I’m living in now, the “official” mourning period is more than a month. During that time, the immediate family doesn’t work, or go grocery shopping or do anything outside the home. Instead, they pitch a tent in their yard and make coffee for the people who will stop by. The visitors will bring sugar or coffee or tea and sit with the family. The family is expected to wail and look gloomy and, basically, mope. The death, which is understandably hard on the family, becomes more of a social obligation than a process of adjustment and healing. For the next few months, there will be additional ceremonies and more wailing. I know death hurts the living but when society deliberately prolongs that process…?

Yes, I want people to remember me but realize that after I’m gone from here I’m not finished yet. Celebrate that. Tell silly stories about me and things you heard and remember. Share with classmates that math protest I led in junior high or how I would forget my locker combination after every vacation in high school. Mourn if you need to but continue with life.

And at the visitation, be careful with what you eat.

P.S. An apology needs to go to A.M.’s mom (no, not Betty). Half a decade ago I spent the night curled in a fetal position on your basement bathroom floor after a family meal. I thought you really had tried to poison me. Given what happened last night here in Africa, I could have been wrong. Sorry for the misunderstanding. Unless, of course, you somehow managed to follow me here…

Dusty thoughts

Today I walked into a room that had only been opened twice in the last two years. The language lab was thick with dust and spider webs, broken chairs and locked cabinets with lost keys. Tape recorders and headphones, televisions and language texts. Think of a room belonging to a Jules Verne scientist with a bit less Frankenstein and a bit more WKRP in Cincinnati. It should have been filled with students panicking over not being here the difference between the English voiced and unvoiced “w” or trying to remember what “duck” (a bird they’ve never seen) is in French (the language of a country they’ll never be allowed to visit). Wearing oversized headsets, students should be mouthing Italian and Arabic, German and French along with a range of languages rarely heard off this continent. Instead, it is left unused and wasted.

A satellite dish sits on our roof that doesn’t work; a neighbor’s looks like a rusted out World War II antiaircraft gun. Every house in this country has a fireplace but I have never known one to be used. Sitting in a storage room near here is a collection of crumbling records – the Beatles, Bob Dylan, the soundtrack to Hair. Doorbells here occasionally work, as does the internet.

It’s easy to be critical when you experience something like this but don’t all of us let much of what we have go to waste? How many opportunities do we ignore? How many people do we meet in a day who could be our teachers but are never asked a question? We waste our day, not enjoying our time but trying to kill it. How many talents do we leave undeveloped to gather dust because we don’t see how they might be used in the future? We leave doors locked and the dust seeps through.

In the next few weeks I’ll be opening that room daily. I’m looking for an instrument to start playing again. I’ll be reading more – important things, not just email and the few English novels I’ve tracked down here. I’m trying to relearn much of the local language I have forgotten. And the language lab? In the next few weeks I’ll be opening that up, dusting off the equipment and putting it to use.