Subtle Message, Profound Love

Lately my father and I are learning how to communicate again, particularly connecting through new interests and a new appreciation of each other's experiences.

He's taken up photography, and now occasionally when we're in the car I find myself reminding him to "stop getting distracted by pretty sunsets!"



But inside, I'm excited to see him so excited about the sweeping colors and fading rays, to see him so aware of it all. The last time we were driving into a gorgeous sunset, the kind fit for heroes, and he whooped and hollered at how fantastic it was.

And then he sort of glanced at me, silent and slightly foreboding, as though to ask why in the heck I, as the only free-handed passenger, hadn't taken out a camera yet. So I did my best to capture what I could. On the highway. At 60 miles per hour. For Dad.

Then there's a strange shift that's been taking place, where I've begun talking to each of my parents - married over 31 years now, God bless 'em - about relationships. I've always had a good rapport with my mother, and ending a conversation between us always proves far greater a challenge than beginning one. But this is the first time I can really say I've been bonding with my father over something more serious than photography, crêpes, and Sleepless in Seattle (all fine in their own right, of course), and I'm really enjoying it.

My respect for my dad and his marriage knows no bounds. And although he doesn't always say it directly, I think he in turn has come to appreciate my boyfriend and our long-term, long-distance relationship.

Thus begins my tale.


Several years ago, before my boyfriend and I were dating, we went trick-or-treating. He was a frightening ghoulish figure who blamed his new appearance on the local water. I was a Serta sheep, i.e. an obsolete counting sheep looking for work. I brought a canister to collect for Unicef, but because I was sporting an "Out of Work" sign, people mistook me for a hobo and my collection had mixed results.

Just the same, the Great Halloween Endeavor of the Benefactor Sheep (long-time friend of Santa and the Easter Beagle) not only raised a little money for a cause, but also left me with a jar and slotted lid.

So I have a sheep bank now.

I've had piggy banks before - namely a plastic one I painted and glittered at a friend's party in elementary school, and a giant Crayola crayon bank. And probably others that I remember less vividly because, let's face it, little competes with a glittered pig and a two-foot crayon.

But I like the sound of a sheep bank, and I've begun saving change in mine.



And I've decided that it's only fitting that it go toward transportation to visit with my boyfriend. Besides being busy with school and work, we're both pennysavers and have gone anywhere between 3 months and one year between visits since the move. But instead of dwelling on the idea that we are putting off a trip, I'd rather have a visual representation of progress toward one. So I've labeled it Florida or Bust.

All that said, I wasn't keeping dollar bills in the jar, figuring I would simply collect change for now and could make up the difference when the time came. But recently, when I dropped a coin in, I did a classic doubletake. Where was that familiar chink of metallic collision? I opened the lid... and laughed.

My father had stopped in that week. There had been all of about a minute that I left him alone in the room, and little did I know that, while he was loudly reading off the titles on my shelf, he was stealthily slipping a few wrinkled dollar bills into my sheep bank.

Sometimes people show their love and support for us in the simplest ways.

One of my favorite quotes is (debatably) attributed to St. Francis of Assisi: "Preach the Gospel always. When necessary, use words." My father is no preacher, but I think in his own way he has already begun to put "Francis'" concept into practice.

Thank you, Dad.

Do I Look Illegal?

Before taking Religion and the Social Process (i.e. fantastic mandatory course about diversity and social justice, and how the church both helps and hinders in different contexts), I confess I knew little about immigration.



Thanks to J. for sharing this video with our class!

As one who never knew before quite what to say in discussions about immigration, I particularly appreciated a document from the Lutheran Immigration and Refugee Service debunking common myths. View a copy of it here.

Among the debunked myths are the alleged "illegality" of the majority of immigrants (63% of 31 million foreign-born residents are documented), correlations between immigration and crime rates (U.S. born are incarcerated four times more than the foreign-born), and the supposed drain on the economy (most immigrants arrive after age 18, at which point the U.S. receives "the benefit of their labor without the cost of their education"). Other facts focus upon education, employment, taxes, difficulties in obtaining citizenship, and the struggles particular to families.

It's accessibly written and very much to the point, but it's easy to get lost in the statistics. If just for that, I found one of the other sources we read to be particularly compelling. The American Friends Service Committee provides personal testimonies from an affected population with relatively little self-sovereignty: youth and children.

From the mouths of babes, we hear difficult truths.

To thirteen-year-old Kadiatou, one's worth depends on "having papers," and she believes that her older brother "does not have a chance to be something good in life like the other kids who have papers."

In caring for five younger siblings, including an infant, Jocelyn learns that being a "mother" is much more difficult than she imagined.

In one testimony, a family's lack of new clothing is only exacerbated when the clothing that the children do have is the cause for much of their victimization at school; what could be an insignificant opinion about fashion becomes a vehicle for bullying and aggravated trauma.

Vineta longs not only to fulfill her parents' wishes for her to "have a better future than they had," but also to pass such aid along to others in need, having dreamed of education and career not only for the sake of having them but also to help those without homes or parents. She acknowledges the difficulties that her family faces as well as those that challenge families who may lack even what little she herself has.

Voicing a similar understanding of the prevalence of these problems, Bassidi likewise hopes that his own story has an impact and that Congress will take action.

I have since found audio for many of these testimonies. Hear them and read more about the kids at this link.

I knew little before I read the words of Kadi, Jocelyn, Vineta, and Bassidi; before I saw their photographs and their drawings; before I read the statistics from the LIRS and thought of these families' faces. And I may still never know just what it is to be an immigrant, perhaps to be not only "undocumented" but also labeled "illegal," as though my very being were a crime.

But here is what I do know.

I recently worked full-time as a porter for a cleaning company.

I worked with many immigrants and first-generation Americans. My first supervisor was a competent, respectable man from Egypt. My usual cohorts were the Latina ladies who helped me practice Spanish, lent me hair-ties when we swept 31 hot staircases or weeded the sun-exposed rooftop, and taught me how to function in a uniform intended for a man's body - apparently one without pores that require air.



There, I was in the minority in almost every sense: one of the few females, the youngest, one of few Caucasians, a fourth-generation American, and decidedly not bilingual despite having studied four other languages. And, whereas most either were regular employees or hoped for longer-term work, I knew at the time that it was a temporary position; I was already preparing to attend graduate school this fall. Yet the limited time that I was there and the differences between us did not hinder our ability to forge friendships and work cooperatively and efficiently.

In another building placement, I generally had to work independently and did not get to know many of the other employees, who often arrived en masse for an evening shift. Of those whom I did meet, many had emigrated from Latin America and Eastern Europe.

Before they heard me speak, however, they had little way of knowing where I had been raised, and one evening as they arrived and I packed up to go home, they speculated to one another: "Maybe she's German. Maybe she's Irish. Look at her hair," until one person finally approached me directly.

It was bizarre to be in a position of "defying expectation" – to be a U.S.-born student working toward graduate school in an entry-level job involving restrooms and dumpsters.

However, most intriguing to me in retrospect is that overhearing the group's conversation influenced how I then identified myself. I automatically responded with my ancestral heritages when I really should have just replied, "I'm American. I'm from New York."

12 Angry Seminarians: On Diversity

"Diversity is a gift to be celebrated!!!

...but it also sucks."

-Dr. Chris Boesel

One part of our orientation to Drew was a discussion on diversity. Looking around at the theological school's student body, it is clear that the only group of people who could rival our diversity is a jury.

So I'm seeking a co-producer for a new play called 12 Angry Seminarians. Anyone interested?



Our ages range about 40 years. Maybe more.

We are of different races, ethnicities, nationalities, and heritages. We have many students from all over the world, from South Korea to Côte d'Ivoire.

We have different native tongues and in fact speak many more languages between us. A friend from South Korea taught me to say hello - 안녕, "ahn nyeong" (or formally 안녕하세요, "ahn nyeong ha say yo"). I've taught another Korean friend the phrase "study party," words I've taken for granted on a daily basis throughout college. For a friend from the Congo, English is his fifth language. Fifth.

We have students who have lived months or years in a country foreign to their own, and many who are now doing so for the first time. Students bring with them their "temporary resident" experiences of other countries from England to Honduras. We also have representation from all across the United States.

We are of different socioeconomic backgrounds and, despite at least one common expense, find ourselves in varying financial situations.

We are of different sexes, orientations, and gender identities. The school not only encourages gender neutral discussion of humans ("humankind" vs. "mankind") but also of God. But more on the Inclusive Language Policy another time.

We are single, married, separated, divorced, remarried, widowed, and in a range of relationships. Some have spouses in other states or other countries. Some are raising their families in campus apartments.

We are of different abilities, with unique strengths and weaknesses that have only just begun to shape us into a community with complementary parts.

We are of different political persuasions with a range of priorities and ideas in government, voting, and public policy.

We are of different faiths, denominations, and perspectives, sharing in belief and disbelief, curiosity and doubt. Even within our populous Christian contingent, differences can be striking.

This incredible diversity can create for us amazing growth, enlightenment, and interdependence - opportunities just waiting to be seized!

But easier said than seized.

Because diversity asks a lot of us. It asks us to see ourselves differently. It constantly presents us with the realization that there is yet another perspective that we have not considered or another life's worth of experiences that we may never come to understand fully, even if we genuinely try.

When asked to describe themselves, people in a majority infrequently list that dominant trait as part of what identifies them. At the same time, somehow many of our rarities do not earn the value of rarities, and instead they are often pointed out unfavorably by others or are used as the basis of self-deprecating humor.

Our default setting seems to be somewhere between the urge to set ourselves apart and blend in with a safely homogenous group. Sometimes we're willing to follow the social script even when it does not properly - even kindly - define us. It may be easier or safer or less intimidating than (inter-)acting off-book.

But we cannot allow our discussions on promoting diversity and respect to assume their own sort of social script: to become stale, inauthentic, incomprehensive, or roundaboutly offensive. We must be vigilant of this in even our noblest efforts -

That is, don't let something like this happen to you or someone you love:





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Interested in reading about diverse forms of diversity? Check out Readings for Diversity and Social Justice, Second Edition (2010), edited by Maurianne Adams, et. al., particularly Section 1 on Conceptual Frameworks. Other sections are by topic, such as ableism, sexism, and classism, and include excellent primary and secondary sources in various formats and writing styles.

Cleaning the Lamp Posts

Grandpa's Wisdom in the Midst of Parkinson's

Last week, while I was home for a few days with my parents and grandparents, my grandfather took a spill. It was only when we had already helped him up that we realized he had a large, bruising bump on his head and required immediate care.

Parkinson's disease makes too many everyday tasks for my grandpa more difficult than they have ever been before: walking, moving, standing, sitting, eating, talking. His hands shake, his limbs are stiff, and his mind seems perpetually clouded. He has always been an exceptionally brilliant man. If everyone has but one thing they personally consider self-identifying, Grandpa's intelligence is his. And he is now often unaware, or dazed, or seemingly incoherent, but frequently he seems frustrated as well, as though he is not only in a haze but confused as to how he got there when he knows - he knows - that he is a bright, strong, competent person.

It's difficult for him to understand us - not that his children or grandchildren have ever really been all that easy to understand - but he finds it difficult to know our intentions, answer questions, and follow conversational threads. It's difficult to understand him, too, though sometimes he makes himself especially clear.

One day this past summer, he stood before me and looked me square in the eye. "Enjoy life," he said, his expressive eyes compensating for the brevity. He doesn't always know who I am, but some things are too important to say no matter who says them and to whom.

This time, as I was icing his bruise, Grandpa told me, complete with its anecdote-esque dialogue tag, "He said, 'Merry Christmas, Nancy.'"

His wife's name. We attributed the rest of the sentence to the fact that my mother and grandmother had just been listening to a CD that I'd compiled for my parents last Christmas, which included a couple of seasonal tunes.

We were fairly sure that Grandpa's difficulty conversing and general quietness were more due to the Parkinson's itself than to the fall, but we needed to be sure that he remained conscious until the EMTs arrived.

"Were you listening to the music?" I asked.

"Of course."

"What's your favorite song, Grandpa?"

"Beef." He threw me for a loop on that one. His expression hadn't changed and it was impossible to gauge whether he was being humorous or serious or had misheard me or had simply chimed in with a nonsequitur.

"Beef?"

"Beef!" More animated this time; not coarse, but strangely energized if just for a moment.

It reminded me of Stone Soup, because we'd recently been talking about that story, so I quoted a line from it about beef and used it as a segue. "Did you like being a butcher?"

"Not particularly." This a conversational tone; honest, not detached, but without great lament or disappointment.

"Well, what's your favorite thing to do?"

"To do?"

"Yeah. In the whole wide world."

"Ah," he said. "Cleaning the lamp posts."

I'm not entirely sure why, but this struck me as significant, poignant.

An unexpected answer, to say the least, though I know Grandpa to be a hard worker who has always valued diligence. A man who, for years, labored lovingly over his own garden in addition to the time and energy he devoted to his business. So the idea of him cleaning lamp posts - even enjoying it - does not radically stun me.

But the imagery did.

Immediately I thought of illuminated paths in the dark, a guiding light in the midst of unfamiliar ground.

I thought of the tall poles that in daylight appear meaningless, or else only aesthetically interesting - shapes and hues of wrought iron suspending a glass encasement in the air. At night, these works of craftmanship may all but disappear in the darkness despite themselves. Certainly their structure and technical mechanisms are integral to their effectiveness, yet sometimes all that can be seen is the light at work.

In a fantastic irony, as a young child my brother used to say that our grandfather made the streetlights come on. I'm not sure where he came up with that tale - surely my parents' twisted influence - but I still think of Grandpa whenever I travel by the glow of streetlights, and especially whenever they first go on for their night shift.

Today I attended a talk during which the ever-inspirational speaker, Dr. Lynne Westfield, mentioned that artists depict us with lightbulbs shining above our heads to signify new ideas, seeing something illuminated in a new way.

My grandfather may occasionally confuse his meats and his music, but to this day, at 89 years of age, he can open my eyes to see life in a new light.


All photos above are my own, taken from 2007-2010. Their locations, in order:

Vienna, Austria. Vassar College, New York. Madison, New Jersey. London, England. Sarah Lawrence College, New York. Arboretum in Hamptonburgh, New York. Central Park, New York. Sarah Lawrence College, New York. Florence, Italy. Nice, France. Venice, Italy.

10-Fold: One Click. Global Impact.

Check out this golden opportunity for global impact!

http://www.10-fold.org/

From 10-10-10 to 10-19-10: Go to the website above and click on the project of the day, and $1 will be donated on your behalf. It costs you nothing but the time and energy of a moment's click. There will be a different project for each of these ten days. Each one addresses a different need (today is Haiti recovery) and you'll find great related resources.

Be sure to click the link/image about the day's project! I believe that's when your click is counted, not just by entering the website.



From the site's own About page:

10-Fold is an interactive global gathering, offered by the General Board of Global Ministries, the mission organization of The United Methodist Church.

Global Ministries puts faith into action, living out the commitment of The United Methodist Church to congregational development, leadership development, global health, and ministry with the poor. Read more.

The people of the General Board of Global Ministries aim to raise $10,000 for each project. Please help them get there!

Getting Twitchy With It

Na na-na na na-na na.

(If that didn't sound musical to you, go here.)

True story.

I do local housecleaning. Today, the man of the house was in, and I helped him put up some wood molding along the ceiling.

This required the use of a nail gun.



Which he did not ask me to handle.



Fortunately.

Anyway, the family is planning a Halloween party and the house is Decked. Out. In fact, there's a witch decoration dangling from the ceiling about five feet from where we were working. It's motion- and sound-sensitive. Do you see where this is going? The witch didn't take kindly to the noise of the nail gun, which sounded just enough like a gun-shot that the ensuing animatronic screaming and maniacal laughter made for a good show.

Do you know how many nails it takes to secure wood molding? Neither do I. But that's how many times this lollapalooza of horrific fun happened. If the neighbors could have heard it, I would have had my fill of mischief 'til at least Halloween.

Sadly Mr. Boss was not amused. (He probably was when it first happened. I just must have missed it, and by then the novelty had worn off. I'm sure of it.)

But I was über amused, and über unable to record the actual event. So I conjured up some sound clips and re-created the magic for you. (Blogger-willing that it works.)



When I created the sound file, my computer wanted me to fill out a few fields of information on it. So I did.

Artist: Twitch the Witch
Track Title: It's Less Violent Than It Sounds
Album Title: Gettin' Twitchy Wit' It

I reiterate. Na na-na na na-na na.

I hope you sang it with me that time.

Ask Yourself

One of my close friends passed this on a while back, and I'd like to share it. Meditate on the following questions. You need not write or discuss them with anyone unless you so choose. Their sole purpose is personal reflection and growth.

What do I like about myself?

What do I dislike about myself?

What do others like about me?

What do others dislike about me?

What do I need to do to make myself a better person?

What do I need to stop doing to make myself a better person?