Activist Dorothy Day once remarked how we all imagine ourselves to be so wicked, when really we’re just ordinary people who stumble from time to time and try to do what’s right.
I heard it said that we should “Just assume the answer to every question is compassion.” Can you imagine a worldview colored by that philosophy?
I am not a theologian, but I’ve come to believe through my own experience, shortcomings, and stumbles that what God wants most is for us to be madly in love with life. Whoever we are, whatever our background or beliefs, God I imagine yearns for us to yearn for kinship. I think God beckons us to trust that he trusts us in what is needed to fall madly in love with life. We are tasked with recognizing where God dwells, not only "out there" but in our own being and in the existence of all those we encounter.
I went to a talk by Greg Boyle earlier this year where he said that “The Lord comes to us disguised as ourselves. We do come to believe that we grow into this. The only thing we know about Jesus growing up is he grew in age, and wisdom, and favor with God. But do we really grow in favor with God? Did Jesus become increasingly more favorable to God or did he just discover over time that he was holy, favorable?” It is perhaps in this spirit of compassion we are called to view ourselves, and view those around us.
If we are to assume compassion is the answer to every question, then at once we stand less in judgment of the burden “the other” carries and more in awe that they are able to carry it at all. And we also cleanse ourselves of the shame in which we view our own stumbles and shortcomings. Liberated to just be present to life, we understand what so often evades us in this culture: we are worthy of love not for what we are able to do but simply for being who we are. Like Father G says, we live ever present to the possibility of living our way into a new way of thinking, a thinking that recognizes we didn’t grow more favorable to God; we just discovered how favorable we have been all along.
This reflection came about from reading Greg Boyle's Tattoos on the Heart. I highly recommend it.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Earthquake in Chile
As you all know a large earthquake struck the central part of Chile early this morning.
There isn't much to say other than the images that are coming out of the country are heartbreaking. It's made more intense of course when you look at images and recognize them not as disasters in a foreign land but disasters impacting people you came to know and love living in the country for a brief period.
Some news is good. Most of our friends appear to be OK. We have received a fair amount of messages via Facebook and through a loosely formed network of former volunteers alerting one another whenever we receive news. Most news goes along the lines of "I'm okay, my family is alright, our house is a mess." One friend reported that in my former neighborhood, close to 80% of the houses had a wall collapse. I am still waiting to hear back from a couple friends in that area, one friend who is a volunteer there. I can't get anything about the kids I worked with there, as the houses split apart sometime ago but I pray they are all safe.
A friend Ryan shared the following sites as helpful resources.
http://www.boston.com/bigpicture/2010/02/earthquake_in_chile.html - This has some pretty vivid and telling photos- buildings split in two, bridges collapsed with cars turned upside down.
Google has set up a site to help people communicate about missing people in Chile. http://chilepersonfinder.appspot.com/
In terms of giving- the Red Cross, World Vision, and Save the Children are all dispatching either teams or supplies. Un Techo Para Chile is a great organization on the ground already, but their website is down. If I hear of any initiatives that are more grass roots from the people I know in Chile- I will be sure to pass it on.
Again, not much more to say except that Chile has one thing going for it- it's people are some of the most proud and stubborn people I have ever encountered. In a crisis- there wouldn't be anyone I'd want beside me more.
Keep em in your thoughts and prayers, and let's pray for some reprieve from mother nature for a little while.
There isn't much to say other than the images that are coming out of the country are heartbreaking. It's made more intense of course when you look at images and recognize them not as disasters in a foreign land but disasters impacting people you came to know and love living in the country for a brief period.
Some news is good. Most of our friends appear to be OK. We have received a fair amount of messages via Facebook and through a loosely formed network of former volunteers alerting one another whenever we receive news. Most news goes along the lines of "I'm okay, my family is alright, our house is a mess." One friend reported that in my former neighborhood, close to 80% of the houses had a wall collapse. I am still waiting to hear back from a couple friends in that area, one friend who is a volunteer there. I can't get anything about the kids I worked with there, as the houses split apart sometime ago but I pray they are all safe.
A friend Ryan shared the following sites as helpful resources.
http://www.boston.com/bigpicture/2010/02/earthquake_in_chile.html - This has some pretty vivid and telling photos- buildings split in two, bridges collapsed with cars turned upside down.
Google has set up a site to help people communicate about missing people in Chile. http://chilepersonfinder.appspot.com/
In terms of giving- the Red Cross, World Vision, and Save the Children are all dispatching either teams or supplies. Un Techo Para Chile is a great organization on the ground already, but their website is down. If I hear of any initiatives that are more grass roots from the people I know in Chile- I will be sure to pass it on.
Again, not much more to say except that Chile has one thing going for it- it's people are some of the most proud and stubborn people I have ever encountered. In a crisis- there wouldn't be anyone I'd want beside me more.
Keep em in your thoughts and prayers, and let's pray for some reprieve from mother nature for a little while.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
A Different Type of Volunteer: Meet My Neighorhood Council Hero John
John is my hero. You don’t know John, most likely never really will. That’s not his real name by the way but in a lawsuit happy country, you never can be too safe. You see, to know John like I now know John, you have to sit through a three hour neighborhood council meeting in Westchester. A meeting full of Robert’s Rule of Order, various public comments that peak my curiosity but baffle my mind, and sometimes painstakingly boring presentations by certain speakers who make it obvious within the first 30 seconds they did not prepare for their moment of shinning glory in front of this auspicious crowd.
Back to John, he’s my hero, in a neighborhood council, I’m glad you’re doing this because I don’t think I’d ever care to sort of way. John has fought tirelessly against the expansion of LAX and had a fairly successful track record. Personal feelings you may have aside, expansion of LAX would be bad for a community right next to LAX, especially as Orange County and Long Beach refuse to accommodate their people thus exasperating the crisis in LA. And so John fights. And he fights against power lines with high unsafe levels of electricity running down residential streets they shouldn’t run down. And he does it with energy uncommon a man his age, and with a twinkle in his eye I am certain none of us could maintain after years of these battles for his neighborhood.
And so John has me thinking. I admire him greatly and yet if we sat down and spoke about politics, we would most certainly disagree, and disagree like water to hot oil. We probably wouldn’t see eye to eye on much, most likely on a local and national scale. But in the spirit of Dr. King, I have been thinking a lot about service and volunteerism. For a lefty like me, it’s easy to look at Americorps and the Peace Corps, and religious projects like the Working Boys Center or Jesuit Volunteers- groups where people literally give of themselves in the name of improving some aspect of society failing the poor and oppressed. As a nation, we are able to recognize the value of service in our men and women deployed overseas, regardless of whatever our feeling is about the conflict that has them stationed there.
But I wonder when we as a nation might wake up and do a better job of recognizing folks like John. People who spend hours a month at meetings that bring new meaning to the adage “more boring than watching paint peel” or people who comb through every dreary public announcement by agencies big and small and then cause a ruckus in the name of true public debate.
John fights a good fight for the neighborhood of Westchester. Whether you agree with him or not to me is beside the point. He does it for free, he does it out of convictions he holds dear, and he does it with a smile and with a dignity that is lost upon many of us. And so a big thanks to John, for the hours he spends on projects to improve my community, and for helping me to consider with a more wide angle lens the spirit that is service and volunteerism in America today.
Back to John, he’s my hero, in a neighborhood council, I’m glad you’re doing this because I don’t think I’d ever care to sort of way. John has fought tirelessly against the expansion of LAX and had a fairly successful track record. Personal feelings you may have aside, expansion of LAX would be bad for a community right next to LAX, especially as Orange County and Long Beach refuse to accommodate their people thus exasperating the crisis in LA. And so John fights. And he fights against power lines with high unsafe levels of electricity running down residential streets they shouldn’t run down. And he does it with energy uncommon a man his age, and with a twinkle in his eye I am certain none of us could maintain after years of these battles for his neighborhood.
And so John has me thinking. I admire him greatly and yet if we sat down and spoke about politics, we would most certainly disagree, and disagree like water to hot oil. We probably wouldn’t see eye to eye on much, most likely on a local and national scale. But in the spirit of Dr. King, I have been thinking a lot about service and volunteerism. For a lefty like me, it’s easy to look at Americorps and the Peace Corps, and religious projects like the Working Boys Center or Jesuit Volunteers- groups where people literally give of themselves in the name of improving some aspect of society failing the poor and oppressed. As a nation, we are able to recognize the value of service in our men and women deployed overseas, regardless of whatever our feeling is about the conflict that has them stationed there.
But I wonder when we as a nation might wake up and do a better job of recognizing folks like John. People who spend hours a month at meetings that bring new meaning to the adage “more boring than watching paint peel” or people who comb through every dreary public announcement by agencies big and small and then cause a ruckus in the name of true public debate.
John fights a good fight for the neighborhood of Westchester. Whether you agree with him or not to me is beside the point. He does it for free, he does it out of convictions he holds dear, and he does it with a smile and with a dignity that is lost upon many of us. And so a big thanks to John, for the hours he spends on projects to improve my community, and for helping me to consider with a more wide angle lens the spirit that is service and volunteerism in America today.
Saturday, January 02, 2010
Dueling Realities
Reality is complex to define. While in South America, I was often subjected to conversations with friends back home who knew nothing of my reality and thus dismissed my volunteering as a cheeky avoidance of reality- an extended spring break of sorts if you will. What I have seen in my time back in the United States is at once simple and complex: the world is limitless with definitions of reality, each one different, real, and wholly unique from the other, and each equally important to understand.
And so I live the reality of a man who has not just seen developing world poverty but lived amongst it and attempted in a rather amateur way to repair it or at least heal some of the wounds that develop as a result of it. And now I am a mid 20 something, surrounded by a haunting reality of a world I can’t and don’t want to forget. And yet I am increasingly entrenched in a world where like it or not your bank statement and your 401K mean something- not so much in terms of competition or prestige but in the simple matter of being able to provide for yourself. Suddenly, the question “what do you want to do with your life?” weighs heavy upon my shoulders.
Living in debt sucks. I know this first hand because it is perhaps the greatest characteristic of my time back in the United States. Working for little pay, I have found myself with a monthly credit card statement that can’t always be paid off on time. And my digs have ranged from a former convent in South LA where my room was the size of a closet to an apartment in a freshman dorm at my alma mater. In that capacity I try, sometimes with limited success, to expose freshman to the challenge and opportunity that is discovering the poverty that lurks in our midst and what we all can and should be doing to respond to it. Life giving as this role is for me, I am faced with the realization that one can only be a coupon whore and live gratis in church attics and dorms for so long.
And all this has me thinking, or more accurately said, worrying, about what my future contains. This I know, I am happiest when directing my energy towards making the world a better place. To take it a step further, I imagine I would be in my element working for a nonprofit focused on combating crisis of health and sanitation in the developing world. But at what cost? I attended a conference of nonprofit leaders in LA last year where the keynote speaker lamented about one of the greatest problems in the nonprofit sector: how are we to eliminate poverty in this world if we entrap our employees within it?
And so dear reader, now 18 months back home, I find myself adjusting to the world that I imagine many if not all returned volunteers face: how does one live with the urgency to expend every ounce of your talent towards fighting against a reality you were exposed to that is poverty, that you know is unjust and in need of repair. And how do you do that while juxtaposing it with a sincere and indeed acceptable desire to make enough money so that an unplanned expense such as a root canal doesn’t bring the prospect of financial misery for many more months to come? I wish I had an answer, but more often then not I find myself overly obsessed with a most frightening question: what if you are fairly certain of the career path that would bring you the greatest satisfaction and horribly uncertain if it can provide for a modest but comfortable lifestyle?
And so I live the reality of a man who has not just seen developing world poverty but lived amongst it and attempted in a rather amateur way to repair it or at least heal some of the wounds that develop as a result of it. And now I am a mid 20 something, surrounded by a haunting reality of a world I can’t and don’t want to forget. And yet I am increasingly entrenched in a world where like it or not your bank statement and your 401K mean something- not so much in terms of competition or prestige but in the simple matter of being able to provide for yourself. Suddenly, the question “what do you want to do with your life?” weighs heavy upon my shoulders.
Living in debt sucks. I know this first hand because it is perhaps the greatest characteristic of my time back in the United States. Working for little pay, I have found myself with a monthly credit card statement that can’t always be paid off on time. And my digs have ranged from a former convent in South LA where my room was the size of a closet to an apartment in a freshman dorm at my alma mater. In that capacity I try, sometimes with limited success, to expose freshman to the challenge and opportunity that is discovering the poverty that lurks in our midst and what we all can and should be doing to respond to it. Life giving as this role is for me, I am faced with the realization that one can only be a coupon whore and live gratis in church attics and dorms for so long.
And all this has me thinking, or more accurately said, worrying, about what my future contains. This I know, I am happiest when directing my energy towards making the world a better place. To take it a step further, I imagine I would be in my element working for a nonprofit focused on combating crisis of health and sanitation in the developing world. But at what cost? I attended a conference of nonprofit leaders in LA last year where the keynote speaker lamented about one of the greatest problems in the nonprofit sector: how are we to eliminate poverty in this world if we entrap our employees within it?
And so dear reader, now 18 months back home, I find myself adjusting to the world that I imagine many if not all returned volunteers face: how does one live with the urgency to expend every ounce of your talent towards fighting against a reality you were exposed to that is poverty, that you know is unjust and in need of repair. And how do you do that while juxtaposing it with a sincere and indeed acceptable desire to make enough money so that an unplanned expense such as a root canal doesn’t bring the prospect of financial misery for many more months to come? I wish I had an answer, but more often then not I find myself overly obsessed with a most frightening question: what if you are fairly certain of the career path that would bring you the greatest satisfaction and horribly uncertain if it can provide for a modest but comfortable lifestyle?
Monday, September 21, 2009
The Voice Within
At Mass last night, a charismatic priest began his homily by saying he was a missionary a few years back. A missionary in Latin America he continues, and I lean forward. He continues some more, explaining the country he worked in- Ecuador. And in Ecuador he tells the audience, he came across a place that changed his life: The Working Boys Center. My heart beat taps an excited dance. A smile appears on my face and all the noise that has needlessly occupied my life for these past few months ceases for a brief moment.
There is a place where children quite literally work to feed themselves he tells this group. And my eyes closed and images of these little loved ones came to the forefront. I felt at peace, I felt connected to a part of me that I am still struggling to incorporate in my current setting. His homily ends rather abruptly, and we sit in silence for a few minutes as though he is beckoning his listeners to make his story their own.
It brought to light a familiar theme in my life throughout my readjustment phase: the struggle to tell the unique stories my journey into solidarity has afforded me. A gifted speaker, I have floundered when sharing my experiences. A passionate advocate, I have sat quietly on the sidelines letting opportunities to educate and raise awareness pass. I have beat myself up a lot, and felt as though I were in a race against time to right these wrongs, so to speak.
Stories yearn to be told, and I left Mass realizing those stories are not mine to tell so much as they are Gods stories that are longing to be told with me as an active collaborator. I have always readily been able to identify God in the other, but struggled to find where God dwells within me. In Ecuador, I found that connection. Today, after a year of many ups and downs, I am learning again to establish that trust in God so I can tell the stories through my lifeworks I so long to tell. I found a quote I thought explains it best. Below that, a video that explains what I have to motivate me to continue on in seeking the Magis within me.
“For me to be a saint means to be myself. Therefore the problem of sanctity and salvation is in fact the problem of finding out who I am and of discovering my true self.” Thomas Merton New Seeds of Contemplation
There is a place where children quite literally work to feed themselves he tells this group. And my eyes closed and images of these little loved ones came to the forefront. I felt at peace, I felt connected to a part of me that I am still struggling to incorporate in my current setting. His homily ends rather abruptly, and we sit in silence for a few minutes as though he is beckoning his listeners to make his story their own.
It brought to light a familiar theme in my life throughout my readjustment phase: the struggle to tell the unique stories my journey into solidarity has afforded me. A gifted speaker, I have floundered when sharing my experiences. A passionate advocate, I have sat quietly on the sidelines letting opportunities to educate and raise awareness pass. I have beat myself up a lot, and felt as though I were in a race against time to right these wrongs, so to speak.
Stories yearn to be told, and I left Mass realizing those stories are not mine to tell so much as they are Gods stories that are longing to be told with me as an active collaborator. I have always readily been able to identify God in the other, but struggled to find where God dwells within me. In Ecuador, I found that connection. Today, after a year of many ups and downs, I am learning again to establish that trust in God so I can tell the stories through my lifeworks I so long to tell. I found a quote I thought explains it best. Below that, a video that explains what I have to motivate me to continue on in seeking the Magis within me.
“For me to be a saint means to be myself. Therefore the problem of sanctity and salvation is in fact the problem of finding out who I am and of discovering my true self.” Thomas Merton New Seeds of Contemplation
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
You Rebuild
I have sat in front of a computer for sometime now plotting out my entry to explain my return visit to Quito a month ago. I spent two weeks visiting the Center and the experience was invaluable in so many ways. It was a much needed visit that allowed me to better understand what my service meant while at the same time giving me permission to not so much move on as to move forward.
This past year, I have been unable to adequately share with anyone what my experience as a whole meant. It was so deeply personal, I foolishly reasoned that sharing any aspect of it was impossible. People never responded the way I felt they should, and so I shut down. And so when a friend or new acquaintance would genuinely ask about a portion of my service, I held firmly to a generic position that “it was a really great experience” and then subtly attempted to pose my own questions about a different subject, hoping to tactfully divert speaking about it.
On my last day visiting the center, a current volunteer who had journeyed with an Alternative Break group from Loyola Marymount gave to me a letter I had apparently written to this group upon their departure. In it I said the following:
“A bit of advice I too will be putting into practice when I head back in July: take it home. There are stories here that need to be told to the hearts at home that yearn, perhaps unconsciously, to be moved. You will arrive on campus in a matter of hours, and in the green and lush yards, you will struggle to balance the contradiction that is Quito to Westchester. Contradictory it may be, and yet both pieces now work together to in someway define who you are. Rather than deny one for the other, embrace both and seek to integrate these two seemingly contrasting worlds so that you are better in Westchester for your visit to Quito, and the people in Westchester are more informed and better because of the part of you that is the memory of an Ecuadorian street kid.”
Reading it, and seeing how I had failed to live up to the very advice I bestowed upon this group I was reminded of the story in the Bible in which Peter denies Jesus three times before the cock crows twice. And like Peter, the realization of my denial led to an intense wave of emotions.
Dave Eggers, in his powerful book What is the What says the following: “Whatever I do, however I find a way to live, I will tell these stories… because to do anything else would be something less than human. I speak to these people, and I speak to you because I cannot help it. It gives me strength, almost unbelievable strength, to know that you are here… I will tell these stories to people who will listen and to people who don’t want to listen, to people who seek me out and to those who run. All the while I will know that you are there. How can I pretend that you don’t exist? It would be almost as impossible as you pretending that I do not exist.”
And so what I take away most, both from my two years of service and my two weeks of visiting, is, as a friend Nate said in his reflection on returning to Ecuador- "I’ve taken away how blessed i am. To have a college degree. A U.S. passport. Health. Opportunities. Social mobility. I want to help and work with those who don't have those advantages in this world. Kind of like Sister Annie says "to give voice to the voiceless." Ecuador, after a year of being out of my element, affirmed in me only further the belief that I am in my element when I am working on international causes.
There are stories to be told, stories I have for the most part neglected in telling. Brendan spoke about returning from volunteerism as being like your house is burning down, and you don’t know what else to do but go into survival mode and get out of the house. You find yourself then standing amongst the ashes of what was once your familiar and safe foundation, and asking what now? It’s taken a year, but at long last I can answer with confidence what the next part of the metaphor is. You rebuild. It may sound simplistic, but doing it has been anything but easy. I know there are areas I have been weakened and faltered. And I work on those, that is to say, I work on myself- with gentle kindness, something I am great at doing with others but not with myself. And I look to the past for guidance towards the future, steadfast with the knowledge that my work in the future years is what will allow me to pay adequate respect to those from my past that silently accompany me on this journey.
In the coming month, I would love to try an experiment called Memories whereby I post a series of short blogs introducing you to some of the people or memories that were such a vital part of my experience. It's just one small way to begin honoring those that have taught me so much and loved me so unconditionally, at home and abroad.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
I need your help
Hi friends and family,
So I am in operation Ecaudor mode.
June 19th, I return to the motherland. To give you a quick lesson about Quito and Ecuador:
Ecuador is home to the gold medal speed walker Jefferson Perez, aptly referred to as the "Pride of Ecuador."
The elevation of Quito is 9252 feet. To give you some perspective: that's more than double that of the Mile High City- Denver.
Its airport, one of the highest in the world, is situated in the middle of the city, right next to a large mountain range. Meaning a pilot must clear the mountains and then drop quickly in order to land. Special certification is required. One best not youtube Quito airport before flying into the airport for your own peace of mind.
In 1978 the city of Quito was declared UNESCO a world heritage site.
Despite being a mere 15 miles from the equator, the average high temperature never rises above 70 degrees. Confused. Go back to the point about being more than two miles above sea level.
Quito is host to the great soccer team LIGA, which won the Copa Libertadores and then went on in club play to the world championship, only to lose to a little known team- Manchester United.
But aside from all this, it's home to my home away from home- The Working Boys Center.
And I need your help.
As I prepare to return June 19th I think about supplies and needs at the center. I want to bring a suitcase worth of goods per person traveling, and to do that means I need you.
Anyone care to help by donating the following?
Clothes
Stickers
Toys
Games
School supplies
Anything you can think of, we can use in Ecuador. If interested in helping, please contact me or send it to me via postal mail:
Patrick Furlong
2851 West 120th Street
Suite E254
Hawthorne, CA 90250
Thanks everyone!
So I am in operation Ecaudor mode.
June 19th, I return to the motherland. To give you a quick lesson about Quito and Ecuador:
Ecuador is home to the gold medal speed walker Jefferson Perez, aptly referred to as the "Pride of Ecuador."
The elevation of Quito is 9252 feet. To give you some perspective: that's more than double that of the Mile High City- Denver.
Its airport, one of the highest in the world, is situated in the middle of the city, right next to a large mountain range. Meaning a pilot must clear the mountains and then drop quickly in order to land. Special certification is required. One best not youtube Quito airport before flying into the airport for your own peace of mind.
In 1978 the city of Quito was declared UNESCO a world heritage site.
Despite being a mere 15 miles from the equator, the average high temperature never rises above 70 degrees. Confused. Go back to the point about being more than two miles above sea level.
Quito is host to the great soccer team LIGA, which won the Copa Libertadores and then went on in club play to the world championship, only to lose to a little known team- Manchester United.
But aside from all this, it's home to my home away from home- The Working Boys Center.
And I need your help.
As I prepare to return June 19th I think about supplies and needs at the center. I want to bring a suitcase worth of goods per person traveling, and to do that means I need you.
Anyone care to help by donating the following?
Clothes
Stickers
Toys
Games
School supplies
Anything you can think of, we can use in Ecuador. If interested in helping, please contact me or send it to me via postal mail:
Patrick Furlong
2851 West 120th Street
Suite E254
Hawthorne, CA 90250
Thanks everyone!
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Baldness, Window Tint, Broken Beds, and Starfish- For Lack of a More Creative Title
I am slowly going bald and rapidly growing hair on my back. This is perhaps the most vexing of human concerns I have taken to in my mid twenties. Trivial it may be, but I’d like to make it known that I vote nature can give you hair loss or ridiculous amounts of hair, but not both and in the wrong spots. I’d like to wake up tomorrow and look at my head and be like “damn where did all that hair come from” and then look at my back and be thinking “where’d you go?” But sadly, that won’t happen.
On another note- I can’t tint my front car windows- it’s illegal in California. I live in the most progressive state in the union. OK, OK, I know, the last election we passed prop 2 giving chickens leg room in their cages but somehow failed to give our gay neighbors, friends, and family the right to marry the people they love. Progressive moment of silence for the shame I feel on that one. But aside from that, we are a pretty progressive bunch out here. And so the car window tinting thing vexes me. I don’t need limo dark, just dark enough to keep the heat out, use less AC, and save some emissions and fuel. Seems like a total California “governator” thing to do- why hasn’t it happened yet?
Dogs are treated like humans. Better than some of the humans that defined my life the last two years. We have been here already so I won’t visit it much more other then to say, for the love of God: why?
I broke my bed. Make all the jokes you want at my expense. You may remember I broke a bunk bed in Chile, tumbling to the floor and bringing half the frame with me so I am no stranger to this. After breaking this one, I dutifully measured it’s dimensions, even went out of my way to purchase a new tape measure for the occasion. I went to IKEA to purchase a new frame, and failed to use any of those measurements when making my purchase. I don’t know why.
I installed the bed with the help of my girlfriend Laura. She kinda sorta works in construction (in a nonprofit save the world and paint murals and construct benches sort of way) and so is better with power tools than I am- sensitive subject don't press it. Anyway, 3.5 hours of IKEA instructions and when at last I finished and moved the mattress onto the frame, I learned something very troubling: I have a full size bed. Queen size frame. Troublesome my inability to not head that problem off a little sooner. More disturbing: the queen sized hissy fit I threw as a result, with no one to blame but myself. To those who witnessed this- I apologize profusely.
Kids in South America and the United States are really into the fact that my name is Patrick and Sponge Bob Square Pants best friend is Patrick Star or Patricio Estrella depending what language you view it in. I run an after school program in an elementary school as part of my job that is called Starfish Corps. It wasn’t until last week that one girl, who approached me with a smile of the grandest proportions, put together what neither I, my staff, nor any other kid had pieced together: “your name is Patrick, Spongebob’s friend is named Patrick. Patrick on the show is a starfish and get this, you’re a starfish too! Isn’t that crazy” she asked me with genuine wonderment that only a third grader can sincerely manage.
Lots of things confuse me. Moments like the last one, remind me why, for the last three years, I have chosen a career path that leads me towards little pay, growing bills, but perhaps the most genuine satisfaction a career can give.
On another note- I can’t tint my front car windows- it’s illegal in California. I live in the most progressive state in the union. OK, OK, I know, the last election we passed prop 2 giving chickens leg room in their cages but somehow failed to give our gay neighbors, friends, and family the right to marry the people they love. Progressive moment of silence for the shame I feel on that one. But aside from that, we are a pretty progressive bunch out here. And so the car window tinting thing vexes me. I don’t need limo dark, just dark enough to keep the heat out, use less AC, and save some emissions and fuel. Seems like a total California “governator” thing to do- why hasn’t it happened yet?
Dogs are treated like humans. Better than some of the humans that defined my life the last two years. We have been here already so I won’t visit it much more other then to say, for the love of God: why?
I broke my bed. Make all the jokes you want at my expense. You may remember I broke a bunk bed in Chile, tumbling to the floor and bringing half the frame with me so I am no stranger to this. After breaking this one, I dutifully measured it’s dimensions, even went out of my way to purchase a new tape measure for the occasion. I went to IKEA to purchase a new frame, and failed to use any of those measurements when making my purchase. I don’t know why.
I installed the bed with the help of my girlfriend Laura. She kinda sorta works in construction (in a nonprofit save the world and paint murals and construct benches sort of way) and so is better with power tools than I am- sensitive subject don't press it. Anyway, 3.5 hours of IKEA instructions and when at last I finished and moved the mattress onto the frame, I learned something very troubling: I have a full size bed. Queen size frame. Troublesome my inability to not head that problem off a little sooner. More disturbing: the queen sized hissy fit I threw as a result, with no one to blame but myself. To those who witnessed this- I apologize profusely.
Kids in South America and the United States are really into the fact that my name is Patrick and Sponge Bob Square Pants best friend is Patrick Star or Patricio Estrella depending what language you view it in. I run an after school program in an elementary school as part of my job that is called Starfish Corps. It wasn’t until last week that one girl, who approached me with a smile of the grandest proportions, put together what neither I, my staff, nor any other kid had pieced together: “your name is Patrick, Spongebob’s friend is named Patrick. Patrick on the show is a starfish and get this, you’re a starfish too! Isn’t that crazy” she asked me with genuine wonderment that only a third grader can sincerely manage.
Lots of things confuse me. Moments like the last one, remind me why, for the last three years, I have chosen a career path that leads me towards little pay, growing bills, but perhaps the most genuine satisfaction a career can give.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Conversing With Dogs
I’m talking to dogs. Don’t worry; it’s not what it seems. Or perhaps it is and depending on who you are, this either fills you with great joy or disturbs you beyond consolation. One train of thought goes along the lines of “about time you speak to Pookie because pookie isn’t just any type of dog, she’s a big girl who loves Patrick, yes she does yes she does” and you can hear the baby voice that is said in. The other line of reasoning, the one I would most likely be inclined to side with says with flippant irreverence “sellout” and need not say anything more as you shake your head and wonder how another one bit the dust so quick.
But in my transition into the United States this is an enormous step I thought I could never take. There are a fair share of friends and family who have small dogs in their lives. And you know, transitionally speaking, I have been amazed at the human status dogs have been granted in our society. Entire rooms of houses are cornered off for the use of dogs. Lawsuits have been filed by dog owners angered that some restaurant had the audacity to suggest Mr. Snuggles not be allowed to sit at the table. I have been at more than a few dinner parties when a dog gets unruly, and my third world instincts had to be quelled. Rather than try and soothe it, I find myself scanning the room for objects to throw.
But the other day I caught myself talking to a dog as though he would talk back. He looked at me with droopy eyes as I conversed about my conundrum of the time and his response was a burp, a spastic lick attack of his genitals and then as I neared completion of the story, he ran off barking at the mailman. It was then it hit me, I have sold out to talking to dogs. Why do I care so much? Because with that comes the fear, unreasonable or not, that soon I will “sell out” in other ways. Maybe soon I won’t feel my vocation should still be in sync with my career. Maybe soon I will look at a homeless man and not wonder about the humanity of it all? Or maybe it’s because I have began to forget the names of some of my students in Chile and Ecuador, and this burdens me with a self imposed guilt I don’t know how to address.
And so you see, I am talking to dogs. I am taking the baby steps of being back in this culture and I think I am almost there, there being the place I was looking for that seeks to mix the best of USA me and South America me into just plain old me. Best of all, when I raise my arm South America “you mess with me dog and I will make your life worse than rabies” style, my American friends think it’s cute that I am trying to calm the dogs nerves down by engaging in a game of fetch. If only they knew…
But in my transition into the United States this is an enormous step I thought I could never take. There are a fair share of friends and family who have small dogs in their lives. And you know, transitionally speaking, I have been amazed at the human status dogs have been granted in our society. Entire rooms of houses are cornered off for the use of dogs. Lawsuits have been filed by dog owners angered that some restaurant had the audacity to suggest Mr. Snuggles not be allowed to sit at the table. I have been at more than a few dinner parties when a dog gets unruly, and my third world instincts had to be quelled. Rather than try and soothe it, I find myself scanning the room for objects to throw.
But the other day I caught myself talking to a dog as though he would talk back. He looked at me with droopy eyes as I conversed about my conundrum of the time and his response was a burp, a spastic lick attack of his genitals and then as I neared completion of the story, he ran off barking at the mailman. It was then it hit me, I have sold out to talking to dogs. Why do I care so much? Because with that comes the fear, unreasonable or not, that soon I will “sell out” in other ways. Maybe soon I won’t feel my vocation should still be in sync with my career. Maybe soon I will look at a homeless man and not wonder about the humanity of it all? Or maybe it’s because I have began to forget the names of some of my students in Chile and Ecuador, and this burdens me with a self imposed guilt I don’t know how to address.
And so you see, I am talking to dogs. I am taking the baby steps of being back in this culture and I think I am almost there, there being the place I was looking for that seeks to mix the best of USA me and South America me into just plain old me. Best of all, when I raise my arm South America “you mess with me dog and I will make your life worse than rabies” style, my American friends think it’s cute that I am trying to calm the dogs nerves down by engaging in a game of fetch. If only they knew…
Thursday, March 12, 2009
A Lenten Challenge
It’s Lent. I know this because one random Wednesday there were a whole bunch of people that were doing one of two things: looking at me with horrid curiosity or nodding at me, smiling as though we were part of some secret society together, though the large black cross (or smudge) on our foreheads made our club anything but secret.
The traditional Catholic sentiment is that Lent is about giving up something. I always struggled with this as, well, my childhood instincts never leave me. I figure being 25 and giving up candy isn’t really kosher anymore. I listened to what other people were giving it up, and having no room to critique seeing as how I had yet to come up with my sacrifice, I nonetheless found myself highly critical of their “sacrifices.” Giving up fatty foods and beer, sure it is hard, but I have a nagging suspicion that it’s not so much about God as it is about your waistline.
I am by no means the model Catholic. Things like stem cell research, homosexual marriage, equal rights for women, etc… stand in the way of me being a by the book model. But I’d like to think I have been surrounded by some pretty insightful Catholics and one in particular always speaks about using Lent to not so much give up something as to take on something new. Giving up beer is cool. It also helps you get one step closer to being the sexiest Catholic since Bono. But taking the money you saved from avoiding beer consumption and giving it to a cause you are passionate about- now that’s the spirit of Lent I think we could all use a little more of.
In Ecuador, there are two thousand people who turn to The Working Boys Center each and every day for tools to eliminate poverty in their lives: clothing, three meals a day, education and books, medical and dental care, workshops for escaping poverty, spiritual nourishment, the list goes on and on. And in this economy, I imagine the people who I personally witnessed tirelessly are perhaps struggling a little more than ever before. In these tough times, more than ever we are called to be agents of hope.
And so this Lent I am asking you to join me in donating to The Working Boys Center. I have failed these last eight months to really develop the words that make up the story that was my own personal journey of enlightenment in Ecuador. And so I hope you hear me when I tell you that if you give now, be it $5 or $100 I could sit with you and tell you stories of people I know and love, people whose faces are burned into my memory and heart, that will directly benefit from your generosity.
I am pledging $20 a week (for the non Catholics in the crowd that will add up to $120). Anyone care to match me?
To give via Facebook click HERE
To give via the website, learn more about the program, and see how it is a 501c3 click HERE
In advance, I thank you on behalf of Maria, a 6th grader at the WBC. I thank you on behalf of Erik, a 5th grader. I thank you on behalf of Antonia, an employee of the center. And I thank you on behalf of the countless volunteers and staff who in way or another have given a part of that which is them to see to it that people are equipped with the needed tools to escape poverty, for themselves and their children.
If you join me in this personal cause, I promise you not just one but two things.
1. I will take lots of pictures when I visit in June so you can see where your money is going. I may even take you with me if you have the interest.
2. When you get off this ridiculous anti alcohol Lenten diet, the first beer is on me!
The traditional Catholic sentiment is that Lent is about giving up something. I always struggled with this as, well, my childhood instincts never leave me. I figure being 25 and giving up candy isn’t really kosher anymore. I listened to what other people were giving it up, and having no room to critique seeing as how I had yet to come up with my sacrifice, I nonetheless found myself highly critical of their “sacrifices.” Giving up fatty foods and beer, sure it is hard, but I have a nagging suspicion that it’s not so much about God as it is about your waistline.
I am by no means the model Catholic. Things like stem cell research, homosexual marriage, equal rights for women, etc… stand in the way of me being a by the book model. But I’d like to think I have been surrounded by some pretty insightful Catholics and one in particular always speaks about using Lent to not so much give up something as to take on something new. Giving up beer is cool. It also helps you get one step closer to being the sexiest Catholic since Bono. But taking the money you saved from avoiding beer consumption and giving it to a cause you are passionate about- now that’s the spirit of Lent I think we could all use a little more of.
In Ecuador, there are two thousand people who turn to The Working Boys Center each and every day for tools to eliminate poverty in their lives: clothing, three meals a day, education and books, medical and dental care, workshops for escaping poverty, spiritual nourishment, the list goes on and on. And in this economy, I imagine the people who I personally witnessed tirelessly are perhaps struggling a little more than ever before. In these tough times, more than ever we are called to be agents of hope.
And so this Lent I am asking you to join me in donating to The Working Boys Center. I have failed these last eight months to really develop the words that make up the story that was my own personal journey of enlightenment in Ecuador. And so I hope you hear me when I tell you that if you give now, be it $5 or $100 I could sit with you and tell you stories of people I know and love, people whose faces are burned into my memory and heart, that will directly benefit from your generosity.
I am pledging $20 a week (for the non Catholics in the crowd that will add up to $120). Anyone care to match me?
To give via Facebook click HERE
To give via the website, learn more about the program, and see how it is a 501c3 click HERE
In advance, I thank you on behalf of Maria, a 6th grader at the WBC. I thank you on behalf of Erik, a 5th grader. I thank you on behalf of Antonia, an employee of the center. And I thank you on behalf of the countless volunteers and staff who in way or another have given a part of that which is them to see to it that people are equipped with the needed tools to escape poverty, for themselves and their children.
If you join me in this personal cause, I promise you not just one but two things.
1. I will take lots of pictures when I visit in June so you can see where your money is going. I may even take you with me if you have the interest.
2. When you get off this ridiculous anti alcohol Lenten diet, the first beer is on me!
Monday, February 16, 2009
Learning in Transition
A few things I have learned over the last 7 months.
Speaking fast and under the guise of confidence is usually enough to hold people under the illusion you know what you are doing.
When tasting wine and you discover you thought an $8 bottle tasted better than a $90, have no shame: ya like what ya like. Simple enough. Ya like what ya like.
No matter how hard I try, I can't bring "provecho" (eat well) and the hug and kiss greeting and goodbye to be commonplace here in the States.
The Wii is pretty damn cool, in a frightening, “is this technology possible” kind of way.
Blackberry is the new love hate of my life.
Running is therapeutic. Cooking- even more therapeutic.
Seeing the garage you park your car in featured in an episode of Heroes can make you way more excited than something that ridiculous ever should make you. To all my friends in Albuquerque, I promise that will be the last time I call you at midnight trying to convince you to watch Heroes on Hulu just to see level 7 of my parking structure.
Speaking of Hulu- poor man’s DVR, and it rocks my socks!
If I were to tell you my floss was made in Ireland, would you be surprised?
Along the lines of surprised, GM has a new sales campaign that goes along the lines of “The Chevy Malibu is a great car. FANTASTIC QUALITY. And…it’s made by GM… Surprised?” Newsflash: your ad campaign, like your strategy to take a private jet to beg for a bailout, not so great, though nor am I “surprised” at the lack of thinking that went into either.
The Tamales at King Taco- pretty much as good as the tacos.
Colgate can be reached 24 hours a day on their hot line- begging the question: why?
Oh, and Brett Favre is retiring… again. I can’t say you will be so fortunate with me!
Speaking fast and under the guise of confidence is usually enough to hold people under the illusion you know what you are doing.
When tasting wine and you discover you thought an $8 bottle tasted better than a $90, have no shame: ya like what ya like. Simple enough. Ya like what ya like.
No matter how hard I try, I can't bring "provecho" (eat well) and the hug and kiss greeting and goodbye to be commonplace here in the States.
The Wii is pretty damn cool, in a frightening, “is this technology possible” kind of way.
Blackberry is the new love hate of my life.
Running is therapeutic. Cooking- even more therapeutic.
Seeing the garage you park your car in featured in an episode of Heroes can make you way more excited than something that ridiculous ever should make you. To all my friends in Albuquerque, I promise that will be the last time I call you at midnight trying to convince you to watch Heroes on Hulu just to see level 7 of my parking structure.
Speaking of Hulu- poor man’s DVR, and it rocks my socks!
If I were to tell you my floss was made in Ireland, would you be surprised?
Along the lines of surprised, GM has a new sales campaign that goes along the lines of “The Chevy Malibu is a great car. FANTASTIC QUALITY. And…it’s made by GM… Surprised?” Newsflash: your ad campaign, like your strategy to take a private jet to beg for a bailout, not so great, though nor am I “surprised” at the lack of thinking that went into either.
The Tamales at King Taco- pretty much as good as the tacos.
Colgate can be reached 24 hours a day on their hot line- begging the question: why?
Oh, and Brett Favre is retiring… again. I can’t say you will be so fortunate with me!
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Please Turn Off and Stow All Electronic Devices
One of the joys of returning to a country you have been away from for so long is not so much the frighteningly new things, the Wii and Blackberry to name only the two most perplexing and intriguing of that category. I think I threw my shoulder out playing Wii against my friends 10 year old the other day, but that's a story for another time. But more exciting than dealing with what's new is returning to things that have been as they are for years and years and wondering, with a fresh perspective- why the hell is it like this?
On my flight home from a wedding in Sacramento (congratulations again Brian!) a flight attendant frantically came down the aisle of the plane, zeroed in on my seat with a menace you never want to see from a woman who, for all intensive purposes, has proprietary control on anything and everything in your life above 30,000 feet.
She mumbled something incoherent. OK, well, it was probably coherent enough but I didn’t hear a word of it because my IPOD was rocking to World Town off M.I.A.'s Kala CD -one of the greater discoveries upon return to the states. But I paused it just in time to hear here repeat, with more disgust in her emotions, “sir, federal regulations prohibit the use of electronic items during takeoff or landing, please turn off your electronic musical device now.” Electronic musical device for those of you not in the know is my MP3 player even more commonly referred to as an IPOD. But anyways…
It made me think about flying and a few things I don’t quite understand. How is taking off my shoes at security making the plane any safer? Why is my water bottle treated as a possible plot to blow up a plane? Why do I have to pay extra to fly stand by on an earlier flight or pay $15 to check my bag for that matter... ok, the last two were new wonders but you get the point. But most disturbing of all, does my IPOD really have the capability to interfere with the on board technology of my 393,000 pound 747-400 so much so that we might crash and when they review the black box, they will determine beyond doubt that the landing wouldn’t have been a problem if the kid in seat 26D hadn’t kept his IPOD Shuffle on? And Yes, I Googled the weight of a 747 for the sake of enhanced journalistic integrity.
In the meantime I have taken a most righteous approach to the scenario. I apologized to the flight attendant and waited until she was seated for landing to flip on my IPOD. I know, I know, a true rebel without a cause, James Dean would look at me and be jealous. But really, what the heck to all the above questions about flying in the United States nowadays? And where did the free meals go? OK, that is probably asking too much...
On my flight home from a wedding in Sacramento (congratulations again Brian!) a flight attendant frantically came down the aisle of the plane, zeroed in on my seat with a menace you never want to see from a woman who, for all intensive purposes, has proprietary control on anything and everything in your life above 30,000 feet.
She mumbled something incoherent. OK, well, it was probably coherent enough but I didn’t hear a word of it because my IPOD was rocking to World Town off M.I.A.'s Kala CD -one of the greater discoveries upon return to the states. But I paused it just in time to hear here repeat, with more disgust in her emotions, “sir, federal regulations prohibit the use of electronic items during takeoff or landing, please turn off your electronic musical device now.” Electronic musical device for those of you not in the know is my MP3 player even more commonly referred to as an IPOD. But anyways…
It made me think about flying and a few things I don’t quite understand. How is taking off my shoes at security making the plane any safer? Why is my water bottle treated as a possible plot to blow up a plane? Why do I have to pay extra to fly stand by on an earlier flight or pay $15 to check my bag for that matter... ok, the last two were new wonders but you get the point. But most disturbing of all, does my IPOD really have the capability to interfere with the on board technology of my 393,000 pound 747-400 so much so that we might crash and when they review the black box, they will determine beyond doubt that the landing wouldn’t have been a problem if the kid in seat 26D hadn’t kept his IPOD Shuffle on? And Yes, I Googled the weight of a 747 for the sake of enhanced journalistic integrity.
In the meantime I have taken a most righteous approach to the scenario. I apologized to the flight attendant and waited until she was seated for landing to flip on my IPOD. I know, I know, a true rebel without a cause, James Dean would look at me and be jealous. But really, what the heck to all the above questions about flying in the United States nowadays? And where did the free meals go? OK, that is probably asking too much...
Saturday, December 27, 2008
It is what it is
I am in the airport. My flight is delayed. It’s going on six hours now. People are angry, people are frustrated. But I can't recall when I've felt more at peace. With no where to go, nothing to do, all I can manage is to sit here and reflect about the whirlwind that has been life since returning to the United States in July. These are my initial thoughts.
A few months ago, Michael Phelps went for an amazing eight gold medals. History was being made and me, being the good American I am, all I wanted was to share in it with someone, anyone! To feel connected to something big in my country in ways I had not been able to these past two years- what a thrill! And yet, I couldn’t. For reasons I can’t understand, partly my fault and partly the result of a lifestyle stateside I am yet to master- the friendships and love I specifically sought to return to LA for have been mostly MIA in my life. People changed, I changed, and now I don’t really know where I fit into a world that I was MIA from for two years. And so calls went unreturned, friends contemplated getting a beer to watch it versus missing a rerun of the Hills and medal after medal was won, with me sitting on my couch watching- alone. And so Michael Phelps, American hero, is forever emblazoned in my mind as a symbol of my loneliness and my struggle to find kinship in a city that once provided so much for me. It is what it is.
I have these dreams where I am back in Ecuador, peaceful and in tune with my kids and then wake up, alone in a dark and empty room far away from those that I love the most. I miss them. I want to go back to them. And I can't. It is what it is.
My adventure into the dating world, has been, at best, horrific, a far cry from my days at the suave gringo who could chat up any girl in South America with confidence and ease. And I just kinda have to laugh after each date here, each stupid mistake and just smile and think how funny it really is. It is what it is.
Stuck in this airport and hearing people grumble provokes contrasting emotions. A part of me wants to shout to gain some perspective. I want to spew out stories about kids sleeping six to a bed and shinning shoes for a quarter. And yet, another side of me yearns to respond with care and compassion to their exasperated frustration. To simply say I hear ya, this sucks and then let them continue to complain, but at least feel as though at last someone is listening.
If I have learned anything from my service and from my five months feeling like a stranger in the midst of familiarity- it’s that people want to be validated. We want to be heard, we want to know that others recognize our inherit dignity- be it in our right to have food on our table and a stable job or simply in our petty moments of frustration, to voice exasperation and simply feel someone cares enough to acknowledge that what we are saying, what we are feeling, means something.
I have been back in my country for five months. And you know, I’m still searching for my voice in my experience, my story in my current setting.
I watch people hustle to and fro really going nowhere. I smile at a little kid in the airport who smiles back at me, oblivious for now to the argument his parents have above him. I watch a couple romantically whisper to one another and find myself rooting for their love to conquer all obstacles.
In a city where I have few friends left, I feel connected to the human story in an intense way I never before felt. I yearn for connectivity in ways I never before my volunteer time did. I feel at once genuine and alive! And though I have not found as many connections as I would like to call my own back home, and though I frequently question how and where do I fit into this world- I can’t help but wonder how blessed am I? In volunteering I found a story not my own that moved me to make my own life one more intentionally lived. I am alive and in good health, happy and confident that the best is yet to come. How truly blessed am I? It is what it is.
If this photo doesn't scream my mantra "it is what it is" then what does?
A few months ago, Michael Phelps went for an amazing eight gold medals. History was being made and me, being the good American I am, all I wanted was to share in it with someone, anyone! To feel connected to something big in my country in ways I had not been able to these past two years- what a thrill! And yet, I couldn’t. For reasons I can’t understand, partly my fault and partly the result of a lifestyle stateside I am yet to master- the friendships and love I specifically sought to return to LA for have been mostly MIA in my life. People changed, I changed, and now I don’t really know where I fit into a world that I was MIA from for two years. And so calls went unreturned, friends contemplated getting a beer to watch it versus missing a rerun of the Hills and medal after medal was won, with me sitting on my couch watching- alone. And so Michael Phelps, American hero, is forever emblazoned in my mind as a symbol of my loneliness and my struggle to find kinship in a city that once provided so much for me. It is what it is.
I have these dreams where I am back in Ecuador, peaceful and in tune with my kids and then wake up, alone in a dark and empty room far away from those that I love the most. I miss them. I want to go back to them. And I can't. It is what it is.
My adventure into the dating world, has been, at best, horrific, a far cry from my days at the suave gringo who could chat up any girl in South America with confidence and ease. And I just kinda have to laugh after each date here, each stupid mistake and just smile and think how funny it really is. It is what it is.
Stuck in this airport and hearing people grumble provokes contrasting emotions. A part of me wants to shout to gain some perspective. I want to spew out stories about kids sleeping six to a bed and shinning shoes for a quarter. And yet, another side of me yearns to respond with care and compassion to their exasperated frustration. To simply say I hear ya, this sucks and then let them continue to complain, but at least feel as though at last someone is listening.
If I have learned anything from my service and from my five months feeling like a stranger in the midst of familiarity- it’s that people want to be validated. We want to be heard, we want to know that others recognize our inherit dignity- be it in our right to have food on our table and a stable job or simply in our petty moments of frustration, to voice exasperation and simply feel someone cares enough to acknowledge that what we are saying, what we are feeling, means something.
I have been back in my country for five months. And you know, I’m still searching for my voice in my experience, my story in my current setting.
I watch people hustle to and fro really going nowhere. I smile at a little kid in the airport who smiles back at me, oblivious for now to the argument his parents have above him. I watch a couple romantically whisper to one another and find myself rooting for their love to conquer all obstacles.
In a city where I have few friends left, I feel connected to the human story in an intense way I never before felt. I yearn for connectivity in ways I never before my volunteer time did. I feel at once genuine and alive! And though I have not found as many connections as I would like to call my own back home, and though I frequently question how and where do I fit into this world- I can’t help but wonder how blessed am I? In volunteering I found a story not my own that moved me to make my own life one more intentionally lived. I am alive and in good health, happy and confident that the best is yet to come. How truly blessed am I? It is what it is.
If this photo doesn't scream my mantra "it is what it is" then what does?
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Time to Say Goodbye: The Last Post
For a few weeks now, I have been waiting for it to hit. “It” being reality: I am leaving. It mystified me to say I have lived in South America for 700 some days, and in my final days, I had yet to really feel like I had internalized it was drawing to a close.
Saturday my moment of realization came. The center hosted a despedida, a going away party for us. From a soccer game of Gringos vs. Ecuadorian dads to fun and games with the kids to most moving of all, a program full of dancing and singing, poems and meaningful words of praise and love from the people we have worked with all year long. “We have no money to give you proper gifts for all you have done,” explained one individual, “and so we give you all that is us through our song, dance, and word.”
At the end, we were surrounded by laughter and tears. Kids came and wrapped their little arms around our necks and legs, some cried, others said thank you. Many did their best to put into words how much they loved us and would miss us and in their innocent child like way, pleaded with us not to leave or at the very least, “nunca me olvidas.”
And it was all very moving, all very real, all very final. I’m coming home and instantly fear set in. I don’t know what home is anymore, because home in my heart is my life in Ecuador. I’m hugging people and talking to them and now wondering if this will be the last time I get to do that. What’s next for these children I have grown to love? I many never know. That’s hard. People ask when I am coming back here, and I don’t know what to tell them. Invitations are being passed out left and right to visit this family and that family one last time in their homes, and there aren’t enough days to meet all the requests.
A lot of things finally clicked Saturday afternoon. The most pressing was that I am leaving and my time is limited. Now what do I do with it? The next thing was that this transition back home will not be as easy as I had silently hoped it would be. Living in a foreign land has made me foreign and perhaps even a bit odd. A friend doing JVC explained her thoughts on her experience to me saying: I will have to reintroduce myself to everyone I once knew because they won’t know me anymore. I don’t know what awaits me when I get back, I don’t know if who I have become can sustain who society will call me to be. I’ve already faltered on this, and I haven’t yet returned home.
This much I can say: I made a decision a little over a year ago to leave a program in Chile that was not working out for me and come to Quito for a year. In the two years I have been gone, I have experienced the single handed worst year of my life and simply the most incredible year of my life. What they hold in common is the love both given and received that allow me to say I have had two life giving years of growth.
As I say my goodbyes, I reflect on that frightening decision to come here, and with much uncertainty surrounding my current status, I say without doubt or trepidation, it was the single best choice I have made since graduating college. And so, thank you Working Boys Center, thank you to the wonderful people of Ecuador, thank you to my friends and family back home, and thank you to the members of the center who, with nothing to offer but song, dance, and word that have filled my heart with a soundtrack, movie, and moving poem by which to remember this inconceivable experience where I lived amongst an incredible people. No te olivdare.
Seeing as how I leave Ecuador July 18th, this is most likely my last post. I will do a few travel specials after this, but nothing service related. I can´t guarantee I won´t pull a Brett Farve, but I´m pretty sure this is it. Thanks for taking the time to read it and God Bless!
Getting mugged at our goodbye party by some of my favorite students.
Saturday my moment of realization came. The center hosted a despedida, a going away party for us. From a soccer game of Gringos vs. Ecuadorian dads to fun and games with the kids to most moving of all, a program full of dancing and singing, poems and meaningful words of praise and love from the people we have worked with all year long. “We have no money to give you proper gifts for all you have done,” explained one individual, “and so we give you all that is us through our song, dance, and word.”
At the end, we were surrounded by laughter and tears. Kids came and wrapped their little arms around our necks and legs, some cried, others said thank you. Many did their best to put into words how much they loved us and would miss us and in their innocent child like way, pleaded with us not to leave or at the very least, “nunca me olvidas.”
And it was all very moving, all very real, all very final. I’m coming home and instantly fear set in. I don’t know what home is anymore, because home in my heart is my life in Ecuador. I’m hugging people and talking to them and now wondering if this will be the last time I get to do that. What’s next for these children I have grown to love? I many never know. That’s hard. People ask when I am coming back here, and I don’t know what to tell them. Invitations are being passed out left and right to visit this family and that family one last time in their homes, and there aren’t enough days to meet all the requests.
A lot of things finally clicked Saturday afternoon. The most pressing was that I am leaving and my time is limited. Now what do I do with it? The next thing was that this transition back home will not be as easy as I had silently hoped it would be. Living in a foreign land has made me foreign and perhaps even a bit odd. A friend doing JVC explained her thoughts on her experience to me saying: I will have to reintroduce myself to everyone I once knew because they won’t know me anymore. I don’t know what awaits me when I get back, I don’t know if who I have become can sustain who society will call me to be. I’ve already faltered on this, and I haven’t yet returned home.
This much I can say: I made a decision a little over a year ago to leave a program in Chile that was not working out for me and come to Quito for a year. In the two years I have been gone, I have experienced the single handed worst year of my life and simply the most incredible year of my life. What they hold in common is the love both given and received that allow me to say I have had two life giving years of growth.
As I say my goodbyes, I reflect on that frightening decision to come here, and with much uncertainty surrounding my current status, I say without doubt or trepidation, it was the single best choice I have made since graduating college. And so, thank you Working Boys Center, thank you to the wonderful people of Ecuador, thank you to my friends and family back home, and thank you to the members of the center who, with nothing to offer but song, dance, and word that have filled my heart with a soundtrack, movie, and moving poem by which to remember this inconceivable experience where I lived amongst an incredible people. No te olivdare.
Seeing as how I leave Ecuador July 18th, this is most likely my last post. I will do a few travel specials after this, but nothing service related. I can´t guarantee I won´t pull a Brett Farve, but I´m pretty sure this is it. Thanks for taking the time to read it and God Bless!
Getting mugged at our goodbye party by some of my favorite students.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Living in the Moment
Living in the moment. I’m almost two years into this moment, and as I think of one of the things I am most ashamed of, it’s this: I’ve yet to master just living in the moment. It feels like for months now, I have been living in Ecuador with my eyes set on my future.
I heard a saying: if you wait for the future, it comes. If you don’t wait, it comes just the same. And so what is this obsession with my future that I can’t put on hold? I’m in one of those moments I truly should be alive and present to, and I can’t will myself to do it. When I’m not at school, not around the kids, my thoughts drift to the future, my legs wander to an internet café. First it was for job searches. Now with that out of the way, apartment searches and whatever else can shamelessly occupy my mind.
And the only thing that somewhat comforts and consoles is knowing I am not alone. Tension has risen amongst the house as uncertainty looms over us all. Exasperated stories that begin along the lines of “when this ends, I don’t know what happens next” are the norm. Some have jobs or school to return to, some know what city they will call home, and yet, all of us realize at some inherent level- we can only prepare so much for life post-Ecuador.
My obsession with the future persists as a means of external validation. On one hand, an obsession with the future allows us the security of knowing that we are always upward bound. Who wants to believe they have reached the peak and have nothing further to look forward to? Focusing on the future is a way of reassuring ourselves, comforting ourselves, that the best is always yet to come. But how much do we void ourselves of the pure joy the current moment is ready to offer by doing that?
Dare I say that after two years of this game, I have yet to master what I have always known it to be about? Just be, the rock on my desk says, and at times, I have done anything but that.
People back home will invariably ask the question that frustrates me most: “how was it?” They ask about your life experience, your year, as though it is nothing more than a meal or movie. The answer is so much more complicated and long winded then what the seeker truly wants to hear. But maybe despite it all, I will have an answer to give them, one that satisfies me with its depth and satisfies them with its brevity. How was it? Love and failure, that’s how it was.
It was two years: it was the best year of my life and the worst year of my life and it spanned across three countries. It was learning how to love and be loved, and it was the constant failure to do that and so much more as much as I would have liked. It was watching the poor stumble and seeing my own stumbles in theirs.
What did I learn? To see the humanity in every statistic, to see my own reflection, the best and the worst that is within me, in those who remain unseen. The struggling single mother, the ten year old shoeshine boy, the alcoholic father, the fifteen year old aspiring female doctor: all my students, and all my teachers. It was here a people with nothing more than their love and their failures taught me about how to rebound from my own failures, and how to truly utilize my love. And while I couldn’t always live in this moment, it is my hope that for the many moments ahead in my life, it is these moments that will shape me and ground me in that which I have always known it to be about: failure, and love in spite of it all.
I heard a saying: if you wait for the future, it comes. If you don’t wait, it comes just the same. And so what is this obsession with my future that I can’t put on hold? I’m in one of those moments I truly should be alive and present to, and I can’t will myself to do it. When I’m not at school, not around the kids, my thoughts drift to the future, my legs wander to an internet café. First it was for job searches. Now with that out of the way, apartment searches and whatever else can shamelessly occupy my mind.
And the only thing that somewhat comforts and consoles is knowing I am not alone. Tension has risen amongst the house as uncertainty looms over us all. Exasperated stories that begin along the lines of “when this ends, I don’t know what happens next” are the norm. Some have jobs or school to return to, some know what city they will call home, and yet, all of us realize at some inherent level- we can only prepare so much for life post-Ecuador.
My obsession with the future persists as a means of external validation. On one hand, an obsession with the future allows us the security of knowing that we are always upward bound. Who wants to believe they have reached the peak and have nothing further to look forward to? Focusing on the future is a way of reassuring ourselves, comforting ourselves, that the best is always yet to come. But how much do we void ourselves of the pure joy the current moment is ready to offer by doing that?
Dare I say that after two years of this game, I have yet to master what I have always known it to be about? Just be, the rock on my desk says, and at times, I have done anything but that.
People back home will invariably ask the question that frustrates me most: “how was it?” They ask about your life experience, your year, as though it is nothing more than a meal or movie. The answer is so much more complicated and long winded then what the seeker truly wants to hear. But maybe despite it all, I will have an answer to give them, one that satisfies me with its depth and satisfies them with its brevity. How was it? Love and failure, that’s how it was.
It was two years: it was the best year of my life and the worst year of my life and it spanned across three countries. It was learning how to love and be loved, and it was the constant failure to do that and so much more as much as I would have liked. It was watching the poor stumble and seeing my own stumbles in theirs.
What did I learn? To see the humanity in every statistic, to see my own reflection, the best and the worst that is within me, in those who remain unseen. The struggling single mother, the ten year old shoeshine boy, the alcoholic father, the fifteen year old aspiring female doctor: all my students, and all my teachers. It was here a people with nothing more than their love and their failures taught me about how to rebound from my own failures, and how to truly utilize my love. And while I couldn’t always live in this moment, it is my hope that for the many moments ahead in my life, it is these moments that will shape me and ground me in that which I have always known it to be about: failure, and love in spite of it all.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Some Fears About Transition Back to the United States
Transitioning from South America to the USA these are some pressing concerns I have:
1. Costs. A liter of beer costs $0.80 here. I don’t want to think how much a 20 oz. bottle of beer costs back home. A gallon of gas in Ecuador- $1.50. No, I don’t have a car so this means nothing to me, but it will at least supply me righteous indignation when I do have a car and pay $4.00.
2. Food. Here, fruits and veggies that are cheap and junk food like KFC and McDonald's that’s expensive. The last time I bought a bushel of bananas in the United States- it didn’t cost $0.20. Prices are going to kill me!
3. English. The other day a crazed dog attempted to attack me. This is the second time in Latin America I have had to get physical when a dog attacks I might add. I was proud of myself when I began shouting Spanish obscenities at the pinche perro! It will be weird to speak English all the time and not have to worry if I am using the right “for”- an incredibly pressing concern in my day to day life here in Ecuador. Or, what happens that first time someone upsets me and I mumble something to the effect of “you’re such an idiot and I hope your store closes down” forgetting that everyone around me speaks English now too. Ooops.
4. Busses. Call me crazy, but I’ve taken rather fondly to the challenge of boarding and getting off busses. It slows down to about 5 MPH and you grab the sidebar, hop and pray for a successful landing INSIDE the bus. Getting off, it’s much the same. The bus slows down, you survey the ground to make sure there are no obstacles such as potholes, and you jump/run cartoon style off the bus. Also, bus fare is $0.25 and they will even give you change for a $20 should you need it. I realize about 99% of my readership has never taken public transpo in LA so they have no idea just how incredibly cool it is to get change on a bus fare, nor do you realize how affordable $0.25 is!
5. Celebrity status. If I return to LA, I’ll simply just be another one in twelve million. My life here is the closest I will get to being a celebrity. Everywhere I go on the C.M.T. campus, children shout my name, wave excitedly, and sprint from all directions to jump in my arms and hug me and ask me to throw them playfully in the air. I’ve even perfected a wave any red carpet walker would be envious of. All that ends, and I am back to average Joe status. Plus, let's face it. Here, I hug any kid I want. If I try and do that in the United States, I'll be that weird guy.
6. Pay. The other day I jokingly told Madre Miguel I felt underpaid. She responded that if I felt that way, she’d double my salary. Before you get too excited, remember I make $0. You do the math of what that is doubled. 0X2= I hope you can do this better than two of my students who tried the other day. Alex Rodriguez, star of the New York Yankees, made more money than the 33 man roster of the Florida Marlins- at least before the H. Ramirez deal. There is really no relevance between my pay and that of A-Rod other than it is a cool stat to spout out to whoever will listen and it does make me sick.
7. Speaking of Nicknames, A-Rod is cool but I think I’ve managed to one up even that. Everywhere I have been in South America, my name, Patrick is most commonly translated not to Patricio but to Pato, coincidentally the Spanish word for duck. As much as I hated it at first, I have grown rather fond of Pato and will have an incredibly difficult time not necessarily returning to Patrick, but returning to the most commonly used name, that which I loathe the most: Pat. Why do I hate Pat? Three words: Saturday Night Live. So cut a man a break: Patrick, Furlong, Pato, Patricio, even duck if you must, just no more Pat!
Who would have ever thought going back home after two years who be more difficult than leaving home in the first place? And yet, so as to not be totally depressing, I am excited about some really good things. I am really fired up about my new job with an organization called City Year, a job which I start immediately upon return. I am excited to have baseball replace soccer, a micro-brew replace a Pilsener. I’m excited to watch Scrubs season eight, sit on the beach, and run 10k’s at something less than 9,000 feet above sea level. And of course to see friends and family! So in a round about way, I’m so nervous, and so excited, and so confused as to why A Rod makes more than all the Marlins combined and doubling my salary still leaves me with a net income of zero.
1. Costs. A liter of beer costs $0.80 here. I don’t want to think how much a 20 oz. bottle of beer costs back home. A gallon of gas in Ecuador- $1.50. No, I don’t have a car so this means nothing to me, but it will at least supply me righteous indignation when I do have a car and pay $4.00.
2. Food. Here, fruits and veggies that are cheap and junk food like KFC and McDonald's that’s expensive. The last time I bought a bushel of bananas in the United States- it didn’t cost $0.20. Prices are going to kill me!
3. English. The other day a crazed dog attempted to attack me. This is the second time in Latin America I have had to get physical when a dog attacks I might add. I was proud of myself when I began shouting Spanish obscenities at the pinche perro! It will be weird to speak English all the time and not have to worry if I am using the right “for”- an incredibly pressing concern in my day to day life here in Ecuador. Or, what happens that first time someone upsets me and I mumble something to the effect of “you’re such an idiot and I hope your store closes down” forgetting that everyone around me speaks English now too. Ooops.
4. Busses. Call me crazy, but I’ve taken rather fondly to the challenge of boarding and getting off busses. It slows down to about 5 MPH and you grab the sidebar, hop and pray for a successful landing INSIDE the bus. Getting off, it’s much the same. The bus slows down, you survey the ground to make sure there are no obstacles such as potholes, and you jump/run cartoon style off the bus. Also, bus fare is $0.25 and they will even give you change for a $20 should you need it. I realize about 99% of my readership has never taken public transpo in LA so they have no idea just how incredibly cool it is to get change on a bus fare, nor do you realize how affordable $0.25 is!
5. Celebrity status. If I return to LA, I’ll simply just be another one in twelve million. My life here is the closest I will get to being a celebrity. Everywhere I go on the C.M.T. campus, children shout my name, wave excitedly, and sprint from all directions to jump in my arms and hug me and ask me to throw them playfully in the air. I’ve even perfected a wave any red carpet walker would be envious of. All that ends, and I am back to average Joe status. Plus, let's face it. Here, I hug any kid I want. If I try and do that in the United States, I'll be that weird guy.
6. Pay. The other day I jokingly told Madre Miguel I felt underpaid. She responded that if I felt that way, she’d double my salary. Before you get too excited, remember I make $0. You do the math of what that is doubled. 0X2= I hope you can do this better than two of my students who tried the other day. Alex Rodriguez, star of the New York Yankees, made more money than the 33 man roster of the Florida Marlins- at least before the H. Ramirez deal. There is really no relevance between my pay and that of A-Rod other than it is a cool stat to spout out to whoever will listen and it does make me sick.
7. Speaking of Nicknames, A-Rod is cool but I think I’ve managed to one up even that. Everywhere I have been in South America, my name, Patrick is most commonly translated not to Patricio but to Pato, coincidentally the Spanish word for duck. As much as I hated it at first, I have grown rather fond of Pato and will have an incredibly difficult time not necessarily returning to Patrick, but returning to the most commonly used name, that which I loathe the most: Pat. Why do I hate Pat? Three words: Saturday Night Live. So cut a man a break: Patrick, Furlong, Pato, Patricio, even duck if you must, just no more Pat!
Who would have ever thought going back home after two years who be more difficult than leaving home in the first place? And yet, so as to not be totally depressing, I am excited about some really good things. I am really fired up about my new job with an organization called City Year, a job which I start immediately upon return. I am excited to have baseball replace soccer, a micro-brew replace a Pilsener. I’m excited to watch Scrubs season eight, sit on the beach, and run 10k’s at something less than 9,000 feet above sea level. And of course to see friends and family! So in a round about way, I’m so nervous, and so excited, and so confused as to why A Rod makes more than all the Marlins combined and doubling my salary still leaves me with a net income of zero.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Airplane Lavatory: More Complicated Than It May Seem
On a flight from Miami to Quito, I discovered a few things about the airline industry that I found, well, newsworthy.
First things first- lightening. Miami International Airport (MIA) along with its compatriots LAX, JFK, DFW, etc… have managed to deliver wireless internet to all of its terminals. It appears they have the capabilities to land about one airplane every 1-2 minutes. And they’ve also managed to manipulate customers into thinking that $9 for a personal pizza from Pizza Hut really isn’t a bad deal. Throw in a $3 bottle of soda and you really got yourself a deal! And yet, when lightening strikes, they are helpless in the face of it. How do I know? Because I sat on an airplane for a little over three hours, parked a mere 100 feet from the gate that was empty and awaiting my plane. Lightening was in the area and apparently the entire airport, I swear to you, just shuts down. It seems to happen quick and without warning. And as I sat there, watching the rain helplessly fall, I was able to infiltrate this mysterious price raising industry known as aviation and learn a thing or two.
Flight Attendants. It’s a job that’s got its challenges so my intent isn’t to take anything away from these wonderful men and women who have, as far as I am concerned, been offering the entire can of soda instead of just the plastic cup a lot more as of late. But did you know it takes OVER 5 WEEKS of in class training to be a flight attendant. They cover the gambit, everything from how to properly wake a passenger up for his or her meal to simulated water landings that are practiced in, from what my inside sources tell me, a swimming pool. But over 5 weeks- really?
Third and most startling- the on board bathroom. Do you have any idea just how many American adults are helpless in operating the on board lavatory of your typical airplane? And no, I’m not talking etiquette rules like no peeing on the seat or no leaving paper towels all over the floor so I don’t walk out with something stuck to my shoe. I am talking the basics here people.
I had a seat near the lavatory and noticed the frequent and disturbing number of passengers who entered the bathroom after dinner was served who would enter, look around lost, and then press the help button to ask the flight attendant how to turn the light on. I once thought the bathroom was as standard an operation as the seat belt. For anyone who hasn’t been in a plane since 1963, you enter, you close the door. You lock the door, and just like that, a light is triggered to automatically switch on.
As I sat observing, I decided in honor of my Political Science degree to do a little statistical research. This may have been because due to the delay on the tarmac my IPOD was out of juice and sadly, the in air entertainment console in my seat was broken meaning I could only watch 27 Dresses with no sound. I did for a little bit, and I do believe I got as much out of it as the woman who watched it with sound next to me. It didn’t strike me as a complicated plot. As I grew tired of the muted movie, I did the only thing that seemed natural: I could count the number of people that went to the bathroom and the people who were able to successfully operate the bathroom light challenge in under one minute. Why one minute? Don’t ask too many questions.
The results: 17 out of 20 were unable to do so. I wish I was lying; it shames me to say this is true. And in case you are wondering about the three that succeeded: all three were, in my modest estimate, under the age of 15.
First things first- lightening. Miami International Airport (MIA) along with its compatriots LAX, JFK, DFW, etc… have managed to deliver wireless internet to all of its terminals. It appears they have the capabilities to land about one airplane every 1-2 minutes. And they’ve also managed to manipulate customers into thinking that $9 for a personal pizza from Pizza Hut really isn’t a bad deal. Throw in a $3 bottle of soda and you really got yourself a deal! And yet, when lightening strikes, they are helpless in the face of it. How do I know? Because I sat on an airplane for a little over three hours, parked a mere 100 feet from the gate that was empty and awaiting my plane. Lightening was in the area and apparently the entire airport, I swear to you, just shuts down. It seems to happen quick and without warning. And as I sat there, watching the rain helplessly fall, I was able to infiltrate this mysterious price raising industry known as aviation and learn a thing or two.
Flight Attendants. It’s a job that’s got its challenges so my intent isn’t to take anything away from these wonderful men and women who have, as far as I am concerned, been offering the entire can of soda instead of just the plastic cup a lot more as of late. But did you know it takes OVER 5 WEEKS of in class training to be a flight attendant. They cover the gambit, everything from how to properly wake a passenger up for his or her meal to simulated water landings that are practiced in, from what my inside sources tell me, a swimming pool. But over 5 weeks- really?
Third and most startling- the on board bathroom. Do you have any idea just how many American adults are helpless in operating the on board lavatory of your typical airplane? And no, I’m not talking etiquette rules like no peeing on the seat or no leaving paper towels all over the floor so I don’t walk out with something stuck to my shoe. I am talking the basics here people.
I had a seat near the lavatory and noticed the frequent and disturbing number of passengers who entered the bathroom after dinner was served who would enter, look around lost, and then press the help button to ask the flight attendant how to turn the light on. I once thought the bathroom was as standard an operation as the seat belt. For anyone who hasn’t been in a plane since 1963, you enter, you close the door. You lock the door, and just like that, a light is triggered to automatically switch on.
As I sat observing, I decided in honor of my Political Science degree to do a little statistical research. This may have been because due to the delay on the tarmac my IPOD was out of juice and sadly, the in air entertainment console in my seat was broken meaning I could only watch 27 Dresses with no sound. I did for a little bit, and I do believe I got as much out of it as the woman who watched it with sound next to me. It didn’t strike me as a complicated plot. As I grew tired of the muted movie, I did the only thing that seemed natural: I could count the number of people that went to the bathroom and the people who were able to successfully operate the bathroom light challenge in under one minute. Why one minute? Don’t ask too many questions.
The results: 17 out of 20 were unable to do so. I wish I was lying; it shames me to say this is true. And in case you are wondering about the three that succeeded: all three were, in my modest estimate, under the age of 15.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
To Feel Like an NBA Rookie
I’ve heard it said that rookies in the NBA always hit a slump near the end of the season. In college, the season has something like 35 games. The NBA on the other hand, has an 82 game season.
I feel like an NBA rookie, minus the lucrative contract and groupies and mean pranks by veterans. It’s June. For my entire life, school has started in late August and ended in May. My body aches. My brain is shutting down. Every part of me is confused as to why we are still going through this process of homework and tests and all that assortment of things that just need to come to an end.
Furthermore, the kids are going crazy. I think this might prove a theory that the September to May calendar is just intrinsic in the minds of children worldwide because the kids are acting like children ready to slam notebooks down and go screaming out the doors not to be seen with anything academic for 2 months.
This year, I will have to go to school on my birthday- July 16th. Now mind you, it’s my last day of school, but it’s still school. I’ve never once been in school for my birthday, and I tell you, it’s going to be weird…
And so I take consolation in the fact that NBA rookies undergo the same stress on their minds and bodies. Of course, they are paid anywhere from the league minimum $427,163 to millions of dollars to do it, whereas I, well, yeah… I have lost money directly out of my savings account over the past year. Damn NBA Rookies, and damn the aches and pains of the homestretch of being a teacher! How badly I want to walk back to my room singing “School’s Out For Summer” and then blast Lynard Skynard’s 9 minute version of “Free Bird” and truly feel free… free from grading, free from lesson planning, free from the overwhelming realization that while I love these kids, I NEVER EVER want to be a teacher again!
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
A Lesson In Sharing
It confused me. After all, these are poverty stricken kids. I watch everyday as they dramatically duel over whether a goal was a goal and fight over who deserves to be first in line. And here they are with pizza, a rare treat. And they take a bite of it, make a comment about how good it is, and then wrap it up in napkins and put it in their backpacks.
Confused, I asked one kid why. With sincerity that only a child has, he told me his mom has never tasted pizza before. He was saving the slice so they might enjoy it together later. As the kids left I asked why they didn’t eat their pizza then and there. All told the same story but through different words: “I want my sister to try it” said one. “My brother and me will eat it when he gets out of class tonight,” said another. “My dad will miss dinner tonight and I want him to have food when he comes home,” said the last one as he smiled and left.
Just when you think you know it all, these kids do that to you. In one fleeting moment as my time here draws to an end, I saw what I guess I had always hoped I would always see working with people in poverty:
“When it was evening, the disciples approached Jesus and said, “This is a deserted place and it is already late; dismiss the crowds so that they can go to the villages and buy food for themselves.” Jesus said to them, “There is no need for them to go away: give them some food yourselves.” But they said to him, “Five loaves and two fish are all we have here.” Then he said, bring them here to me, and he ordered the crowds to sit down on the grass. Taking the five loaves and the two fish, and looking up to heaven, he said the blessing, broke the loaves and gave them to the disciples, who in turn gave them to the crowds. They all ate and were satisfied, and they picked up the fragments left over- twelve wicker baskets full.” Matthew 14: 15-20
Perhaps the modern day parable would go something like this. As another dark night fell upon the world’s poor, the naysayer’s cried out “you see, we give them this and that and still those Haitians (or Bolivians or Ecuadorians or Sudanese) have nothing to show for it. This land is barren, these people prone to poverty. Let’s stop the aid and have them buy their own food. They don’t need us, so send them on their way. Only then will they eat and be plentiful.
But Jesus saw the falsehood in this and ordered the people to sit before him. As the crowds swarmed around him, he took what food he had, and shared it. “Take what you have and share with others” he pleaded. 15 cents of every $100 isn’t enough for international aid, Mr.
Food prices weren’t marked up for higher profits, and the fuel companies let go of their record breaking 2007 profits to see to it that people could come from all around to share what little they had. And they discovered this: there was enough food to feed everyone. There was no reason to hoard it.
Little poor kids with hungry stomachs took what little they had and saved it to share with precious loved ones. What a world this could be if we’d all follow their example. We can do better, we must do better. There’s some second graders in
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Dropping the S Word on You Today
The other day I was sick. Whether it is a bacterium from food or just another head cold passed through the millions of germs we come in contact with, we always seem to be ill down here. And so, I have become pretty chummy with the medical staff at the Center.
Visiting the doctor here is a pretty straight forward process: checking the charts, taking blood pressure, temp, weight, height (still about a quarter inch under six feet) and explaining the reason for the visit.
The major difference is the financial aspect. Never have I been asked to wait while they call my insurance provider. I’ve never been denied treatment or told to go to another hospital because my insurance doesn’t stack up. I have never had a letter delivered to my mail box that surprises me by saying I owe $500 for whatever lousy treatment they gave me (thanks Mr. Knee Doctor). And never once have I been outrageously overcharged for a simple procedure. In fact, several visits and counting, I’ve yet to pay a single penny to receive care or treatment. Brace yourself for the bad words about to come out my mouth: here at the center I work at, we have socialized medicine.
And today was no different. The doctor spoke with me, did the usual steps of checking my lungs, looking in my throat and ears and nose, and then diagnosed me. We sat at her desk as she wrote out my prescriptions and gave me the typical spiel about do’s and don’ts with the meds I’d receive. As we finished, she transferred me to the nurse who asked me to sign an acknowledgement I was being given the prescriptions and then she handed them to me on the spot.
In the
Paul Farmer says that “Clean water and health care and school and food and tin roofs and cement floors, all of these things should constitute a set of basics that people should have as birthrights.” From all the personal experiences I’ve compiled in
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)