Showing posts with label friendship. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friendship. Show all posts
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Bob's Testimony (I Stand In Awe)
Friday, February 10, 2012
Chocolate Grace - Aaron Alford
Names have been changed to protect the graceful.
Don was a thief, a sneaky so-and-so with a penchant for pastries. Every day he came into the soup kitchen and stole desserts.
The ladies who served the meal at the counter watched him like hawks, but inevitably, they would turn their backs for a moment, and Don’s deft hand would swoop across the counter, and the tasty treats were absconded.
Each day, they served a simple, but entirely free, meal to the homeless and the helpless. And each day, Don stole an extra portion, or two… or three, of dessert. It didn’t matter if it was brownies, cookies, cake or pie. Don always got more than his share.
“Don, you can’t do that! It’s not fair to the other guests!” they told him. But it didn’t matter. His hands were swift and his tooth was sweet, and he would have his brownies.
But the ladies in the serving line had had enough.
“We have to do something about Don. He can’t keep stealing desserts like that,” they said. “We shouldn’t let him come back if he’s going to keep it up. We need to do something.”
And they furrowed their brows and hoped for a solution.
The next day, they saw him approaching the food line. A communal scowl came across the faces of the stressed-out servers. They knew what was about to happen. His fingers twitched in anticipation even as he smiled to the ladies behind the counter. Scornfully they scooped lunch upon his plate, waiting for his pilfering fingers to pounce. At the end of the line sat the brownies, tasty and waiting.
And sure enough, in a flash, Don had doubled his dessert. Rage rose in the faces of his beleaguered benefactors. But before they could shout shame upon the brownie thief, something happened.
Lois happened. Or Jesus happened. Or both.
She had a flash of inspiration. “Don,” she said. “Hold on for a minute. I have something for you.”
Don froze, tray in hand, at the end of the food line as Lois disappeared into the kitchen’s walk-in cooler. A moment later she emerged, smiling a generous smile, and holding in her hands a giant chocolate cake.
“I know you have a sweet tooth,” she said. “so I wanted to give you this.”
A look of surprise and confusion came across his face. “Really?”
“Really.”
Don reached out, and those thieving fingers held a plateful of grace. Tasty, chocolate grace.
“Thank-you,” he said. “Thanks a lot.”
Lois smiled. “You’re welcome.”
Don found a seat, and ate his meal, and his eyes gazed upon the cake as if it was a holy relic.
Don, and his sweet tooth, came back the next day.
He didn’t steal dessert.
“But I say to you, if someone steals your brownies, give to him also your cake. And as you wish that others would do to you, do also to them.” -Luke 6: 29, 31 (paraphrased)
Friday, December 23, 2011
Death By Presents - Aron Smith
I will always have fond
memories of my first real Christmas, which occurred when I was 28 years
old and a law student. Having grown up in a non-Christian culture,
Christmas barely moved the needle on my compass; it was nothing more
than a two-week school holiday during which I would escape the icy New
York winter by traveling to Florida with my parents and sisters.
In fact, until I was ten years old, I never felt I was missing out
on a thing. Sure, we didn't have a Christmas tree, blinking lights or
piles of presents, but neither did any of my friends with whom I
attended a deeply religious private school. Even in my public junior
high and high school, the very large number of non-Christian students in
the community resulted in Christmas being muted into a virtual
non-entity.
Things changed for me a bit when my family moved about 70 miles
north midway through my junior year of high school. I'd always gawked
at the Christmas displays at the mall, secretly in awe of the garish
decorations and lights, all geared to suck the parking lot full of moths
into the capitalist flame. But this was my first experience with a
school where they literally decked the halls, At home, we'd tune in to
the local radio station in the morning while we were eating breakfast
and getting ready for school and work. I'd listen attentively when the
jewelry store commercial came on, always starting with a vocal rendition
of "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas." If the announcer
finished reading the news and put on a recording of "Silver Bells" or
"The Little Drummer Boy," I knew my mother would quickly change the
station. But I picked up what snippets of Christmas culture I could so
that I didn't seem like a total doofus at school. I smiled, I nodded
and I pretended a lot, leaving an explanation that I was of a different
faith as a very last resort, knowing the looks of pity I'd receive.
Our family trips to Florida during Christmas vacation yielded some
amusing moments from time to time. The drive took about 24 hours, and
we'd frequently be on the road on Christmas Eve. As we rolled through
rural areas of the South on the interstate, only one or two radio
stations wuld come through the crackling static up and down the dial.
If a preacher was holding forth or the ubiquitous Christmas music was
playing, my mother would yell at my father, "Turn that off! I don't
want to hear it!" But sometimes it would be late at night, Mom would be
sleeping and my father would need to play the radio to stay awake as we
cruised down I-95 through Virginia and North Carolina. My sisters and I
would be in the back seat, with me in the middle to keep the girls from
fighting, where eventually I'd endure one sleepy head conked out on
each shoulder. On the radio, José Feliciano would be singing "Feliz
Navidad." One of my sisters would wake up and we'd listen closely. We
didn't understand a word of Spanish, but later, when my parents weren't
in the room, we'd try to imitate what we thought sounded something like
"fay-less buh-dee-dud."
The year I was 12 years old and my sisters were eight and ten, we
stopped for dinner at a roadside diner in South Carolina on Christmas
Eve. The waitress proceeded to gush over how cute we were. "Is Santy
Claus gonna bring you lots of presents tonight?" the waitress cooed.
The three of us looked down, embarrassed, in silence. "They're shy," my
father apologized. All of us knew that there are many places where it
is just assumed that everyone is a Christian, particularly such a lovely
looking family with such cute children.
When I graduated from college and started working, that's when I
really started to appreciate Christmas. No one wanted to work that day,
giving me the opportunity to pick up extra shifts and overtime money.
But it wasn't until I moved to Massachusetts to attend law school that I
experienced Christmas firsthand.
My first year in law school, I disappeared right after final exams
to make the trek to Florida by car with my parents. My sisters had long
since married, moved away and had started their own families. I
grabbed my girlfriend and the four of us headed south. Things did not
go so well on this particular trip; my parents argued incessantly,
alternately yelling at each other and at me. I vowed that this would be
my last time.
The next year, I stayed put in Massachusetts for Christmas break.
Along with several other law students, I was renting a room from empty
nesters who had found themselves rattling around in a huge house and
decided to have all those empty bedrooms help pay the bills. In early
December, as I was pulling all-nighters and generally freaking out about
impending final exams in several classes in which I was not doing well
at all, the McGees put up an enormous Christmas tree in the living room,
decorating it with tiny lights and many ornaments that their children
had made or given them over the years. Soon, gifts started appearing
under the tree. I noted the steady accumulation as I headed out the
door to school each day. It began as a trickle of boxes and ribbons,
and slowly picked up into a stream, a river and then a veritable
torrent! By the time I had finished my last exam and my girlfriend
drove up from New York to spend a few weeks with me, one side of the
living room was covered with a deep pile of literally hundreds of
gifts. The McGees' four children would be home for Christmas, three of
them with their spouses. There were many gifts for everyone, which Mrs.
McGee had lovingly purchased throughout the year. One of her
sons-in-law, who grew up without a mother and was not accustomed to such
holiday hullaballoo, dubbed this spectacle "death by presents." As for
me, well, I had never seen such a thing in all my life. I gawked in
awe. And I knew there was only one thing to be done: When in
Massachusetts, do as the Yankees do. I headed for the card shop across
the street from the law school, bought several rolls of wrapping paper
and began making my own contributions to the growing pile. After all, I
planned to be there on Christmas Eve, not in a car on the way to
Florida, and I wondered how many hours it would take to open all of
these, whether a shovel or a backhoe would be needed to reach the bottom
of the pile, and whether any of us would ever see the living room
carpet again.
It turned out to be a lovely experience. I wasn't quite sure of
the appropriate etiquette for witnessing the dismantling of Mount
Generosity, but it was comforting to me that I would be spared the
embarrassment of having to open gifts myself.
But sitting in the convivial glow of the fireplace, listening to
the laughter of the McGee family, sipping egg nog and watching the pile
of torn wrapping paper grow higher and the mountain of presents grow
smaller, I realized that I hadn't missed a thing growing up.
I could never have appreciated the beauty of Christmas back then.
Monday, October 17, 2011
HOW DO YOU SAY “CROSS-CULTURAL” EN ESPAÑOL? - Aron Smith
Aron and his wife Donna are some of the most hospitable people I (Chris) have ever met. Aron manages the courthouse in the hottest place in the world, Blythe, CA. He is better at scrabble than any of us could ever hope to be and knows where to get good Mexican food. Enjoy! This is his first post in the Fire Bowl...welcome Aron!
It’s been many years since I’ve been outside the United States, but I am pleased to have had some international experiences in my younger days. We bring our American baggage to our travels and soon learn that our frames of reference are not necessarily shared by our brothers and sisters in other parts of the world, or even by our close neighbors in Canada.
I have visited the Caribbean, Europe (England and France) and Canada (twice, once on each coast). I got a huge kick out of speaking French in Québec and in Paris, standing in the rain to watch the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace and having to catch my breath when I turned a corner stepping out of the Métro to find the magnificent Eiffel Tower staring me in the face.
I learned a lesson about attitudes toward Americans when I climbed into a taxi in Paris one night and directed the driver to take me to a particular restaurant for a late dinner. I felt around the seats for a safety belt, but none were in evidence. Out of (American) habit, I pressed down the door lock at the edge of the window. Incensed, the driver turned around and yanked the little black button back up. “Ce n’est pas Chicago!” he yelled. In other words, how dare I insult him, and by extension all Parisians and the French people as a whole, by insinuating that I had to protect myself from crime in the way that we are accustomed to do over here on the other side of the Atlantic. I found it interesting that he chose to invoke the name of Chicago, rather than my native New York. Perhaps he had been read a book about Al Capone. I bit my tongue to stifle my desire to vindicate myself by explaining that my father was a driver ed teacher and that locking the car door had more to do with wanting to remain inside the vehicle rather than staving off crime. (Remember the bloody driver ed movies with names featuring the words Tragedy and Agony? My father brought them home for us to see, and he could recite the soundtracks verbatim.) But then I suppose the driver would have felt that I was casting aspersions on his driving prowess, which would inevitably have led to me be thrown out of the cab in an unfamiliar arrondissement at midnight.
My visit to St. Maarten in the Netherlands Antilles was a different type of experience entirely. Rather than wandering about with the aid of a guidebook, I mostly stayed in the cocoon of a large resort, where I could have been anyplace at all in the tropics. As this was in the days before the euro, I dearly wished to change some money so that I could bring home a few exotic guilders. Every time I tried the local bank, however, it was the wrong day or the wrong time and it was closed. It turns out that the local businesses desired American dollars and had no interest at all in gringos changing money. I suppose the slot machines that took American quarters should have been a tip-off.
So I was glad to head just slightly off the tourist path by taxiing over to the French side of the island, St.-Martin. It’s not that there were any sights I hoped to see over there, but that was where the ferry launched for a day trip to Anguilla. I was unprepared to see women sitting cross-legged on the ground, fruit spread out on blankets before them, hoping to sell a plantain or an orange to the rich touristes. Then again, back in Phillipsburg on the Dutch side, I walked the streets and found little black children running about in their birthday suits as if this were some type of National Geographic special on TV. As a privileged American who paid a lot of money to stay at a resort, it was too easy to forget that this was a Third World country I was visiting and that there real people experiencing real suffering right at my elbow. People whose experience did not include eating at Le Lagon Bleu or playing roulette in the casinos. In fact, I later heard that gambling is illegal for citizens there. No need to make social problems worse than they already are by permitting the locals to throw their guilders down the hungry gullets of the slot machines. Let foolish foreign tourists leave their dollars here for us, thank you very much.
I would never have guessed that my few international forays would not provide anywhere near the cross-cultural experience that I would eventually gain right here in the United States.
It all started when I moved across the country to California after 35 years in New York and New England. My years of high school and college French served me well in Québec and Paris, but I landed hard in the Central Valley to quickly learn that I should have studied español. The signs on the mercados, bodegas, carnicerias and panaderias in Madera, and later in Modesto, flummoxed me to say the least. Who was it that said that if you know one Romance language you can easily figure out the others? It took me some time to learn that many of the delicacies advertised were actually (gasp!) organ meats. Okay, so I kind of expected this when I spent a few days visiting a friend in Laredo, Texas, directly across the Rio Grande bridge from Mexico. I did learn a few handy phrases there, including soy perdido (which I thought sounded an awful lot like tofu) and lo ciento (which I had to use a lot).
But here in the golden land of California? It was pretty ignorant of me to expect English to be as much the lingua franca in Fresno as it is in the 13 Colonies. I had never eaten Mexican food before, and I did not even know what a tortilla is. Bagels and lox and kugel, yes; tortillas and salsa, no. It took several years before I gained an understanding that there were certain types of chiles I could eat without burning my insides out. One of my favorite Modesto memories is asking the proprietor of a small taqueria what type of pescado they were serving. The poor man understood my question but did not know what the word for it was in English. He settled for running back to the kitchen and reappearing a moment later holding the whole fish up for my inspection. (My other favorite is the time my wife and I were in a drive-thru on McHenry trying to order me a fish burrito, a request that the hapless clerk at the other end of the speaker could not seem to comprehend. “Pescado! Pescado!” my wife and I yelled and the same time, erupting in giggles when we realized that we had finally made ourselves understood.)
I quickly caught on to words such as iglesia, cuidado and baños, but I was clueless when it came to quinceañera, viaje and (now one of my favorites) zanahorias and I had no hope whatever of productively eavesdropping on a conversation, say, in the produce aisle in Winco. (Which reminds me of the time my wife and I combed haplessly through jars of jalapeños and nopales in an attempt to fulfill our young niece’s request for something called pepinos). There are still times when I feel a stranger in my own land, but at some level I know it’s my own fault for not taking the time to study Spanish. Now that I live on the very border of Arizona, home of Sheriff Joe Arpaio and ground zero for the immigration debate, I realize that there is more than one viewpoint on the language issue. My wife, for example, believes that those who live in this country should learn English. This, of course, is what my Eastern European forebears did after being processed through Castle Garden and Ellis Island and settling in the Bronx and on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. They attended night school, passed their citizenship exam, stood in line to raise their right hands and swear their loyalty. Much as I admire this, I realize that there is more than one way to skin un gato. I believe that if native Spanish speakers should learn English, then the rest of us need to learn Spanish. I believe that this is a cultural divide we can cross if English and Spanish are named dual national languages in the same manner that English and French are in Canada, not to mention the multilingual standards of Europe. I am encouraged in that I am beginning to see two-way bilingual immersion programs starting in kindergarten.
To me, “embrace diversity” is more than a catch phrase. It is the approach this New York boy takes to living in California. And even if I don’t always comprende what my neighbors are saying, I am no longer cowed at the prospect of admitting that I don’t know what a particular word means and asking for help.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m headed out for some chile rellenos and frijoles.
Hasta luego, amigos.
It’s been many years since I’ve been outside the United States, but I am pleased to have had some international experiences in my younger days. We bring our American baggage to our travels and soon learn that our frames of reference are not necessarily shared by our brothers and sisters in other parts of the world, or even by our close neighbors in Canada.
I have visited the Caribbean, Europe (England and France) and Canada (twice, once on each coast). I got a huge kick out of speaking French in Québec and in Paris, standing in the rain to watch the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace and having to catch my breath when I turned a corner stepping out of the Métro to find the magnificent Eiffel Tower staring me in the face.
I learned a lesson about attitudes toward Americans when I climbed into a taxi in Paris one night and directed the driver to take me to a particular restaurant for a late dinner. I felt around the seats for a safety belt, but none were in evidence. Out of (American) habit, I pressed down the door lock at the edge of the window. Incensed, the driver turned around and yanked the little black button back up. “Ce n’est pas Chicago!” he yelled. In other words, how dare I insult him, and by extension all Parisians and the French people as a whole, by insinuating that I had to protect myself from crime in the way that we are accustomed to do over here on the other side of the Atlantic. I found it interesting that he chose to invoke the name of Chicago, rather than my native New York. Perhaps he had been read a book about Al Capone. I bit my tongue to stifle my desire to vindicate myself by explaining that my father was a driver ed teacher and that locking the car door had more to do with wanting to remain inside the vehicle rather than staving off crime. (Remember the bloody driver ed movies with names featuring the words Tragedy and Agony? My father brought them home for us to see, and he could recite the soundtracks verbatim.) But then I suppose the driver would have felt that I was casting aspersions on his driving prowess, which would inevitably have led to me be thrown out of the cab in an unfamiliar arrondissement at midnight.
My visit to St. Maarten in the Netherlands Antilles was a different type of experience entirely. Rather than wandering about with the aid of a guidebook, I mostly stayed in the cocoon of a large resort, where I could have been anyplace at all in the tropics. As this was in the days before the euro, I dearly wished to change some money so that I could bring home a few exotic guilders. Every time I tried the local bank, however, it was the wrong day or the wrong time and it was closed. It turns out that the local businesses desired American dollars and had no interest at all in gringos changing money. I suppose the slot machines that took American quarters should have been a tip-off.
So I was glad to head just slightly off the tourist path by taxiing over to the French side of the island, St.-Martin. It’s not that there were any sights I hoped to see over there, but that was where the ferry launched for a day trip to Anguilla. I was unprepared to see women sitting cross-legged on the ground, fruit spread out on blankets before them, hoping to sell a plantain or an orange to the rich touristes. Then again, back in Phillipsburg on the Dutch side, I walked the streets and found little black children running about in their birthday suits as if this were some type of National Geographic special on TV. As a privileged American who paid a lot of money to stay at a resort, it was too easy to forget that this was a Third World country I was visiting and that there real people experiencing real suffering right at my elbow. People whose experience did not include eating at Le Lagon Bleu or playing roulette in the casinos. In fact, I later heard that gambling is illegal for citizens there. No need to make social problems worse than they already are by permitting the locals to throw their guilders down the hungry gullets of the slot machines. Let foolish foreign tourists leave their dollars here for us, thank you very much.
I would never have guessed that my few international forays would not provide anywhere near the cross-cultural experience that I would eventually gain right here in the United States.
It all started when I moved across the country to California after 35 years in New York and New England. My years of high school and college French served me well in Québec and Paris, but I landed hard in the Central Valley to quickly learn that I should have studied español. The signs on the mercados, bodegas, carnicerias and panaderias in Madera, and later in Modesto, flummoxed me to say the least. Who was it that said that if you know one Romance language you can easily figure out the others? It took me some time to learn that many of the delicacies advertised were actually (gasp!) organ meats. Okay, so I kind of expected this when I spent a few days visiting a friend in Laredo, Texas, directly across the Rio Grande bridge from Mexico. I did learn a few handy phrases there, including soy perdido (which I thought sounded an awful lot like tofu) and lo ciento (which I had to use a lot).
But here in the golden land of California? It was pretty ignorant of me to expect English to be as much the lingua franca in Fresno as it is in the 13 Colonies. I had never eaten Mexican food before, and I did not even know what a tortilla is. Bagels and lox and kugel, yes; tortillas and salsa, no. It took several years before I gained an understanding that there were certain types of chiles I could eat without burning my insides out. One of my favorite Modesto memories is asking the proprietor of a small taqueria what type of pescado they were serving. The poor man understood my question but did not know what the word for it was in English. He settled for running back to the kitchen and reappearing a moment later holding the whole fish up for my inspection. (My other favorite is the time my wife and I were in a drive-thru on McHenry trying to order me a fish burrito, a request that the hapless clerk at the other end of the speaker could not seem to comprehend. “Pescado! Pescado!” my wife and I yelled and the same time, erupting in giggles when we realized that we had finally made ourselves understood.)
I quickly caught on to words such as iglesia, cuidado and baños, but I was clueless when it came to quinceañera, viaje and (now one of my favorites) zanahorias and I had no hope whatever of productively eavesdropping on a conversation, say, in the produce aisle in Winco. (Which reminds me of the time my wife and I combed haplessly through jars of jalapeños and nopales in an attempt to fulfill our young niece’s request for something called pepinos). There are still times when I feel a stranger in my own land, but at some level I know it’s my own fault for not taking the time to study Spanish. Now that I live on the very border of Arizona, home of Sheriff Joe Arpaio and ground zero for the immigration debate, I realize that there is more than one viewpoint on the language issue. My wife, for example, believes that those who live in this country should learn English. This, of course, is what my Eastern European forebears did after being processed through Castle Garden and Ellis Island and settling in the Bronx and on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. They attended night school, passed their citizenship exam, stood in line to raise their right hands and swear their loyalty. Much as I admire this, I realize that there is more than one way to skin un gato. I believe that if native Spanish speakers should learn English, then the rest of us need to learn Spanish. I believe that this is a cultural divide we can cross if English and Spanish are named dual national languages in the same manner that English and French are in Canada, not to mention the multilingual standards of Europe. I am encouraged in that I am beginning to see two-way bilingual immersion programs starting in kindergarten.
To me, “embrace diversity” is more than a catch phrase. It is the approach this New York boy takes to living in California. And even if I don’t always comprende what my neighbors are saying, I am no longer cowed at the prospect of admitting that I don’t know what a particular word means and asking for help.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m headed out for some chile rellenos and frijoles.
Hasta luego, amigos.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Welcome Changes - Stephanie Mullen
My culture-crossing experience when I moved to Thailand wasn’t nearly as dramatic as I thought it would be. I imagined that I’d feel so out of place, see one too many cockroaches, and have some kind of public meltdown. While I definitely had my moments of frustration and utter confusion in that year and a half, many of the differences were welcome changes for me.
People see you. They say hello and offer you something, even if they have very little. The generosity is so humbling. They invite you into their home, they feed you, and they don’t waste any energy trying to portray some kind of A+ lifestyle. They put themselves out there, for better or worse; and they let you do the same. And thankfully there were no fashion police around. My hair drier caught on fire the one time I tried using it, so I was fine with settling into low-maintenance mode.
Life is simple. Homes are small, motorbikes or bicycles are sufficient, and the local shops or markets have everything you need (although maybe not everything you want, like Blizzards from DQ or granola bars). There were no malls or movie theaters, so you had to be creative and learn to enjoy the simple stuff. My friend and I used to buy ice cream and go sit in front of our favorite field when we wanted to do something special.
And people there share. They aren’t possessive of their things, but are happy to give whatever they have if it’ll help someone. Neighbors look out for each other. Actually, they need each other. They rely on one another for the daily stuff just to get by. In extreme cases, someone in the community will even take in a child as their own if the parents are removed from the picture for whatever reason.
It’s beautiful. There are so many things I saw and experienced that I want to keep with me back in here the US, but the longer I’m stateside, the less I’m shocked by a commercial for a pill that relieves dehydration, or by our sexualization of women, or our infatuation with celebrities. We’re encouraged to have more and better, and the clutter can be numbing.
But no culture is perfect, and there were things that I was sad to see in Thailand, too.
Many men cheat on their wives, and it seems to be expected. Customer service is non-existent at best, infuriating at worst. Conflict is handled by avoiding it, and it’s not okay to just bring up issues. I learned this the hard way when my friend was asked to find another place to live after we showed our frustration with her landlord. Also, it’s okay to tell a woman she’s fat... something I never happily embraced.
I’ve been able to feel at home in two different cultures, and at times feel like I was dropped from outer space into both. I hope to experience more, though, because seeing different ways to live allows you to decide if you want it or not. I think God had an idea of what everything would look like, how we’d all treat each other, and that we can see pieces of it in play in different places... like we’ve all taken a shot at trying to live with one another, and we’ve all gotten some things right while falling painfully short at others.
It’s contrary to the way I grew up, but I’m interested now in having less and depending on other people more. And I hope I don’t ever settle for thinking that I have it all figured out, but will be willing to feel like an alien if it leads to experiencing life more like it was designed to be.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Yes - Aaron Alford
Aaron is currently hanging his hat in Italy. This is Aaron's 2nd post in the bowl (1st is here). He is a YWAMer spending a sabbatical year as a citizen of the world.
Writing a story about crossing cultures should be easy for me. Lately, it seems it’s all I do. I am currently in the second half of a year in which my only requirement is to stay out of the United States. I’ve traveled from Canada to Thailand, from Thailand to Israel and Jordan, to Holland, to a Native reservation on Vancouver Island.
And within each of these geographical locations, I’ve experienced a dozen other cultures. I became good friends with Burmese people in Thailand. I was welcomed into the home of an Arab Catholic family and into a monastery of French monks in Israel. Here on Vancouver Island, I’ve been hosted by a family that is half Coast Salish Native and half Samoan.
Again, this should be a very easy topic to write about. But when given the charge, I find myself drawing a blank.
Perhaps it’s because I’ve crossed so many cultures lately that I find it hard to zero in on a single story. I could tell you about sharing a Burmese cigar with a man living at a garbage dump in Mae Sot. I could talk about the Palestinian cab driver who invited me into his home for tea and bread. Or perhaps I could talk about swimming in the Sea of Galilee with some French monks who welcomed me into their community. There’s also Ollie, the German-born man living in Holland who literally invited us into his castle. And of course, there’s that time we buried a pig to roast for an Island luau at a Native reservation. The list goes on.
So I find myself thinking about what it is that unifies these stories, both in me and in the people I met. What is it that made these stories possible?
In missionary and NGO circles, we tend to talk a lot about “cultural sensitivity”, and honestly, I find the subject somewhat tedious. Of course, I don’t want to be insensitive and end up rubbing a Thai monk’s head with my bare feet (I’m sure there’s a series of incidents that could make such a travesty happen), but God knows I’ve known a person or two who was very culturally sensitive, and whose personality was best described with an expletive. What I don’t want is to become so entrenched in my own pre-conceived ideas of what another person may find offensive that I actually limit my opportunity to experience the life of that other person.
And I suppose that’s what it gets down to. A person. What made each of these experiences possible was openness to another individual. My first rule of travel is, “Say Yes.” Say “Yes” to the other, in whatever they may offer. In this, I open myself not merely to “experiencing another culture,” but to experiencing another person within that culture. In saying “Yes” to their offer, I am in turn offering myself. It may be for just an hour, or it may be for a lifetime, but I say “Yes” to the possibility of friendship.
We can become trapped in insecurity and close ourselves off to relationship because of our own fear. We forget that a person is not merely the sum total of their culture. We must step past our own fears of offending, and embrace the moment.
Perhaps each person is simply a culture of One, each culture rich with what makes it unique. Each with its own sense of art, of beauty, of tradition. Each with its own unique way of offering kindness and hospitality. It’s true that what may be welcomed by one may offend another, but kindness and humility go a long way in forgiving small ignorances. What makes the journey of crossing over into another’s culture possible is that simple word: “Yes”.
Kindness. Openness. Humility. Love. Such things are understood in any culture, from Arab cab drivers to homeless Canadians. We are, each one of us, a culture of our own, waiting for another to say “Yes” to us. And each of us, each culture of One, has something of great value to give: Ourself.
Writing a story about crossing cultures should be easy for me. Lately, it seems it’s all I do. I am currently in the second half of a year in which my only requirement is to stay out of the United States. I’ve traveled from Canada to Thailand, from Thailand to Israel and Jordan, to Holland, to a Native reservation on Vancouver Island.
And within each of these geographical locations, I’ve experienced a dozen other cultures. I became good friends with Burmese people in Thailand. I was welcomed into the home of an Arab Catholic family and into a monastery of French monks in Israel. Here on Vancouver Island, I’ve been hosted by a family that is half Coast Salish Native and half Samoan.
Again, this should be a very easy topic to write about. But when given the charge, I find myself drawing a blank.
Perhaps it’s because I’ve crossed so many cultures lately that I find it hard to zero in on a single story. I could tell you about sharing a Burmese cigar with a man living at a garbage dump in Mae Sot. I could talk about the Palestinian cab driver who invited me into his home for tea and bread. Or perhaps I could talk about swimming in the Sea of Galilee with some French monks who welcomed me into their community. There’s also Ollie, the German-born man living in Holland who literally invited us into his castle. And of course, there’s that time we buried a pig to roast for an Island luau at a Native reservation. The list goes on.
So I find myself thinking about what it is that unifies these stories, both in me and in the people I met. What is it that made these stories possible?
In missionary and NGO circles, we tend to talk a lot about “cultural sensitivity”, and honestly, I find the subject somewhat tedious. Of course, I don’t want to be insensitive and end up rubbing a Thai monk’s head with my bare feet (I’m sure there’s a series of incidents that could make such a travesty happen), but God knows I’ve known a person or two who was very culturally sensitive, and whose personality was best described with an expletive. What I don’t want is to become so entrenched in my own pre-conceived ideas of what another person may find offensive that I actually limit my opportunity to experience the life of that other person.
And I suppose that’s what it gets down to. A person. What made each of these experiences possible was openness to another individual. My first rule of travel is, “Say Yes.” Say “Yes” to the other, in whatever they may offer. In this, I open myself not merely to “experiencing another culture,” but to experiencing another person within that culture. In saying “Yes” to their offer, I am in turn offering myself. It may be for just an hour, or it may be for a lifetime, but I say “Yes” to the possibility of friendship.
We can become trapped in insecurity and close ourselves off to relationship because of our own fear. We forget that a person is not merely the sum total of their culture. We must step past our own fears of offending, and embrace the moment.
Perhaps each person is simply a culture of One, each culture rich with what makes it unique. Each with its own sense of art, of beauty, of tradition. Each with its own unique way of offering kindness and hospitality. It’s true that what may be welcomed by one may offend another, but kindness and humility go a long way in forgiving small ignorances. What makes the journey of crossing over into another’s culture possible is that simple word: “Yes”.
Kindness. Openness. Humility. Love. Such things are understood in any culture, from Arab cab drivers to homeless Canadians. We are, each one of us, a culture of our own, waiting for another to say “Yes” to us. And each of us, each culture of One, has something of great value to give: Ourself.
FRENCH MONK
Frére Dominic and I are taking this trail down to the water. Would you like to come?
YOU
Oui!
---
BURMESE REFUGEE
(Hand motions indicating an offer of tobacco)
YOU
Ho' ke!
---
SAMOAN YWAMER:
Would you like to meet at Fraser’s house at 5 a.m. to bury the pig for the luau?
YOU
(deep breath) Absolutely!
PALESTINIAN CAB DRIVER
Would you like to come to my house for some tea?
YOU
نعم !
Friday, September 16, 2011
Cultural Disorientation - John Rosenbaum
This is John's 2nd post here at the Fire Bowl. Read the 1st one HERE.
I once journeyed to a far and distant land, a land of loggers and loonies, the home of hosers and Hortons. I am, of course, referring to our Canadian cousins to the south (don’t buy what “maps” will sell you... every conspiracy theorist worth his or her salt will tell you that disorientation through the transposition of compass directions is the first step in population control used by the powers that be [those powers being... oh, I don’t know... SATAN?!]).
My first human-to-Canadian interaction was a little disheartening, to say the least. As my wife and I were simply trying to enter the country, the customs lady laid us out under an endless barrage of questions: “What’s the purpose of your visit? Where will you be staying? How long are you planning on staying here? How do you know this friend you will be staying with (and is it the bearded guy waiting outside)? What do you do for work in the States? Why did you move to Washington? How much cash do you have on you? Are you using a debit card? How much money do you have in your account? You recently moved to Washington and have no roots; you don’t have a job and are visiting a friend you used to work with in the States--how do we know he doesn’t have a job that will pay you under the table waiting for you up here?”
In short, Canada was offended that I, an unemployed, homeless man, would come into their country and not be seeking work. “What, you’re too good for our jobs?” Well, yes, Canada, as a matter of fact, I am. I’m a philosopher--judging by the employment history of philosophers, we are all too good to be employed. At all.
After riffling through our personal belongings customs sent us on our way: we clearly weren’t trying to stay in the country being we brought little more than our toothbrushes with us.
Aaron, our host (the bearded guy waiting outside) then took us on a tour of the little port-town of Sydney. I ate a moose and Rhiannon consumed an entire galaxy. After our hearty meal we were driven to the native reservation, and what a beautiful and scenic, though painfully slow, trip it was (really, Canada? An average of 35 mph everywhere?). Aaron took us to a dock where we watched the light set (the sun proper was already set), smoked a pipe, and watched bats play across the surface of the water. There was even a fireworks show!
The next day I experienced for the first time the single greatest contribution Canada has made to the international community--Tim Horton’s (did I just hear a cheer rise up from the crowd?). It truly is like nothing I have ever seen. It’s much too nice to be a Dunked Donut, too pastry to be a WacDonald’s, and too convenience store to be a Startruck (I know what you were expecting me to say!). Really, though: those donuts are glorious. They look like something you would see in a movie (think Hook) but instead of tasting like p00p (think of the appearance-versus-taste scenario of Ukrainian cakes) THEY WERE AWESOME!
Well done, Canada. Well done.
Our cultural experience did not end with Tim Horton’s (again and again and again). We had the much-acclaimed Swiss Chalet (another home run) and were even privy to the Canadian Generation X’s childhood memories thanks to YouTube. You’re my new best friends, Hinterland Beaver, Robin, Loon, and Hoser! And I was so moved by Aaron’s favorite song-put-to-cartoon that I myself want to marry a log driver who can waltz!
Sadly, our cross-cultural experience had to come to a close. We had one last touristy tour of Sydney, found one of the best (in terms of selection) though worst (in terms of price) used-book stores ever (Beacon Books), and boarded our vessel for home.
Entering into our own country was a pleasant experience--the customs agent gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder (and armpit, abdomen, buttocks, and legs). No problem! Oh, well, our car wouldn’t start...
I once journeyed to a far and distant land, a land of loggers and loonies, the home of hosers and Hortons. I am, of course, referring to our Canadian cousins to the south (don’t buy what “maps” will sell you... every conspiracy theorist worth his or her salt will tell you that disorientation through the transposition of compass directions is the first step in population control used by the powers that be [those powers being... oh, I don’t know... SATAN?!]).
My first human-to-Canadian interaction was a little disheartening, to say the least. As my wife and I were simply trying to enter the country, the customs lady laid us out under an endless barrage of questions: “What’s the purpose of your visit? Where will you be staying? How long are you planning on staying here? How do you know this friend you will be staying with (and is it the bearded guy waiting outside)? What do you do for work in the States? Why did you move to Washington? How much cash do you have on you? Are you using a debit card? How much money do you have in your account? You recently moved to Washington and have no roots; you don’t have a job and are visiting a friend you used to work with in the States--how do we know he doesn’t have a job that will pay you under the table waiting for you up here?”
In short, Canada was offended that I, an unemployed, homeless man, would come into their country and not be seeking work. “What, you’re too good for our jobs?” Well, yes, Canada, as a matter of fact, I am. I’m a philosopher--judging by the employment history of philosophers, we are all too good to be employed. At all.
After riffling through our personal belongings customs sent us on our way: we clearly weren’t trying to stay in the country being we brought little more than our toothbrushes with us.
Aaron, our host (the bearded guy waiting outside) then took us on a tour of the little port-town of Sydney. I ate a moose and Rhiannon consumed an entire galaxy. After our hearty meal we were driven to the native reservation, and what a beautiful and scenic, though painfully slow, trip it was (really, Canada? An average of 35 mph everywhere?). Aaron took us to a dock where we watched the light set (the sun proper was already set), smoked a pipe, and watched bats play across the surface of the water. There was even a fireworks show!
Well done, Canada. Well done.
Sadly, our cross-cultural experience had to come to a close. We had one last touristy tour of Sydney, found one of the best (in terms of selection) though worst (in terms of price) used-book stores ever (Beacon Books), and boarded our vessel for home.
Entering into our own country was a pleasant experience--the customs agent gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder (and armpit, abdomen, buttocks, and legs). No problem! Oh, well, our car wouldn’t start...
Friday, September 9, 2011
Community - Tina Barrentine
Tina is the granddaughter of two awesome cooks, the daughter of a talented seamstress, the wife of a thoughtful teacher and the mother of creative kids. All this makes her a kind of nexus of whimsy, hospitality, celebration and stories. And she can beat Super Mario Bros. in one sitting.
So I'm thinking of creating an awesome new super smash-hit TV show about 6 good looking New York friends who crash land Oceanic flight 815 into the backyard of a man named Brady and his very lovely wife. I'll call it "Community Island".
Auditions will be fiercely competitive. If I could cast this show, the way I've cast the people dearest to me in my own community, it would be full of funny people like my friend Amie, who is an undiscovered Carol Burnett. It would have lots of lovable nerds who quote Princess Bride and Star Trek like my mom and sisters. It would have a wise cracking card shark like my grandma, an indulgent chef like my grandpa, and a low-talking, Bible thumper named Ken. It would feature my husband in his best blue and red caped suit and an "S" emblazoned on his chest. And there would be kids. Lots of kids. Sassy, smart, funny, too-cute-for-their-own-good kids who try to beat me at video games.
I would, of course, keep tiresome characters to a minimum. On TV they just drag down the ratings and irritate loyal watchers (need I mention Cousin Pam?). In life, they distract me from my "real" community. They are the ones who make me look for a quick exit when they approach me at church, wanting to talk about the same old troubles they have been having with the same old people. They aren't fun. They aren't funny. They do NOT play video games.
There, I admit it. I am an elder's wife and I would rather not be in community with people who frustrate, annoy, or bore me. People who make me feel like that scene from Joe vs the Volcano where Tom Hanks says the florescent lights are sucking the juice out of his eyeballs... "Suck, suck, suck!"
My problem isn't loving the incurably unpleasant. I believe loving someone is doing the best thing you can for them. To that end I offer my friendship in whatever form I can to meet a need. My problem is accepting friendship from them. God is always challenging me to make my relationships a partnership where He can edify someone with the simple knowledge that their friendship is valuable. I don't like it. It's hard work trying to hang with the cousin Pams of this world as if they were the Cliff Huxtables.
But what helps is being made to feel like Arthur Fonzarelli by my friends and family. It changes me. It makes me want to be better and do better. It makes me feel like I could jump a shark.
Auditions will be fiercely competitive. If I could cast this show, the way I've cast the people dearest to me in my own community, it would be full of funny people like my friend Amie, who is an undiscovered Carol Burnett. It would have lots of lovable nerds who quote Princess Bride and Star Trek like my mom and sisters. It would have a wise cracking card shark like my grandma, an indulgent chef like my grandpa, and a low-talking, Bible thumper named Ken. It would feature my husband in his best blue and red caped suit and an "S" emblazoned on his chest. And there would be kids. Lots of kids. Sassy, smart, funny, too-cute-for-their-own-good kids who try to beat me at video games.
I would, of course, keep tiresome characters to a minimum. On TV they just drag down the ratings and irritate loyal watchers (need I mention Cousin Pam?). In life, they distract me from my "real" community. They are the ones who make me look for a quick exit when they approach me at church, wanting to talk about the same old troubles they have been having with the same old people. They aren't fun. They aren't funny. They do NOT play video games.
There, I admit it. I am an elder's wife and I would rather not be in community with people who frustrate, annoy, or bore me. People who make me feel like that scene from Joe vs the Volcano where Tom Hanks says the florescent lights are sucking the juice out of his eyeballs... "Suck, suck, suck!"
My problem isn't loving the incurably unpleasant. I believe loving someone is doing the best thing you can for them. To that end I offer my friendship in whatever form I can to meet a need. My problem is accepting friendship from them. God is always challenging me to make my relationships a partnership where He can edify someone with the simple knowledge that their friendship is valuable. I don't like it. It's hard work trying to hang with the cousin Pams of this world as if they were the Cliff Huxtables.
But what helps is being made to feel like Arthur Fonzarelli by my friends and family. It changes me. It makes me want to be better and do better. It makes me feel like I could jump a shark.
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