It’s been a long, cold winter. As if on cue, front and center at our house, the first crocus emerged on the first day of spring. How do they DO that? She was a little purple number, came out like an emcee from between closed curtains, to reassure the audience that the show is about to begin.
Both kids show signs of being able to proofread. Reading the pre-movie countdown, daughter said, “‘One minutes till movie.’ What kind of crap grammar is that?”
Every stage of life has its theme song(s). A few years ago it was Thomas the Tank Engine. Those cheery little can-do rails from the Island of Sodor ran through everything. Before that it was We Sing and Skinamarink, those whacky, happy Canadians that got us through some very sleep-deprived mornings.
Now, from the shower emanates j-pop (Mom, that’s a Japanese import), if it’s daughter, or Sponge Bob, if it’s son. That Goofy Goober song is very hard to extract from the skull bone once it penetrates.
These days I’d have to peg the theme song as Hot Cross Buns, blasted out on the trombone, dominant by virtue of volume, simplicity and repetition. Tonight the dreaded simultaneous practice occurred, separated by only one wall. There is no reason why they couldn’t be separated by one or more floors. Daughter practiced singing “I Don’t Know How to Love Him,” from Jesus Christ Superstar, and son practiced Doctor Rock and Hot Cross Buns on the trombone. Neither gave in.
We gave thanks, quietly.
Our family just finished a full seven days of “no recreational screen use.” We had a lapse and a bribe, but generally accomplished a fairly major reduction in TV watching, videogame playing, and all the social networking and manga consuming that teenage girls do. My son and I played several games of Operation during the week. He rapidly became an unscrupulous doctor if he was also the specialist. I introduced the term “conflict of interest.” My daughter and I had more conversations than normal, even if many of them were about why she couldn’t use screens and that it really wasn’t a punishment. She is nothing if not eloquent in defense of her lifestyle.
My husband came to bed earlier and got up earlier. I focused more, possibly due to the lack of psychic static from excess electronic activity, or more likely due to not wasting an hour or two a night surfing.
This morning son and I took dog for a walk through a nearby park. It was snowing. He’s amazingly observant and tuned in to his turf, our little place-based human. He anticipated a couple of icy spots because he had enjoyed the puddles a few days earlier. He even cleared the half-inch or so of snow fluff off so that subsequent pedestrians would not go base over apex.
Dog was completely exuberant when we got to the unleashing spot. Did several high-speed victory laps. On the way back we noticed an odd low-flying cloud moving fairly rapidly from south to north, pretty much across our route. It got notably darker and more humid and the snow got sleetier. We saw some big black birds — ravens? — chase off a hawk, and we heard a woodpecker high in a hollow tree.
We saw another set of dog-walkers who recognized our dog and remembered her name. “Bassadors” are distinctive.
Retrieved daughter from sleepover after (monthly appearance at) church. I feel very lucky that my eighth grader has a well-defined group of a dozen buddies whose parents and values I like so much. They had a sleepover party at one house for New Year’s, and at our house last month for daughter’s birthday. This one was in honor of one of their members who is visiting briefly while spending a couple of years with her parents in another country.
Anyway, it feels like we’ve turned a corner from the darkest part of the year. It was actually warm enough Saturday to go running outside and that felt great.
Interesting coincidences in reading: Am reading Anansi Boys by Neil Gaiman, just past a story about weaving webs of story, and am reading Adam, Eve, and the Serpent, by Elaine Pagels, all about early Christian interpretations of the creation myth(s) and their bearing on sexual mores. Anyway, my dad sent me the first part of a book he’s writing, and it mentions webs of fate, spun to entangle us, and also includes several other creation stories. Can’t wait to read more.
The city where I live is one of many middle American spots where refugees from Sudan have chosen to relocate themselves. A few years ago, I was very involved with a group of them who essentially showed up at the door of a church and said, “Hey, you converted us back in Africa, remember? We’re so glad to be here now. We just need a little help …”
I had done some recent graduate work related to refugees and I think that helped me get the “mission outreach” job at the church, which ended up being mainly about working with refugees, as it was a huge and very active project at the time. I learned a lot, by listening, reading, working with local anthropologists, talking to experienced missionaries, and most of all by trial and error. At first, it was a matter of getting accustomed to the accent. Later, I began to understand some of the cultural filters that affected our communication, and the expectations that American missionaries had perhaps inadvertently created.
As I learned more about the history of Sudan — this was back before Darfur was a household word — and the culture of the people I was working with, lots of new questions emerged. Sometimes, faced with raw, overwhelming need and high expectations, I wanted to sit the early missionaries down in front of me and say, “What exactly did you promise these people?” Other times, I thought that if the American Christians and the Sudanese Christians ever really meant the same thing by their faith, we would have advanced Christianity to the next level. At times I thought, “Hey, their interest is just an ethnic thing. It’s part of their identity. The next tribe over is going to the church down the street.” Then I realized that this was a case of the distant mirror phenomenon, and that my main connection to that particular denomination could also be called an ethnic thing. Unfortunately, the whole non-profit, contribution-based structure of church finance did not really work properly in its transplanted context, so there was still a tendency on the part of some refugees to see the church as a source of wealth and power, particularly among the first people who were eager to present themselves as leaders. On the up-side, I experienced the “re-evangelizing” phenomenon first-hand. I don’t claim to know Jesus any better than I did before, but I understand that the church as a social institution can be a powerful instrument of change and a symbol of hope. And that (like science) it is absolutely a double-edged sword.
Among other things, the church is working with a local non-profit to teach English, both spoken and written, to Sudanese women, who have not had as many opportunities as the men to learn English. In some cases English is the first written language they have learned. Sewing classes are also a big hit. The church provides transportation and child care, both barriers to women’s access to education. On Saturdays, there are Nuer language classes for Sudanese children, so that they will not “lose their mothers,” as the organizers say. Those classes may also help the kids go back one day and be able to make a difference.
To my ever-critical mind, the Christian message didn’t quite come across properly in African culture. (Hello! Can we say “distant mirror” again?) But there was a dialog in progress, obviously illuminating for both sides, that was interrupted when the Islamic government threw Christian missionaries out of Sudan. Christianity became a refuge from Islam, or at least a more powerful shield than native animistic beliefs.
The conversation isn’t over. It’s been superseded by incomprehensible violence. The Sudanese government is a collection of thugs. They don’t have the best interest of their citizens at heart and it is ludicrous to take their statements to the international community at face value. I don’t know what the Christian response should be, but I wish that I lived in a country that made human rights the centerpiece of its foreign policy. Some of my Sudanese acquaintances thought we should head to Sudan as soon as we were done in Iraq. I think that, once again, we would have gotten in way over our heads. Force alone would not solve this problem. Our country needs to lead by example. (Note the optimistic use of present tense.)
I wonder whether it is possible to export peace from middle America to Sudan. Certainly the refugees who are here are still closely connected to friends and family who are in refugee camps and who are trying to return to war-ravaged villages. I heard that some of the tribal rivalries waned when refugees got here, as people gained perspective and found that former rivals offered a comforting familiarity. And some have gone back to try to help rebuild. One of the most positive things they may take back is new perspective on gender relations, and education, particularly of women. I know of one young Sudanese woman who is studying public health with the intent to go back and make a difference. I think she can do it, but not alone.
Acts of Faith by Philip Caputo does a great job of capturing the Sudanese and American missionary dynamic. It’s not very hopeful but it’s a great read.
Nuer Journeys, Nuer Lives, by Jon Holtzman, is an accessible, quick overview of some of the cultural issues that come up as refugees are transplanted here. Also not very hopeful.
A Leopard Tamed, by Eleanor Vandevort, a candid missionary.
Making Peace and Nurturing Life, by Julia Duany, co-founder of South Sudan Friends International. It is hopeful.
I got on the stairstepper today and stepped along to the whole Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat recording. I love the rhythm of story, and story set to music is even better. In the past I’ve been to spinning (stationary cycling) classes and to bellydance, and just got some hiphop adbs DVDs, all of which give me ideas for movement combos that I did on the stairstepper. Good job no one was watching. This would really have been one of those moments where the sheer existence of a mom could embarrass a teenage daughter. I am also threatening to put a video of me hula hooping to the Time Warp on You Tube. It would be from the back and no one would know it was me. Anyway, the exercise and connecting to various rhythms helped me regain a sense of autonomy again.
The past several days I melded happily into family stew. My parents were visiting and we Had Christmas. The kids enjoyed their surprises as well as some expected biggies. We were, as one of my friends put it, all geeked out. On the up side, we have attention spans. On the downside, sometimes we have to remember to talk to each other.
Went to a Christmas Eve service with my parents. The music was fabulous and we all enjoyed singing. I was particularly glad to greet the Sudanese guy who leads Nuer worship at church.
It’s icy here. My mom barely left the house, being suitably cautious, and the rest of us moved very slowly. Dad and I took the dog for some nice walks. We lit a fire on Boxing Day and cozied up with leftovers, gadgets, and each other.
This time of year, going way into family space and barely entering the outside world (yes, it’s an education-based pattern), is like whatever happens to a bulb underground, anchoring us, gathering our energies, getting ready to poke, shoot, and burst forth when the time comes.
Never underestimate the need for protective eyewear. Son had a breakthrough last night and worked on cutting his own fingernails. (Hallelujah and Amen!) Alas, one of the nails flew off, into his eye, and lodged in a tear duct. We were preparing for a trip to the emergency room when my husband had a burst of fortitude, good light and steady hands, and managed to extract it. Son then finished the nails wearing swimming goggles.