Forgiveness

I don't think too often about the notion of forgiveness. When I do, it's most likely that I have inadvertently hurt someone else and I am hoping they will forgive the mistake. Forgiveness, I suppose, is born of some sort of pain. People hurt other people, often in response to some inflicted pain, real or imagined. Forgiveness often feels like some sort of perpetuation of this pain cycle, not the cathartic release it is often advertised to be. I don't forgive very often simply because I don't store up the pain until it gets to a point that I have to do something with it. Too often, forgiveness becomes almost theatrical in its application - instead of being a release of pain, it becomes an appeal for admiration. There is just too much work and attention in the process for me.
I have been lucky in the pain/forgiveness arena in my life however. It has been a lifetime since someone I loved or cared deeply about has wronged me. Likewise, any pain I have caused has been discarded long before a loved one has had to confront me with it. Pain is fleeting for me, not some sort of capital to be hoarded then cashed in. People are hurt, they hurt, then fuss over forgiveness as if it is a virtue in and of itself. It is not, it is simply the tail end of a masochistic melodrama.
I do not hurt others intentionally, but I do on occasion hurt them accidentally, or more likely, carelessly. Once again, I hope they forgive my stupidity and recklessness. But I do not need relief or absolution from some sort of malevolence; it just isn't there.
When I feel I have been wronged, I rarely focus on the notion that the other person tried to hurt me necessarily; rather, I suppose the action is a means to some sort of end that best goes through me. This is the only conclusion I have been able to find in fifty plus years, as there have been people who I have helped and been gracious to that have come after me in some way. This detached logic (in my DNA maybe) doesn't keep me from brooding about the consequences of the action, but it does mediate my anger (and uglier emotions) towards the person responsible. Maybe this simple separation has spared me the soul-killing cancer of hatred. I don't hate. I don't think I have ever even felt hatred for anyone for any time at all. I have been hurt, angry, and confused, but I have never placed that person at the center of my being long enough to cultivate the emotions I often see on the faces of others. I don't have the smile that slides to a smirk then disintegrates into a snarl. I think I have been blessed this way. Conversely though, many people I have known might accuse me of not having loved either, for many of the same reasons.
I guess, for some, hatred is generated from betrayal. I don't know what it is like to give my heart to someone only to have them maliciously damage it. Even so, I suspect hatred would not be my eventual response. Sadness and grief maybe, hatred no. Betrayal is not a theme that resonates with me anyway - I don't keep score of my good and bad deeds, nor do I keep tally of these exchanges with others. If I give of myself to another and he does something to hurt me, I notice the incongruity, but I do not lament the imbalance. To do so would lead, I fear, to a ledger system that would promote caution and passivity over passion and good will. I see the remnants of the former in the actions of far too many people in my universe already.
Finally, I think my notions of pain and forgiveness are simply by-products of my very driven personality. I thrive on challenges and truly want to make the world a better place. Moving forward and helping others would not be possible with reservoirs of past pain and future skepticism. Any pain I do carry has no face, nor does the possibility of future betrayal exist in the eyes of those I love and share my passions with. I am blessed.
 

In the Spirit of Inappropriateness

 

I am going to indulge some of my more base thoughts and emotions in this post. Sometimes it is good to dredge these things up in order to understand the rhetoric of idiots. I feel the same things as do morons, too often probably. The slight difference being that mine leave me with a tinged, guilty aftertaste. To too many others though, these deformed relics of ancient ignorance serve as peacock plumes and concentrated cialis. It is important to note the subtle and not so subtle phallic allusions here.

This post drifts back and forth between two recurring symbols of American pride and derision as I compose- the racial pennants Redskins and Niggers.



Both of these issues have woven themselves back into my consciousness as I impatiently wait for this upcoming Superbowl to pass. They share much yet are very different controversies. One is solely imposed on a group  as a naked symbol of aggression and power (and in my opinion, a good dose of Jewish narcissism) and the other found its way into the recesses of the souls it once subjugated,chained, and drug halfway around the world like common chattel. I will  begin with the term now drifting through the United Nations headquarters in New York.
First things first. To be true to my opening declaration, I must admit a recent chortle over a sublimely obnoxious irony that I wallowed in for a few hours the other day. Had it been my headline in my paper (at least today's off-color tabloid), it would read "Oppressed group seeks the assistance of the UN to intervene with a powerful Jew."  The Oneida Nation pleaded its case to the UN over the NFL's Washington D.C. team's mascot the Redskins. The team's owner, Dan Synder, has famously played the anti-semitism card in the past when it suited him, and now stands before the world with all his hubris claiming he will never change the name of his team. My money is on....well, you know who.
A bit more seriously, I sometimes take out my old lecture notes from my Philosophy of Human Nature course and reread the sections on religion and Judaism. As I move to the hallmarks of the development of that faith, I see the emphasis on social justice. That lecture, those words seem so incompatible now having been in Jerusalem and Hebron and witnessed Israeli social justice in the shadow of a separation wall. I understand a greedy billionaire, no matter what race or faith, but where is the majority of this faith on this social justice issue? Where?
I also smile, sort of, when I hear someone tell me they have discovered a Native American, even a group of them, who don't mind this word. It reminds me of a conversation I had twenty odd years ago with an African-American woman who told me she thanked God for slavery. When I incredulously asked why, she replied that if it hadn't been for slavery, she would be a godless heathen running around half-naked in Africa some place. I had neither the inclination nor patience to explain that God and clothing had since made it to the dark continent.
In my darkest moments, I imagine a new mascot for our nation's capital however, and a new name - The D.C. Hebes and it will be ok because we will find a dignified logo. Perhaps Charleton Heston?
Finally though, please don't ever talk to me if you are one of those "tradition" purists who think some sort of sanctity governing a game grown-up boys droll over trumps that of an indigenous people. Just too stupid to process. Instead, stay on the golf courses away from your wives smoking cigars and drinking beer while idly ogling the nineteen year-old in the tube top at the nineteenth hole.
I have been around the world with the word Nigger. I have never defended it, but I have done my best to explain it. Having an advanced degree in cultural studies, a South African wife, two African-American daughters, and almost three decades of service to people of color, I have my perspective. Take it for what it is worth. In this inane debate over who, if any, have the right to use this pejorative, I yield to William Faulkner. From A Rose For Emily: "She would cling to that which robbed her, as people will."
I remember watching and supporting a very vibrant movement in the 1990's supporting the abolition of apartheid (even before marrying into it) here in America. I was impressed with the empathy and passion of the advocacy of a diverse group of people. I didn't march or risk my life, but I felt connected. Now, fully twenty years on, these same folks seem mute on Palestine and other rewound obscenities and instead manipulate their intellects around a chic debate on this pathetic word. I guess we haven't yet found a Palestinian Spike Lee (to be fair, the director is not silent on this issue).
For me, this is the simplest of all racial issues in my universe. William Powell, Larry Powell, Rene Powell, Rachel and Job Gumede, Mrs. Norma Spencer, Sarah Spaulding, Lindi Morsches, Kesho Morsches, Sindi Morsches, Thomas Msuka, Furaha Mchuta, Blandina Mohammed, Errol Drummond, Tremayne Harmon, Reverand and Mrs. Reed, Donald Taylor, Aisha Mohmmed, Nuru Mohammed, Virgil Starks and his daughters, the five hundred plus Eritrean refugees that lived in Al-Khawkha, and countless other friends and family I have know are not Niggers, Bitches, Pimps, or Hoes. Many have made real sacrifices and don't renumerate themselves with soul killing pity or false bravado wrapped up in an inside out suicide. I don't think they would accept the insult, don't think they deserve it, and I don't think any decent person on the planet would attempt to label them so. They are good and honest people who worked hard and have made the world a better place. So I would appreciate it if those liberal friends of mine (those who defend this word and embrace liberality until someone reminds them of the consequences) exclude me from the dialogue.
On a closing note, I loath bullies and power brokers. I don't think anyone or any group owns words particularly in an attempt to exploit them. Strength, I think, lies in pushing past the privilege of hatred and supporting and occasionally defending those who need our help. It certainly doesn't dwell in
those arenas where bullies beat those less powerful and exploit their own people for temporal and useless gain.
*Bits of this are ugly and as I said, useful to me. This will not be my favorite post.

Student Engagement - Thoughts Shared With Our Faculty

A Short Treatise on Student Engagement

Or

A Modest Proposal……

 

            For those of you who get the alternate title, there are days when students can engender these kinds of sentiments. Seriously though, I would like to share with you four things I learned to do in my classrooms that helped me improve student engagement. In the process, I discovered that I was really working on the precursors of engagement such as trust, risk-taking, and caring about them in my own way. To be very honest, I was quite shocked when I first invited student participation (given that I hadn’t experienced the opportunity too often as a student myself) and it wasn’t forthcoming. So, I learned,  it wasn’t just a matter of me getting out of their way, per se, but of developing the context and desire on their part to do so.

            When I think about student engagement, the first axiom that comes to mind is “Before you delve, divulge.” It is important that we expose ourselves as caring risk-takers before we ask them to do the same, and more importantly, to demand that the risk taken in the classroom is respected by their peers. We can set that standard emphatically ourselves through our actions instead of by defensive reactions to inappropriate student reactions. When you combine the multiple factors that limit engagement in our classes (i.e., low subject skills, past humiliation or embarrassment, resentment at being at this level, being too cool for school, unclear academic and career goals, etc.), it is a wonder they open their mouths at all. Then when some do, I wish they hadn’t.

            I start encouraging engagement the first day of class, and I ratchet it up through the term. Here are a few key activities that I do every term with every class I teach (from the developmental to the graduate level):

1.      Syllabus Goals – When I hand out my syllabi, I have them turn the paper over and write down three to four goals they have for the class. In recent years, I have even incorporated into the syllabus itself:

 

Goals:

            1.

            2.

            3.

            4.

 

Sometimes I have to prod them but they usually come up with a few. I have them share them with the class. At this point I begin to randomly call on them to share one if they don’t offer. When we then get to the expectations and rules of the class, I have them connect these regulations to their goals. Before I get to my list though, I ask a question of them that often startles them. I ask them “What behaviors from me will show you that I respect you as students?”  This takes a few minutes for them to understand and to respond, but they do. I get things like “be patient with us”, “don’t laugh at us”, turn our homework back to us quickly”, etc. After letting this take its course, I ask them what the next question will be and they usually get it – “What behaviors will you see from us that show we respect you as our teacher?” From there, my list becomes largely redundant and a social contract has begun, far more tangible and palatable  than the standard classroom syllabus review.  It builds by-in from the beginning and creates a friendly feel for the syllabus and the class.

 

2.      Attendance Cards – I take attendance every day in my classes, and I use a special tool to do so. I give them each a 3 x 5 notecard. I then have them write the following on one side:

 

Name:

Address:

Phone Number:

Email:

Intended Major:

Hobbies and Interests:

 

I have find it useful to collect addresses and phone numbers as they don’t always match what the college has on record. I focus on the last two pieces of information as I try to get to know the students. I tease them and try to integrate examples where I can that exploit their information. Each day I go through these cards quickly and I keep track of their attendance on the other side of the card. I simply place them in two piles after calling roll; one stack for those attending and one for those absent. They know they have to see me after class if they come in late to move the card to the present pile. When they are absent, I write the date. When they are tardy, I write the date with an L after it. I learn their names very quickly this way (an important concept that many of you work hard at I have noticed), and they like the attention.

 

3.      Letters – I have my students write me a letter the second or third week of class. The object is for them to let me know what they think I should understand about them as my students. I have done this for thirty years now and have rarely received distressing responses I then respond to the letters and continue the activity periodically throughout the class. My greatest breakthroughs have come through this exercise, and I will share one here from my personal blog:

Nearly fifteen years ago, I was asked to teach a special study skills course to a special group of students. I was intrigued by the challenge, and I wanted to test the efficacy of some new learning theories I was developing. I learned that the class was in a cohort, a learning community, and that I would be teaching them study skills applied to psychology. They were seventeen, eighteen-year old black students who had low entrance scores, and had not been very successful in high school. I was set for the experience.

The first morning of the class, I was walking down the hall still composing my initial remarks when I noticed they had put us in a small, narrow classroom. I knew how crowded it would be before I opened the door. There would be seventeen young students sitting around a rectangular set of tables, with only a few feet from their backs to the four walls, I was not pleased. I opened the door, walked in, and was startled with what I found - all the students were there, crammed around the tables, none of them smiling, with the lights off. It was an inauspicious start.

I did turn the light on, called roll, and started to teach. Several of them, but not all, warmed up a bit, and the class went smoothly. I was pleased that many of them seemed to wake up and respond to me, but I did notice one young woman from the start, Keisha - she sat in the corner with a large hat on, frowning throughout the lecture. I was a little irritated to tell the truth, and I supposed I chalked it up to a bad attitude, one that might take me a long time to crack, if I ever managed to. For the next three sessions, she didn't move and only spoke if I asked her a direct question. She wasn't hostile, but she wasn't very friendly either.

During the third week of class, I assigned a letter as homework, as was my custom. I told them to tell me anything they would like me to know, and that it would be confidential. I always enjoyed reading these notes from my students, as I learned a great deal more about them. I would then answer them, and we would exchange this informal information throughout the term. Keisha's letter caught me off guard: It was long, written beautifully, and full of her hopes and desires. Initially I thought I had gotten the name wrong, surely that couldn't be from the morose, sour student in the big hat in the corner. But it was.

Keisha wrote about being a writer, a computer engineer, getting out of her neighborhood, living a new and exciting life. She also mentioned many of the things we had learned in the first two weeks, and she applied them very astutely to her psychology class. I wrote her back an equally long letter, and I noticed she had perked up and was now sitting at the table the next class period. Somewhere midway through the lecture, I called her out, teasing her gently. She looked at me for a second then smiled, broadly and beautifully, with a pencil thick gap between her front teeth. Later she would tell me she didn't smile a lot, for obvious reasons (I didn't think they were obvious), and that many people mistook her demeanor for apathy and disrespect.

I paid a lot more attention to Keisha from that point on. She was by far the best student I had ever had in a study skills course, and she enthusiastically applied everything I taught her. She had been a C student in high school, and she was now grinding out As on all her other assignments. She continued to write me, sometimes sharing her poetry, sometimes telling me she was making an effort to get to know her other instructors and that they were responding nicely. Keisha was coming out of her shell.

Keisha breezed through my class and her psychology course, as well as all her others. By the end of the term, I convinced Keisha to go to two state educational conferences to help me make presentations about the experimental course and it theories. She was nervous at first, but then she agreed, going on to steal the show at each event. The conference goers were very impressed with her, and stayed afterwards to ask her questions. I was very, very proud of her.

Keisha graduated in a little over four years with a degree in Computer Engineering, graduating summa cum laude, and I was at her graduation watching as she walked across the stage smiling joyfully. She went on to do an internship and eventually to a great job. To this day, I still remember her sitting back in that corner, perhaps daring me to come and help pull her out. I take a small amount of credit for her success, but not too much. I was in the right place at the right time, and stumbled on the right student. Sometimes God lines things up nicely, people too.

4.      Questions – Somewhere before mid-term, I like to stop class early on an appropriate day to do so, and to revolutionize my students’ learning experience a bit. I hand out uniform strips of paper to each of them and tell them they can write down any questions they want to ask me at all, about anything they are curious about. At first, some are stunned and some get a big smile on their face and begin scribbling. I tell them not to worry if the question is appropriate or not, as I can choose not to read it aloud if I don’t like it. To date, I have never received a cruel or intentionally stupid question in the thousand or so inquiries students have shared with me. On occasion, they ask more questions openly and I answer them honestly. They are curious! Curious as I was I suppose of this person in front of them. As a small footnote, I should add that I didn’t utilize these last two activities with my more worldly and experienced graduate students until the day I was describing them to a graduate education course as an example of reaching younger students. To my great surprise an older student asked “Why don’t you do these with us?” Several of her peers nodded and I have done so since.

These are not magic bullets, nor do they represent some sort of panacea in this ongoing struggle to reach and hear from our students. In their present form though, they suit my style and philosophy and help me create a consistent environment for the dialogue and participation I demand of my students. I have noticed that the number of inappropriate, cruel, and sometimes vicious remarks made by my students have decreased when I got out ahead of engagement and actually increased it, but with guidelines and tempered expectations. If you like any of these ideas, feel free to use them. If you have other ideas that work for you, share them with me and I will pass them on.

 

 

                       

           

On Writing

A few weeks ago, I was invited by an old friend, Theron, to stop by his university in Southwest Texas to talk to his students about writing, and how it is taught and learned in other places around the world. It was a serious symposium and an excellent chance to catch up with a Peace Corps buddy. The presentation followed another I had just completed in San Diego (also on language, but from a far different perspective), and the bulk of my preparation had been for the earlier gig. I gave the Texas topic little thought, figuring I would put it together once I got there and chatted with Theron. As the trip unfolded, I ended up getting very little sleep before the symposium, and I simply relied on a dated cache of anecdotes, nostalgia, and a rare bit of introspective honesty. Here, in essence, is what I said:
Good morning, my name is Michael, and I would like to talk to you about writing and how it is taught and maybe conceptualized in other parts of the world. To be fair though, I should probably share with you how I have used writing in my life. I am sure you know that writing is cultural, and I am also very sure you will be surprised when I tell you that I come from a very unique culture, probably the rarest of sorts. You see my parents met in a mental institution, and they weren't working there. My siblings and I were raised in a never ending environment of chaos, transition, and violence. When I finally left home at 17, I had a wealth of pain and confusion that I had no notion how to deal with. Eventually, I found poetry.
I had a very ambivalent relationship with poetry, and probably still do. I remember working so hard learning to read as a child, often finding it hard to grasp concepts and main ideas. Suddenly, around fourth grade, at teacher taught us poetry and that this crazy new thing could have any meaning, any at all. I considered it a trap and dismissed the genre, not wishing to suffer any additional literary humiliation. Later, that very ambiguity brought me back to the freer form of verse. I found that I could express some of my pain in my bad poetry (and it is bad, but mine) with a good degree of "plausible deniability" if I cloaked it properly. I needed to share those things, but to do so with a degree of safety. The obfuscation not withstanding, I was learning to let go of old demons and older yet guilt.
Now I write freely in my blog, facebook, and elsewhere. I still don't write well, but I write to consecrate my thoughts. I find a good bit of my intellect and language cursory and cheaply purchased. I see a lot similar prattle around everywhere. When I choose to write, I discipline those thoughts and emotions in order to purify and preserve them. Anything I hold precious, I eventually write about. The ability to capture these often fleeting feelings and ideas still alludes me generally, but I am trying.
That is enough about writing and me anyway. I have also had the marvelous opportunity to teach writing and to supervise writing programs in Yemen, Tanzania, Jamaica, London, and a few other places. Given my contentious relationship with the skill, I was curious to see how it played out in other cultures, how other children used it. My first realization though was that it wasn't the same at all, particularly those countries that had been British colonies or at least, been influenced by British culture. I found that there had been a premium on finding the right sources, citing the right experts, and feeding the teacher exactly what he or she expected. There were no thoughts about finding one's voice or creative expression, only "getting it right." This, by the way, explains for me why these students so often find themselves in trouble when they come to American schools, particularly in issues of plagiarism. They had never had their own opinions valued at school, let alone in print. Now, suddenly asked to create ideas or worse yet, to produce commentary on subjects with limitless experts in existence, they often run for shelter and resort to the "correct" sources. They know it isn't right to do so, and this is not offered as an excuse. But I understand, for they are running into the same trap I had eschewed all those years earlier, with far more serious consequences to suffer.
Despite the fact that the students I encountered overseas had never been exposed to creative writing, or much fiction or poetry for that matter, they used writing in their own fashion. I spent two years in an Eritrean refugee camp in Yemen, teaching orphans of the Eithiopian civil war. They had no electricity, running water, or basic school supplies - but they wrote. They found chalk and wrote passionate political messages on the wood siding of their shacks. They practiced writing everywhere they could, particularly in English. I would find scraps of old newspapers with crowded letters circumscribing the margins. But the most powerful literacy I witnessed was in the sand. Often, the smaller children would congregate near my tent and play with my books and personal effects - and my long brown (then) hair. Occasionally, they would call me out to draw and write in the sand, as they chanted diligently as I composed. I had never felt that kind of connection to other humans with words before, and still haven't since.
I had one more lesson in life and literature to learn from these little kids though. One night as a small group of girls were rummaging through my things, one of them knocked over a few of my books. They stood there startled and I thought that it was an odd reaction to the small faux pas. They hadn't been too conscious of their rambunctiousness to that point. I looked over and they had formed a little circle in that tight space, staring directly down at the back cover of Rita Dove's Thomas and Beulah. The momentary pause in commotion and dialogue was supplanted by a loud stream of excited Afar (their native tongue that was not a written language). In the next half hour we negotiated urgently in three languages as I tried to unearth the cause of their plaintive inquiry. Eventually, I learned that they were completely shocked that a woman would be allowed to write a book, let alone a black women who looked liked the mothers they had once known. They had no schema for such things.
They asked me if I knew the writer and I tried to explain that I had met her. My feeble translation became that I knew her and the girls immediately rehuddled. They whispered for a minute or two and vowed to return the next evening. The next sunset brought the contingent back to my tent with a cloistered package. The bravest one stepped forward and demanded that I send the parcel to the woman on my book, my close personal friend. I stuttered, not sure what to say other than ok. They had scrounged all the decent paper they could find and made her six lovely cards with pictures and suras from the Koran. A week later, I travelled a few hours to the nearest post office and sent the gift to the University of Virginia, care of Rita Dove. The experienced had humbled me.
Three months later, the reply from America came to the camp. Rita had sent them a letter thanking them and detailing how she had put their cards on display in her office. The girls skipped and sang for a week. When I left the camp, they kept her letter and the back cover of the paperback that had started their correspondence and another bit of my salvation. Years later, I would find myself in Tanzania, working with young Peace Corps volunteers hosting Girl's Empowerment workshops, continuing the simple lessons learned in a small tent on the Red Sea.
Years before Yemen, I had also been a volunteer in Jamaica. I taught 17 boys from 7-17 in a one room school for orphans in Montego Bay. The orphanage had once been a quaint tourist hotel overlooking the airport. The boys, the headmaster told me, "were too spirited to appreciate the benefits of a public school education." I soon appreciated the euphemism, and spent a year with them, not teaching them too terribly much, but learning a great deal. When the three Rs turned to writing, I had little success. They weren't at all interested, and half barely had the capacity to spell. Eventually though, I found a little headway as I began to connect their love for music (Reggae and Dance Hall) and written lyrics. I wish I could say that we eventually turned those lyrics into profound English lessons, but we did not. What we did do was to recognize and legitimize their language in a way that had not happened before. I am sure that any contribution I made to their self esteem was manifested in the long erased verse scribbled on the small blackboard in the corner of that small makeshift classroom in that small converted hotel.
And there have been so many other ways I have seen writers write - from my Muslim students who labored lovingly over the caligraphy of their faith to the gracious notes and cards I have received from grateful students on four continents.
So, as you can probably tell, writing still amazes and confounds me. Those things that escape me come naturally to others in so many ways. I don't know if there is any great lesson here other than for you to find your voice, exercise it, share it, and do so creatively and freely. You have so many great resources here, as witnessed by your presentations and the spirit of this symposium. I wish you luck.
 

Winning the Lottery

 

 

I had always known that I had been the recipient of many fortunate things in my life, particularly as I ventured out and saw what others did not have in the world. But it wasn't until the eve of the new millennium that I put it all together realizing I had hit the lottery a million times over. I was doing a site visit at a small school a quarter of a mile or so from the shores of Lake Victoria in Northwest Tanzania. Oddly enough, it was after watching a Peace Corps volunteer do a biology lesson with a small class of sixteen year old girls. It covered reproduction at the cellular level, and the sudden epiphany that followed was probably about fifteen years late. That single thought refocused my life to that point, my ideas about my children, and my drive for the future. One little thought - one little sperm cell.......

I had never before considered the sheer impossibility of my existence. I suppose I naively thought that I was somehow in  some queue in my mother's womb waiting for the next fertilization cycle. It had never occurred to me that I was the by product of one frenetic sperm cell hitting one particular egg at a given moment. Any other combination and I don't exist. That traveller turns the wrong way and someone else is writing a blog somewhere else in the world at this moment. If something had been different in that day and my parents delayed their romantic tryst even momentarily, this post isn't here. Not to beleaguer the point too much, but birth is the first lottery win, probably the most improbable.

Likewise, I supposed, the creation of my two daughters was equally miraculous given I couldn't imagine wanting them to be anyone, anything other than they are. Oddly, this second thought put a permanent damper on my fantasy life (no, not that kind). I no longer wanted a time machine, realizing that if I would go back and change anything at all in my life, the two wonderful collisions that produced my beautiful daughters likely would not have happened. The moments, minutes, hours I might have indulged in contemplating varied previous realities have been redirected to proactive, future oriented capital. Two little sperm cells.......

If all that weren't enough, I was born a white male in the United States of America with good health, a decent intellect, and an innate desire to help people. No odds maker could calculate this sort of probability. And no decent man or woman could ever tally the debt I owe for this fortune, the incredible blessings I have incurred and endured in my own unthankful way. I haven't bought a lottery ticket since that day fourteen years ago, haven't needed to - any result would have been silly and not too particularly seemly.

I have a lot to account for, preferring that choice of words over a lot to be thankful for. In the expanse of the universe (will stop there for perspective only) I am an incalculable presence with a lot of work to do, a lot of work to do. It is no burden, only recompense; for even more recently I have learned to balance those infinity long odds with the faith that dissipates the randomness and senselessness of the unfathomable sequences. There is an account due, and I have realized to whom. My final blessing is my capacity to do so by relentlessly working to even the odds around me for others, in small yet meaningful ways. I am not alone with this, and each day I meet more people who have learned these lessons and are working on their own ledger sheets.

I am lucky.

 

 

 



With Respect to My Christian Friends Who Support Israel

First off, I am not an expert in Israeli politics or culture, but then again, neither are you. I am not an expert on Christian doctrine and I concede that you might be. However, I don't understand where you have found the justification in your two Testaments to support a nation unilaterally when you fail so miserably (as do most of us) to do so in your own. To watch you, I would think you hate some of the men and women who lead this country and you would do what you could to take them out of power. Once again, this is not unique to you in this country. You are critical, you exercise your democratic responsibilities, and you judge the politicians around you justly, based on your faith and convictions. But you have it your mind (maybe not consciously) that Israel must exist, and your intellect and sense of values seems to stop there, or at least in St. Croix (technically the easternmost point of the USA). For you also seem to be oblivious to the diverse nature of the entity you support unconditionally. Israel has had conservative, somewhat liberal, and even socialist leaders; it has been led by great thinkers and courageous men, and it has been led by cowards and even rapists; it has stood up for itself valiently at times and it has victimized men, women, and children in other times. You don't seem to be aware or to care. From the outside it looks as if you need this "thing" to exist and that you are willing to overlook monstrous acts and decades of deprivation to tuck your faith in to bed comfortably each night. I personally do not believe it is that simple, but you sorely mystify me when your sensibilities and logic disappear so apparently conveniently. I don't recall any verse in any holy book that says "defend Israel in any form it takes, for any action it puts forth, with closed eyes and hardened hearts." I do not want this nation tossed into the sea or wiped from the earth. I do believe it can exist and flourish without the carte blanche you would afford no other government on earth. I once heard Jerry Falwell encourage Christians to purchase Krugerrands to support the White regime in South Africa fearing Apartheid would be replaced by a Godless socialism. If you don't give the situation in Israel/Palestine the same critical examination you give your own country, I believe you are promoting yet another form of Apartheid, and I am not sure which Prophet you would need to quote to support yourself.

Ramadan Kareem

 

Ramadan is here, alhamdulilah, and I am not sure I am prepared - I never am sure. Ramadan slowly overtakes me though, and it is an incredible feeling. I will grow stronger each day, more focused on the profound gifts Allah has bestowed upon me, first and foremost his love. Two years ago, I used this blog to reflect on each of the Surah in the Holy Koran. Last year, I spent a good part of the month remembering the precious people who have touched my life. This year, I think, I will spend my energy on the ideas, concepts, and truths I hold dear. The fasting, praying, and good will of those around me motivates me and perhaps I will be able to dig into these notions with some clarity and a respectful diligence that often eludes me. I am ready to begin..................