Preparing for the Congo

In just about two weeks, I will be off to the Democratic Republic of Congo to work in a UNHCR refugee camp on a State Department assignment. It is a daunting task, as it is a hardship post and the work is very ambitious. I will be helping establish a secondary ESL curriculum based on the UN's Conflict Resolution curricula and I will be creating a handbook for camps that want to start English clubs. The intent is to design the activities and conversations around their issues. If successful, the plan is to disseminate the handbook to other camps around the world. As I said, ambitious, but I will have help.
In my interview, they stressed the spartan nature of the camp and I sorta smiled. I really believe nothing could be much worse than the camp I lived in for two years in Yemen. By worse I mean lacking basic amenities such as running water, electricity, other hygienic necessities. So what ever is waiting for me will probably be ok. I am more concerned with the scope of the work; not that I cannot do it, but that I do justice to it. After 30 years in and out of the disaffected American education system, I understand too well the stakes over there and the hopes and dreams that will flow through every classroom interaction, every lesson good or bad, every opportunity to catapult out of that place to a decent and productive life.
Recently, while getting my Yellow Fever immunization, I thought back to my adventures with tropical diseases in far off places - Malaria, Typhoid, and Hepatitis to name a few. I was never afraid back then, instead almost curious about what I could endure, how I would face those maladies as millions did each year outside my country. Now, I would rather be spared any further similar experiences. I will take my medicine, eat and drink properly, and keep my hands clean. I cannot spare a week of semi-consciousness on this trip.
I am looking forward to the kids in the camp, and that artful dance I will do as I am playful with them while maintaining the requisite sense of professionalism with the adults. I do exploit all the good that comes with being an American, often banking on a benevolent patience with my occasional over-the-top performances. I am often reminded of an aphorism I learned when I went to work for the Peace Corps (as an employee, not a volunteer): If you are stationed in South East Asia, you will learn about religion; If you are placed in Latin America, you will learn about politics; If you to to Africa, you will learn how to laugh.
Most of all, I long to be back in environment where teachers are revered and respected. Here on weekends in the ESL conversation group, I am simply "teacher." The difference is the tone it is said in. I saddens me to see the apathy, contempt, and indifference shown educators in this country by its students, parents, and public. A byproduct of a liberal dream sliding sideways I suppose, or a conservative nightmare where greed and ruthlessness work their ways backwards from corporate career to the womb. In any case, the respect given is a gift to be nurtured and then converted into a reciprocal energy, not some sort of entitled license to wield contempt and disdain as so often develops in academics across the planet. There is a kind of grace embedded in these simple interactions (teaching) that fills my heart and drives me on - I couldn't dream of betraying them or the beautiful souls that offer me this occupation.
I smile every time I encounter a quizzical reaction when I mention this trip or other similar interests. Who wouldn't give anything, everything to do such work? I am not kidding, it seems almost selfish to get paid to do these things. There is nothing altruistic in my nature - I am a hedonist! Teaching, laughing, smiling, challenging, jostling, affirming, are pleasurable things. I didn't wake up one day and decide to make some sort of sacrifice for others. If anything, they make sacrifices for me by being patient and tolerant. The world is sometimes upside down for me.
Most of all, chasing this grace, finding ways to help others is the best way I have found to deal with an emptiness I have always felt. I think I tried to fill that void inappropriately in so many ways over the years that I lost track of its utility. In a strange way that nothingness provides the unending energy I possess. I want to lose myself in this project, in these lives the next two months. I want to work hard with no complications, no rewards, no politics. I want to see how I can leverage a lifetime of work in an overlooked corner of the earth. I can't wait to get there to get started..............

A Post Script To Moonlight - A Resurrected Draft

There are moments, walking out into the moonlight, that I miss you much more than I care to. I grin as I imagine a jealous sun casting a backwards glance to the east, not wanting to leave you for even a day. When my heart is full imagining you smiling somewhere, I play a silly game bouncing my eyes from star to star back to Acton, Amman, or Alexandria, back to a moment locked deeply away in my heart. On lesser nights, I turn my gaze away unable to mitigate the pain without hoping against your happiness. And I close my eyes and wonder about loneliness and emptiness and endlessness, and the expanse of pain and space. I move inwards then and pray for a separate place, a universe without time or blame, somewhere to tuck the bits of my love that were pure and perfect and painless. Someplace protected from the rest of me, someplace near my soul perhaps, someplace to visit from time to time, someplace simply to rest.

The Congo

I have a reasonable chance to go to the Democratic Republic of Congo next month to do some work in a large UN refugee camp. The camp is for refugees from the nearby civil war in the Central African Republic. If chosen, and if granted the release time, I would be creating a new secondary ESL curriculum in the camp centered around the UN's Conflict Resolution curricula, Additionally, I would co-author a handbook for ESL clubs in the camp for conversation activities based on their experiences, adjustment, and ongoing issues. The goal then would be to share it with camps around the world.
This would be a tremendous opportunity, and it dovetails nicely with the work I am doing here. My life has not been typical, and it certainly isn't gonna wrap up that way evidently. At 55, my dream would be to live in a squalid camp teaching and helping good people to leave the very place I would thrive in. I could spend the rest of my life doing this work, despite the risks and consequences. I don't think it is philanthropy or altruism, just where the groove of my live has been ground. Grace is the repeated, gradual accumulation of small gestures, tiny sacrifices, momentary inconveniences. Here in the west, my grace is mediated by too many distractions, too many coarse appeals to my weaknesses. I have learned that a ledger sheet is not a profitable measure of a man - like my step-father, I would weigh my strengths disproportionately and ignore or rationalize the rest creating some sort of skewed black state acknowledged only by the fearful and fellow philanderers. I don't want that. I want my life to increase in its efficacy and impact. I want to channel all those failures, losses, and misplaced desires into a selfless service to others. I want to dismantle my ego and insecurity and reconstitute them in God's grace, something I sometimes feel but cannot yet summon. I want to be a good man.

Message in a Bottle

I am here, smiling every time I think about you. Happy you are well, willing even to hum a few bars from an old Elvis Presley song if necessary...................:)
 

Mr. T.

Donald G. Taylor

I knew him for nearly thirty years and I never called him anything but Mr. T.; the irony not lost given that he was literally half the size of his A-Team namesake. Mr. T. died nearly a week ago and will be put to rest tomorrow. A small, quiet man with an impossibly large legacy. I will miss him, and I will miss the plaintive indictment he made against a cruel and selfish world. He was my Mother Teresa, my Tom Dooley, my Albert Schweitzer. I loved Mr. T. and wished I had told him so.

My friend, Mr. T., wasn't here to teach me - it was impossible for him to give me what he had. His grace, compassion, and humility were a testament to a God I would not meet for many years. He was here to restore my faith in other human beings, even though his piety was far beyond my potential. His goodness did not threaten me, nor did it shame me. It simply warmed me.

For now my grief is mediated by my knowledge of his legacy and the slow realization that I too have begun to look for my dignity in the places he inhabited, the faces he loved and nurtured, and the relative obscurity that mortal angels toil about in. I don't have his patience, never will - but he is in my heart and I will carry on in my own way, having an ideal to chase forever.

http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/ohio/obituary.aspx?pid=174027447

http://philosopherking-michael.blogspot.com/2011/04/hero.html

Tremayne - A Post Script

I have written about Tremayne before, nearly two years ago. A link to that post follows this one. Today, Tremayne and I worked on his graduation speech that he will deliver to our GED graduation this coming Tuesday.  Days like these, few and far between, make everything worthwhile. I am posting his speech here, as I am too excited to wait for him to give it in a few days:

Good evening, my name is Tremayne Harmon and I want to tell you a little about myself and how I found myself at Moraine Valley College and the GED program.  I was born in Chicago, but I was raised in Youngstown, Ohio. My father left our home at an early age, so I was raised by a single mother.  Coming up in the streets with no father figure and little financial support, I did what I needed to do to survive. School didn’t buy food, and I felt that it was not important at that time in my life. Even though I eventually got out of Youngstown, others did not. My sister was murdered at 24. A friend, John, attempted to rob someone and was killed. Another friend, Mark, was executed by the State of Ohio just three years ago. He called me an hour before they put him to death.

 Thank God I got out of Youngstown, Ohio. If I hadn’t I don’t believe I would be here now.

When I was 21, after a year and a half in juvenile detention, I reconnected with my father in Chicago and eventually received a job with the railroad, but it was through a contractor.  I worked there for five years and was getting my life together; at least I thought it was all coming together. Over time, the contractors lost their bid to work for the railroad and the Burlington Northern Santa Fe railroad took over.  With my work experience and the strong work ethic I had developed, an opportunity arose that would allow me to work for this new railroad and keep a good job, but there was one small catch. Even though I had all of the qualifications to do the job well, I lacked the required high school education!  I was very frustrated. I was losing my job temporarily, but the railroad said it would hold my job while I pursued my GED. I was nervous at the thought of returning to school at this point in my life, and I knew they couldn’t hold the job for me forever.  With the amazing support of my family, I decided to find a program.  My wife researched some schools and found out that this program was starting soon. There were other schools available, but she thought this school had the best resources and least distractions (I really think she thought there were less attractive women in the suburbs – if only she knew! Just kidding honey).

 By receiving a massive amount of help from Dean Michael, Miss Karen, Miss Swift, Miss Jessica, Miss K and all the other  teachers and staff, I eventually made it through and I was able to earn my GED.  It wasn’t easy though. It took me a whole year just to get up the nerve to attempt my first GED test. It was tough getting down here to classes sometimes, and being unemployed put a lot of pressure on me and my family. I took many courses and made steady and gradual progress though. I took the test a few more times and started passing several of the sections. Being out of school for 25 years, this gave me a lot of encouragement. Math was hardest! When I received my final math results from my wife over the phone, I ran into school crying thanking Jesus! A grown man crying – please don’t tell the guys at 14^th and Canal St.! The last hurdle was my essay – Miss K and Miss Jessica never let me give up and I passed this last test a year and a half later after I made that first move to get back to work and save my job.

Derek and Latrese, the terminal managers were excited and had me reapply for my job. Two months later, I was back to work with a career now ahead of me. Six months later, I was promoted to being a conductor with better pay, better hours, and weekends off. Thank you Jesus again.

 The late Nelson Mandela said that education is the most powerful weapon which you can use to change the world.  Moraine Valley College provided an excellent avenue for me to achieve my educational goals. As an adult, it’s hard to go back to school.  Hard work and never giving up is a necessity. By never giving up, all impossibilities become possibilities.

I waited until I was forced to make these changes – if you are out there now in the audience, or know someone who needs to complete their GED, please don’t wait. Moraine Valley is the place you need to be, don’t look anywhere else. The support here is like that of a family; people will reach out to you and encourage to keep going. Coming from where I came from to where I am now tells me it is nothing but God – He put all these people in my life and he will put them in your life too. All you have to do is believe and make the effort.

Thank you.

 

http://philosopherking-michael.blogspot.com/2012/08/ramadan-1433-tremayne.html

Hope?

http://rjrnewsonline.com/local/man-killed-during-shoot-out-in-mobay

 

David Earle 1970-2008

 

I have written about David before, and have thought about him often. Today, however, I did a simple search and the news I sensed was there made me wished I hadn't.  Here is an excerpt from a April, 2013 post:

 

Simulation Drill?: Often, in interviews, you are asked situational questions where you can simulate your responses and they can get an idea of your affect and behavior. Sometimes this is done as a role-play. Well, I had the mother of all role-plays in 1985, but I don't think it was scripted. I had arrived in Jamaica as a Peace Corps Volunteer without an assignment (long story, other posts) and had heard about an orphanage that needed a teacher for a year. I contacted them and scheduled an interview with the director the next day. When I arrived at the school, I was surprised to see it had been an old tourist hotel overlooking Montego Bay. It was quaint and dated, and the boys lived in the old guest rooms (four boys to a room). There were only two floors, one central area, and an abandoned pool. I made my way upstairs to meet with the director and casually looked down the railed hall of the second floor. I could hear activity at the end of the balcony and I figured classes were going on there. I went into the office and began what was to be a half-hour interview - it didn't last nearly that long. We exchanged pleasantries, and he explained the nature of his need: The regular teacher was pregnant and needed to take a year's leave. She presided over a one-room school with seventeen boys ages 7-17. In his words, these were the boys "too spirited to appreciate the benefits of a traditional education." I got his drift.
He seemed pleased with my answers and was in mid-sentence with another question when we heard a very loud scream from outside. I knew it came from the end of the hall I had passed, and my instinct led me to bolt up and run down to the room. I emerged first, with the director close behind, and saw a very large, very pregnant Jamaican woman against the wall with her hand over her mouth. My eyes followed her gaze and I looked over to see a small boy poking a homemade knife into the belly of a much larger boy. Once again, I acted without thought and tackled the larger boy sensing he was the cause of the problem. The director caught the smaller child and calmed him down and I held the older boy until we could take him down to the office. He had only superficial cuts to his stomach. I survived the interview (new meaning to that phrase now) and I got the job, and after a year and a half, I did make some progress trying to reach David, the older bully. The kids were wonderful and I learned so much about education in that little room without resources.

 

David is dead at 38, having served time in prison. I can see him clearly, as can I see his young victim. Two boys, both in worn and tattered uniforms, shaved heads, and little or no futures. The younger boy, Colin, was very sweet but had severe cognitive deficits. David must have come from some kind of hellish childhood I couldn't fathom. Colin loved to hug people, David might never have been hugged in his life. I don't know what either boy took to bed with them each night as they slept in open rooms with dank and soiled bedding. I don't know what motivated David to hurt Colin, as I never saw any satisfaction on his face. I did manage to get David to leave Colin alone eventually, and that might have been my only significant contribution to the lives of those 17 children. I saw the emptiness in David's eyes, and I could find no imagination or hope to put there. I don't know if ghosts come from such devastated souls, but if they do, David's loss will haunt me for a great while I suspect.