I am not sure she will appreciate the comparison, but my friend Bayan is aptly named, perhaps after Kubla Khan's greatest general, Bayan of the Hundred Eyes. Not that Bayan ever killed anyone or came riding in off the steppes sword in hand, but she could have been a general in her own right if she had wanted to. Instead, she chose to be a teacher and then a principal, thus crossing paths with me in London, our intersection between Ohio and Iraq.
My first impression of Bayan was a curious one indeed - she was far too busy too often, doted on most everyone, and took everything I said far too seriously. Dealing with her was enjoyable though, in the sense that I always had the enviable task of assuring her things were not as urgent as she imagined. She was conscientious and caring in a chaotic way, the kind of person who would always be busy even if there was nothing to do. But unlike so many other chronic scramblers, Bayan was not motivated by vanity or the need to be perceived as important or indispensable, she just cared about everyone around her. I always liked that about her, but I don't think I ever told her so.
Bayan was very intelligent, and she always tried to dismiss her intellect to the regions of intuition and experience, shying away from cerebral affirmation. Actually, I had a lot of fun with that. I teased her, trying to provoke some sort hiatus on her perpetual humility, and she eventually clocked in and coyly sidestepped my best efforts - just another indicator of her sharpness. Honestly, she just might have been the most intelligent person I had met in a long time. I never told her that either.
The best part of working with Bayan (other than her very genuine habit of praising me) was helping her connect that perceptivity to theory and research. She was very willing to learn and improve, a great compliment to her native abilities. I pushed her at times, and she always rose to the occasion. I was never so pleased as when I learned she was continuing her formal education. Humble, humorous, and hungry - the school, its staff, children, and parents are very lucky to have her. I think they know that, although that is another thing I never told her.
Like many other people in my life, I didn't part company with Bayan like I would have liked to. Before I left London, things at the school were changing (for the worse, I believed), and Bayan did what she had to do, what she should have done for her welfare and that of her staff and students. I let her know, not so subtly, that I was irritated with her, and that is a regret I will always oblige, for no one deserved my disdain less than she. Perhaps it was her forgiving nature and my ugliness that allowed it happen. I never apologized to her for that.
Bayan and I have remained in contact, and I treasure her friendship. For Bayan did something for me that no one else would have - she supported me in a personal matter when I thought I could find no support, no understanding. Ultimately, I was not successful, but she did more than her part, more than I could have asked for. Sadly, I am not sure I thanked her appropriately for that either.
But I am smiling as I write this homage, knowing that Bayan is in London taking care of the school I loved, nurturing the people I cared so much for, and will forever be in my corner, at least metaphysically. And as I think about it, Bayan of the Hundred Eyes is a suiting sobriquet for her, as she is always watching out for everyone, always where she needs to be for a friend, and is now adding so many new perspectives to her repertoire as she somehow makes time for her education. So yeah, a hundred eyes is appropriate, or even a hundred hearts......
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Monday, July 11, 2011
BSP and Other Pet Peeves
Bumper Sticker People
I find myself often irritated when sitting behind a older, Japanese vehicle with self-righteous slogans spattered all over its behind. That, after all, should say it all - how serious would you take a human who chose his bum to display his pithy, profound sentiments? Humorous bumper stickers are ok then, being appropriately placed. But those political, religious, and philosophic aphorisms are but(t) paper on the ass-end of a filth-spewing coupe.
I suppose these people started with T-shirts, but eventually grew weary of the scornful or pitiful countenances of the multitude they pined to enlighten. So now, from a detached distance, they can retroactively regale us with their plagiarised perspicacity. I wonder if they think these mobile mottoes change any opinions, sway any voters, or send any of us home contritely from our coarse and boorish commutes. As I pass these four cylinder oracles, I steal a glance at Pythia or Dodona, imagining that sublime moment they peeled back the paper from the adhesive, lovingly smoothing that placard on their bumper, smugly grinning, inwardly fulfilled.
In Lieu of Plot, Pyrotechnics
I have noticed over the past decade or so that when things start blowing up in movies, I have a tendency to drift off. I have developed one of my many conspiracy theories around the notion that "period pieces", movies about antiquity, have declined, at least those predating the invention of gunpowder. For if there is not an adjacent volcano, what could be blown up to entertain us? It seems ironic that the most explosive elements in a movie bore me the most. Perhaps it is the knowledge that an overpaid, soft and spoiled star will outrun the eruption, probably the most prevalent and enduring violation of general physics in the genre. Perhaps it is the awareness that all this combustion also consumes any prospect for intelligent dialogue that would be no doubt lost in the cacophony of the over amped theater surround sound. Or, perhaps, it is just that I outgrew the allure of arson the first time I saw a mother trying to claw her way through a fireman's arms to get to her child in an all too real inferno on the local news. And just as I thought my distaste for the banal cliche had peaked, I have discovered the double-derision of the CGI detonation - an explosion that doesn't quite look like an explosion, generated from a laptop computer. What is worse than something you hate? An attenuated version even less worthy of your disdain.
Scope and Sequence at Subway
Santa Claus knew how to arrange his reindeer, coaches know who to put on the line and who to send to the backfield, and band directors know who to grace the violin and who to harness with the tuba - oh that my local Subway restaurant employed any such process introspection. I go in every three or four days, the refractory period of my deli frustration, naively thinking things will change. Yet over the course of nearly a year now, I have never successfully navigated a smooth and expeditious sandwich experience. On most days, only one of the three "sandwich artists" is anywhere about, and she is usually washing a pot or chopping some kind of plant, blissfully unaware of my presence at the plexiglass tube plastered with the plethora of sub preferences. When I do manage to gain her notice, subtly or otherwise, she bellows out to some unknown peer who emerges almost magically from nowhere, who gives me the minimum wage stoic stare before ambling over to start my order (or ordeal). If I am lucky, this bubble-gum chewing, chronically bored teenager will take and complete my order. It will take some time, and I will have to suffer the penultimate insult of "anything else honey?" before being allowed to escape. If I am not lucky, I will end up in a long line, watching the third triumvirate (or three stooges, depending on your education I suppose)interact ineptly, testing the appetite of even the most ardent health conscious consumers. Although there are five or six women who work there regularly, there are only three types: one who is competent; one who is new and knows nothing, least of all about the computer called a cash register; and the third who is the slowest, most meticulous employee not working as an editor for the NY Times. And, of course, there are three stations in the sandwich system: the order taker, sandwich starter; the one in the middle who assembles the subs from the myriad of possibilities; and finally the cashier. Invariably, my sandwich gets off to a strong start, as the competent artist takes my order and toasts my wheat bread, but then things go horribly awry. The snail is always in the middle, gumming up the entire flow of things. She scrutinizes the tomatoes, perseverates over the pickle pattern, spreads and smooths the unsmoothable lettuce, equitably allocates olives, and wraps my sub like it was a present to some august dignitary. Finally, my reward for this process patience, is the green cashier who has no idea how to execute any order - and there is always a woman ahead of me with two frequent buyer cards with seventy-five cents on each, a few dollars in cash, and a battered and bruised debit card, willing to wait five minutes to orchestrate her transaction, possibly the apogee of her day. Still, I go back, vainly dreaming I will catch the three at their appropriate posts, and that I will sail through with my footlong veggie toasted on wheat with lots of lettuce, provolone cheese,pickles, tomatoes, a modicum of onion, black olives, salt and pepper, culminating with the redundantly named Southwest Chipotle sauce. I have a dream.
I find myself often irritated when sitting behind a older, Japanese vehicle with self-righteous slogans spattered all over its behind. That, after all, should say it all - how serious would you take a human who chose his bum to display his pithy, profound sentiments? Humorous bumper stickers are ok then, being appropriately placed. But those political, religious, and philosophic aphorisms are but(t) paper on the ass-end of a filth-spewing coupe.
I suppose these people started with T-shirts, but eventually grew weary of the scornful or pitiful countenances of the multitude they pined to enlighten. So now, from a detached distance, they can retroactively regale us with their plagiarised perspicacity. I wonder if they think these mobile mottoes change any opinions, sway any voters, or send any of us home contritely from our coarse and boorish commutes. As I pass these four cylinder oracles, I steal a glance at Pythia or Dodona, imagining that sublime moment they peeled back the paper from the adhesive, lovingly smoothing that placard on their bumper, smugly grinning, inwardly fulfilled.
In Lieu of Plot, Pyrotechnics
I have noticed over the past decade or so that when things start blowing up in movies, I have a tendency to drift off. I have developed one of my many conspiracy theories around the notion that "period pieces", movies about antiquity, have declined, at least those predating the invention of gunpowder. For if there is not an adjacent volcano, what could be blown up to entertain us? It seems ironic that the most explosive elements in a movie bore me the most. Perhaps it is the knowledge that an overpaid, soft and spoiled star will outrun the eruption, probably the most prevalent and enduring violation of general physics in the genre. Perhaps it is the awareness that all this combustion also consumes any prospect for intelligent dialogue that would be no doubt lost in the cacophony of the over amped theater surround sound. Or, perhaps, it is just that I outgrew the allure of arson the first time I saw a mother trying to claw her way through a fireman's arms to get to her child in an all too real inferno on the local news. And just as I thought my distaste for the banal cliche had peaked, I have discovered the double-derision of the CGI detonation - an explosion that doesn't quite look like an explosion, generated from a laptop computer. What is worse than something you hate? An attenuated version even less worthy of your disdain.
Scope and Sequence at Subway
Santa Claus knew how to arrange his reindeer, coaches know who to put on the line and who to send to the backfield, and band directors know who to grace the violin and who to harness with the tuba - oh that my local Subway restaurant employed any such process introspection. I go in every three or four days, the refractory period of my deli frustration, naively thinking things will change. Yet over the course of nearly a year now, I have never successfully navigated a smooth and expeditious sandwich experience. On most days, only one of the three "sandwich artists" is anywhere about, and she is usually washing a pot or chopping some kind of plant, blissfully unaware of my presence at the plexiglass tube plastered with the plethora of sub preferences. When I do manage to gain her notice, subtly or otherwise, she bellows out to some unknown peer who emerges almost magically from nowhere, who gives me the minimum wage stoic stare before ambling over to start my order (or ordeal). If I am lucky, this bubble-gum chewing, chronically bored teenager will take and complete my order. It will take some time, and I will have to suffer the penultimate insult of "anything else honey?" before being allowed to escape. If I am not lucky, I will end up in a long line, watching the third triumvirate (or three stooges, depending on your education I suppose)interact ineptly, testing the appetite of even the most ardent health conscious consumers. Although there are five or six women who work there regularly, there are only three types: one who is competent; one who is new and knows nothing, least of all about the computer called a cash register; and the third who is the slowest, most meticulous employee not working as an editor for the NY Times. And, of course, there are three stations in the sandwich system: the order taker, sandwich starter; the one in the middle who assembles the subs from the myriad of possibilities; and finally the cashier. Invariably, my sandwich gets off to a strong start, as the competent artist takes my order and toasts my wheat bread, but then things go horribly awry. The snail is always in the middle, gumming up the entire flow of things. She scrutinizes the tomatoes, perseverates over the pickle pattern, spreads and smooths the unsmoothable lettuce, equitably allocates olives, and wraps my sub like it was a present to some august dignitary. Finally, my reward for this process patience, is the green cashier who has no idea how to execute any order - and there is always a woman ahead of me with two frequent buyer cards with seventy-five cents on each, a few dollars in cash, and a battered and bruised debit card, willing to wait five minutes to orchestrate her transaction, possibly the apogee of her day. Still, I go back, vainly dreaming I will catch the three at their appropriate posts, and that I will sail through with my footlong veggie toasted on wheat with lots of lettuce, provolone cheese,pickles, tomatoes, a modicum of onion, black olives, salt and pepper, culminating with the redundantly named Southwest Chipotle sauce. I have a dream.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Leadership Axiom #4
See it Right, Fix it Wrong
This expression has two levels of meaning for me, paralleling the inverse nature of leadership - that where you lead but you also follow. So at any given time, you can conceptualize yourself as a supervisor or as an employee, and often the two roles can mix. See it right, fix it wrong, is an expression that deals with issues and difficulties at work. Simply stated, this particular version of the axiom means that you understood or saw the problem correctly, but the way you chose to deal with was not correct. A very common phenomenon.
This phrase came to me when I was listening to a friend discussing his frustration with a family member who was also his business partner. He was upset with something she had done, and was venting and perhaps bouncing solutions off of me. As we talked, I realized there were two levels of problems: the dysfunction to the common goals the two had due to her behavior, and the hurt feelings he had personally. Being the linear, logical type I am, I focused on the former and he dismissed each possible solution. It hit me like a ton of bricks that he wasn't interested in a solution (at least initially), he needed his pain validated. I suppose this is a good explanation of male/female communication problems (despite the fact that this was male to male), whereby one party is focused on the logical side, and the other on the emotional. As we discussed possible solutions (I don't think he was aware of his true need at that moment), the only options he recognized involved some sort of mild retaliation, or public recognition of her transgression. I quickly shifted tactics, and began to acknowledge his feelings, and he eventually decided he really didn't need further advice, he was over it.
I should say that I am not a great believer in the "absorption" theory, whereby all you have to do is listen to people and their pain will be dissipated. I had a boss once whose primary tactic was to have us absorb problems - I let him know that you don't truly absorb them, as they will eventually go somewhere (remembering my early physics lessons - conservation of energy), or they will take a heavy toll on you. Occasionally, I suppose it is ok just to let people vent, but often the issues are not anomalies, they are symptoms of larger, more prevalent issues.
I have also learned that there are people who do not want to solve the issue, but rather need to punish the transgressor. I realized this once in a job interview (not good to be thinking about philosophic things during an interview, but hey, I have to seize on a inspiration when I have one), when they gave me a scenario about an employee who had sent out a mean email regarding a department issue. I was to role play talking to the employee as his supervisor. As we began to talk, I realized that he had been trying to hurt the recipient of the email publicly, with no regard to repairing the related issue. I asked him (a committee member role playing the wayward employee) if he was more concerned with fixing the issue or humiliating the person he sent the email to. He paused, I asked him to read his own email and to tell me what it looked like. He sheepishly responded the latter.
This issue of see it right, fix it wrong arises occasionally when helping employees deal with the conflict that often arises at work. Frequently, they themselves don't know which issue they are fretting over: the problem or their own feelings regarding it. Often, the personal injury supersedes their normal sense of decorum - i.e., the passion they are feeling justifies a correlated response, the incensed emotions require an incensed response. This, of course, only makes the situation more difficult. Too often, the response is worse than the original offense.
The key to ameliorating these conflicts (if they can be lessened) lies in pointing out the two levels of issues to the employee, then having a frank discussion about the consequences. There are times when the personal aspect of the situation is more important than the impact to the system, e.g. when someone is publicly humiliated, or treated disrespectfully in the guise of the issue. In these cases, there becomes two problems - whatever the primary issue was, and the personal insult done to the employee. These should be identified and dealt with separately.
There are many cases, however, where the employee's reaction to an issue is stronger than either the intention or a reasonable interpretation of the interaction. These are difficult cases, for the employee might be unlikely to move towards a solution without some sort of redress to the injury. Whenever I have felt myself in this position, I have particularly loathed the response "I hear you" from my supervisor or would be benefactor. It feels and is pedantic. I don't think you can overlook the affective issue, but you can gently challenge the employee regarding a functional solution to the larger problem. As simple as it sounds, we can often be reminded that "being in the right" is only half of the solution. I don't know how many times over the years I have had to deal with a response that was worse than the initial offense. I am sure this is also a comment lament of many judges. I have found that the most powerful response is to persuade the employee to validate her innocence with the proper subsequent actions, not reactions. And although there might not be a public apology, or reprimand, the employee does not make a serious mistake, and telling patterns begin to emerge. This is where supervision is needed most - not fixing out of control conflict, but observing consistent issues over time. When one employee strikes out at another, it is never a good situation. Many supervisors don't want to know about or want to deal with difficult employees, and this type of conflict rarely flares over a single issue, therefore the supervisor is negligent in her ignorance.
By being involved with your employees, and being willing to deal proactively with uncomfortable situations, you will find that many of your folks will seek out your council, not "tattle-telling" but genuinely seeking advice to improve the dynamics of their work environment.
This expression has two levels of meaning for me, paralleling the inverse nature of leadership - that where you lead but you also follow. So at any given time, you can conceptualize yourself as a supervisor or as an employee, and often the two roles can mix. See it right, fix it wrong, is an expression that deals with issues and difficulties at work. Simply stated, this particular version of the axiom means that you understood or saw the problem correctly, but the way you chose to deal with was not correct. A very common phenomenon.
This phrase came to me when I was listening to a friend discussing his frustration with a family member who was also his business partner. He was upset with something she had done, and was venting and perhaps bouncing solutions off of me. As we talked, I realized there were two levels of problems: the dysfunction to the common goals the two had due to her behavior, and the hurt feelings he had personally. Being the linear, logical type I am, I focused on the former and he dismissed each possible solution. It hit me like a ton of bricks that he wasn't interested in a solution (at least initially), he needed his pain validated. I suppose this is a good explanation of male/female communication problems (despite the fact that this was male to male), whereby one party is focused on the logical side, and the other on the emotional. As we discussed possible solutions (I don't think he was aware of his true need at that moment), the only options he recognized involved some sort of mild retaliation, or public recognition of her transgression. I quickly shifted tactics, and began to acknowledge his feelings, and he eventually decided he really didn't need further advice, he was over it.
I should say that I am not a great believer in the "absorption" theory, whereby all you have to do is listen to people and their pain will be dissipated. I had a boss once whose primary tactic was to have us absorb problems - I let him know that you don't truly absorb them, as they will eventually go somewhere (remembering my early physics lessons - conservation of energy), or they will take a heavy toll on you. Occasionally, I suppose it is ok just to let people vent, but often the issues are not anomalies, they are symptoms of larger, more prevalent issues.
I have also learned that there are people who do not want to solve the issue, but rather need to punish the transgressor. I realized this once in a job interview (not good to be thinking about philosophic things during an interview, but hey, I have to seize on a inspiration when I have one), when they gave me a scenario about an employee who had sent out a mean email regarding a department issue. I was to role play talking to the employee as his supervisor. As we began to talk, I realized that he had been trying to hurt the recipient of the email publicly, with no regard to repairing the related issue. I asked him (a committee member role playing the wayward employee) if he was more concerned with fixing the issue or humiliating the person he sent the email to. He paused, I asked him to read his own email and to tell me what it looked like. He sheepishly responded the latter.
This issue of see it right, fix it wrong arises occasionally when helping employees deal with the conflict that often arises at work. Frequently, they themselves don't know which issue they are fretting over: the problem or their own feelings regarding it. Often, the personal injury supersedes their normal sense of decorum - i.e., the passion they are feeling justifies a correlated response, the incensed emotions require an incensed response. This, of course, only makes the situation more difficult. Too often, the response is worse than the original offense.
The key to ameliorating these conflicts (if they can be lessened) lies in pointing out the two levels of issues to the employee, then having a frank discussion about the consequences. There are times when the personal aspect of the situation is more important than the impact to the system, e.g. when someone is publicly humiliated, or treated disrespectfully in the guise of the issue. In these cases, there becomes two problems - whatever the primary issue was, and the personal insult done to the employee. These should be identified and dealt with separately.
There are many cases, however, where the employee's reaction to an issue is stronger than either the intention or a reasonable interpretation of the interaction. These are difficult cases, for the employee might be unlikely to move towards a solution without some sort of redress to the injury. Whenever I have felt myself in this position, I have particularly loathed the response "I hear you" from my supervisor or would be benefactor. It feels and is pedantic. I don't think you can overlook the affective issue, but you can gently challenge the employee regarding a functional solution to the larger problem. As simple as it sounds, we can often be reminded that "being in the right" is only half of the solution. I don't know how many times over the years I have had to deal with a response that was worse than the initial offense. I am sure this is also a comment lament of many judges. I have found that the most powerful response is to persuade the employee to validate her innocence with the proper subsequent actions, not reactions. And although there might not be a public apology, or reprimand, the employee does not make a serious mistake, and telling patterns begin to emerge. This is where supervision is needed most - not fixing out of control conflict, but observing consistent issues over time. When one employee strikes out at another, it is never a good situation. Many supervisors don't want to know about or want to deal with difficult employees, and this type of conflict rarely flares over a single issue, therefore the supervisor is negligent in her ignorance.
By being involved with your employees, and being willing to deal proactively with uncomfortable situations, you will find that many of your folks will seek out your council, not "tattle-telling" but genuinely seeking advice to improve the dynamics of their work environment.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
10 Observations of a Capricious Universe
1) Childproof usually means Michaelproof
2) The women in my life usually answer the question they think I should be asking
3) The loudest people are the closest
4) Black licorice remains a mystery to me
5) Jeff Goldblum can dock his laptop with an alien craft (Independence Day), I can't get my printer to communicate with mine
6) The most intuitive people are the least
7) How can fifty different substances in the vending machine all be worth exactly one dollar?
8) I cannot decipher the logic or pattern behind the daily pricing of a two-liter bottle of Coke
9) I fail to understand why, if you let someone out in traffic ahead of you and they don't wave, you are not allowed to ram them
10) I have decided that the greatest of all Hollywood special effects is the one that made Joe Pesci look tough
2) The women in my life usually answer the question they think I should be asking
3) The loudest people are the closest
4) Black licorice remains a mystery to me
5) Jeff Goldblum can dock his laptop with an alien craft (Independence Day), I can't get my printer to communicate with mine
6) The most intuitive people are the least
7) How can fifty different substances in the vending machine all be worth exactly one dollar?
8) I cannot decipher the logic or pattern behind the daily pricing of a two-liter bottle of Coke
9) I fail to understand why, if you let someone out in traffic ahead of you and they don't wave, you are not allowed to ram them
10) I have decided that the greatest of all Hollywood special effects is the one that made Joe Pesci look tough
Monday, June 27, 2011
Orphans
I look at this picture sometimes when I am feeling sorry for myself. This is a group of little girls living in a Muslim orphanage about an hour east of Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. I spent a very nice afternoon there a few years ago while working with a American philanthropist who was helping poor schools throughout East Africa and Asia. I was doing a site visit, checking on the school that had received educational resources through the foundation and was afforded a tour. I stopped here in their dorm room for about twenty minutes. The young ladies introduced themselves, and then sang me three songs: one in English, one in Swahili, and one in Arabic at my request (translated - We love you Allah). It was hard to leave, but one of them walked me to the gate, holding my hand making sure I found my way back to the Landrover. I think of her and her friends often, not only in my pitiful moods.
All in all, I lived and worked with and in orphanages for more than five years of my life, and I have visited scores more. A funny thing happens when you visit an orphanage, you leave feeling better than you entered. They who have so little can do that for you. However, there is always a hangover.
I don't know if you have ever been in a refugee camp or an orphanage in the third world, but they are far from attractive places. They are stark and bare, often smell of urine and worse things, and are as far away from the comfort you would afford yourself as you could possibly imagine. And as unfriendly as the concrete walls,thread-worn linen, and tattered mattresses can be, the lack of a mother's arms, a father's stern, soft strength makes the place worse than dead, worse than a nightmare populated with cruelties - a place where life ceases or never even begins. Yet these children survive, and become testaments to all that is good and holy in the human spirit, at a terrible, terrible cost. I have been "blessed" with this lesson over and over again, and I loathe the fact I forget it, no matter how temporarily.
I stumbled on my first job in an orphanage in Jamaica as a Peace Corps Volunteer. My primary assignment didn't work out so I was sent to Montego Bay to find something. After talking to several service agencies, I learned about a boy's home on the edge of town, inhabiting an old tourist hotel overlooking the airport. I have chronicled my fortuitous job interview elsewhere, and I did end up working there for a year as the full-time teacher, and another year as a PE instructor and occasional field trip supervisor. I don't remember what I taught them or where I took them, but I remember their faces twenty five years later, and am saddled with the loss that I didn't hug or hold them as I should have. No one did, the matrons were decent women, but were overworked and underpaid, and struggled with their own survival issues. The occasional slap or spanking, or knuckle sandwich provided by an older peer were what passed for physical intimacy at the Fairmont Boy's Home. The boys were friendly and good-natured, but I knew there was a toll for this deficit of love. And in two years, I saw some beautiful smiles fade gradually, and I could do nothing to resurrect that bit of their humanity, nothing.
After a year's sabbatical back in the states, I returned to the Peace Corps and spent two years living and working in an Eritrean refugee camp on the shores of the Red Sea in Yemen. In training, I learned of the camp and did everything I could, lobbying to be assigned in the nearby village of Khawkha. It was in the Tihama, the narrow coastal region of North Yemen: hot, harsh, and humid. The Ministry of Education balked at first, not wanting to send any westerners into that climate, least of all to a small village with poor electric and other basic services. Though, with the help of a few wonderful Peace Corp Yemeni staff, we eventually secured permission and I was off to one of the hottest, remote places in the Arabian gulf.
The refugees were Muslims from the southern tip of Eritrea, a small minority of Afar speaking tribes. I helped another volunteer build a school in the camp, and was allowed to move into one of the small shacks previously occupied by the camp doctor (another story - see "Where There is no Doctor"). I stayed there the first year, and lived in an eight foot by eight foot tent the second year. I had the benefit of a year's reflection on my first experience in Jamaica, and was resolved to do things differently on this trip. I did do things differently, had a wonderful and heartbreaking time, contracted malaria three times, and left the camp with jaundiced eyes and a mild case of hepatitis.
I knew from the beginning that hygiene was going to be a problem. There was no running water in the camp, no toilet paper, not even a bathroom facility - there were trees a half-mile away in the day time, and a sandy, rocky plain next door at night. The kids played all day in dirt, and as there was no washroom let alone the sign admonishing us to wash our hands afterwards, things were sometimes messy. When the children came into my shack each night to hear music or play with my long (then brown) hair, I knew what was on their hands, knew where they had been. I played with them, taught them, laughed with them, cried sometimes, and gave more of myself to these children than anyone previously in my life. We sang songs at night, drawing pictures in the sand, and they all learned how to spell M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i in the dirt (I had a fairly stunted musical repertoire). They laughed until they cried when I showed them how to jump rope in my Tihama skirt, and they astounded me with their patience as they shared the few pieces of chalk I could spirit away from the village school. I made the girls earrings from seashells and a generous donation of components from a sweet young woman at the Claire's Boutique in South Bend, Indiana who thought I was cute (another story).
I know I was a queer spectacle for the adults who were pretty much split down the middle in their regard for me. Half thought I was crazy but kind, the other half despised me for breaching the established distance of adulthood. I didn't care, I was determined to make sure that these children had access to me, and that I learned to hug and love in the process. It was a good lesson for me, and I wish I could have retained it better, longer. There are times I wonder if I have made my own daughters half-orphans at least, doing a much worse job loving them than those children a lifetime ago, but I am working on it now. As for the kids in the camp, I try not to think of their faces now at night, for the warm smile produced is inevitably defeated by the cold cruel prospect of their eventual fate.
I travelled thousands of miles to find my concept of dignity in the desert dirt. These people, orphans, children and parents, showed me what was human - having been stripped of most everything the rest of us regard and lust after. Their simple sense of truth, endless compassion, and ability to face each day with strength and humor taught me what is valuable. I sorrows me that this wealth is assailed daily by neglect, disease, and apathy in thousands of such places every day, even today. How many children still face the day without a hug, without a smile, without a pair of pardoning arms to forgive or fix anything? Too many for me to feel very good for too long.
I still work with refugees and orphans, largely through teacher training initiatives. I don't often get into camps, and I never get to jump rope or spell funny sounding state names in the dirt anymore. But there is a legacy - I work a lot on the concept of student engagement, helping teachers help students find their voices. I talk a great deal about praise and acknowledgment, much more than classroom management and discipline. I know the difference these teachers can have with a kind word, a gentle pat on a shoulder. I try to do the same for them, these wonderful professionals who labor day in and day out in these places I find so dehumanizing, giving their students and children love and hope in the guise of a simple education. I envy them, and wish my five years had been fifty.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Love in the Lifetime of a Teardrop
Tilting my forehead into yours
tangling my fingers in your long silky black hair
raising my gaze to your sable eyes
as sheepishly as a sixteen year old in the back seat of a Cortina
trying not to notice
the single tear welling there
the last I will ever see
the last ever shed for me.
Yet I am aware that
the slightest nudge will free it
and with it, the final bit of your love
that piece you have hoarded jealously
in deference to my pain.
Still I can't leave it there
I need to take it too,
lightly caressing your nose with my cheek
until it spills forth racing drunkenly down your face
destined for extinction.
And as I have done
the thousand times before having hurt you
I bring my lips to yours as it crests there
catching the last part of you I will ever know,
closing my eyes and concentrating on
the sweet salt dissolving rapidly in my mouth
fighting to keep the memory of it,
ruthlessly reminded that
it dies as quickly as a lifetime of love is lost
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Politics: The Distillation of Isms
The most luscious application of hate is public and it is loud. It is a declaration of power, and is unadulterated by any need for reason or equity. It needs only a thin veneer of anonymity or generalization to distinguish itself from thuggery and vicious malice. And, in most cases, deftly sidesteps the obvious scrutiny that dares to inquire as to its etiology - not a reflection projected in defense of an outer obscenity but the bitter resonance of an inner mephitic decay. Sadly it seems, as a species, we need this luxury to hate and to languish in it amidst footlights.
In my lifetime, I have seen the arena for this malevolent play shift from faceless foes in war, to disenfranchised groups, to rival teams, and finally to the dichotomous rift our kind call politics.
I remember my youthful naivete almost willing to root for the gooks and slopeheads not for my sense of their virtue or cause, but my honest disdain for the cruel curled snarls of those who pronounced these epithets with such vituperative pleasure. I hadn't yet met anyone from Vietnam, and had no way of understanding whether or not they deserved my hatred, I just learned early on that the sources spewing this propaganda hadn't impressed me in their other professed areas of expertise. As a child of violence, I intuitively knew where this ugliness came from, and it wasn't half a world away - it was buried deeply in the chests of the adults gloating noisly with impunity in my presence, I saw it clearly on their faces.
I remember the Polish jokes, the Black jokes, the Blonde jokes, and a thousand others aimed passionately at a group either not directly present, or yet to be allowed to square off fairly with the bully in the room. Again, it was the cruelty scribed across the faces, the subtle incongruity of the contrived smile and snide context. I did not have to wait to learn about low self-esteem and insecurity in my college psychology class, the humor of my elders enlightened me.
As a male, I inherited "my teams" from my step-father, grandfather, and my geography. Logically, not a very cogent excuse to assign the closest thing to love that I owned at the time. I lived and died with my teams, I never hated their foes, but I did get angry at them when they prevailed. They were the enemies for 48 to 60 minutes depending on the league, but no longer. I never rooted against a rival in other engagements, or took pleasure in their misfortune. I never felt the need to curse, hurl projectiles at, or to make death threats to their players (let alone their family members). I never felt like burning something in the street after a win or loss, and I somehow failed to develop the American virtues of internalizing the "heroic" deeds of my sports idols and rationalizing away their defects. At worst though, I was mildly bemused by the vehement vitriol produced against athletes, coaches, cities, and fans of opposing sides. Perhaps I was a poor fan. I did notice however, the unabashed hatred directed in these largely meaningless fracases. Once again, I sensed an intrinsic malady publicly exalted, deemed innocuous by a society racked in violence and hatred. Hatred is good, I guess, in the right places, not at the wrong faces.
I have a private theory that the appeal and futile and puerile functions of sport have drifted directly to the camp of politics, in part due to the advent of free agency. I remember my teams as groups of guys, not an emblem on a city's franchise. I loved the "team" not the landlord. It is hard for me to cheer on a temporal amalgamation of spoiled and selfish athletes. Heck, you can't even count on four years anymore out of your collegiate luminaries. So if you are not engaged to a city (really one or more really rich white guys), what do you do? You may choose to focus your fealty on a political party - there are only really two, yet they yield a a plethora of contests, a profusion of public engagements(elections, debates, forums, innumerable media frays). And the good news, your guys (and gals) seldom switch sides. They are yours forever! Or until a fan of the other team shoots them in the head.
This partisan contrivance we have constructed is the perfect vehicle to showcase our brazen expressions of hatred. Just listen to the tone, watch that lip curl, notice the smug self-righteousness of the detractor. Turn the volume off, and you may not be able to differentiate the monikers of the targets: Democrat, Republican, Jew, Nigger, Liberal, Conservative, Towel Head, Spic, etc, etc, etc. Political dialogue has all the hallmarks of hate speech, without the ism marking it out of bounds. From the flat and unilateral illusion of consensus on either side, to the remarkably unambiguous derision leveled at all things other. I marvel at grownups who have developed the ability to believe that two entities can be so permanently polar, so pedantically right and wrong, wrong and right, blue and red. Yet this playground might just be the last refuge for our inner ugliness, our need to disparage, denigrate, deprecate, deride, and decry openly and proudly. Our pride is now measured by our propensity to hate successfully - just not at the wrong people or the wrong groups. Is it any wonder that our society mourns the proliferation of bullying in our schools? Perhaps our children just haven't learned the etiquette and sportsmanship of hating yet.
In my lifetime, I have seen the arena for this malevolent play shift from faceless foes in war, to disenfranchised groups, to rival teams, and finally to the dichotomous rift our kind call politics.
I remember my youthful naivete almost willing to root for the gooks and slopeheads not for my sense of their virtue or cause, but my honest disdain for the cruel curled snarls of those who pronounced these epithets with such vituperative pleasure. I hadn't yet met anyone from Vietnam, and had no way of understanding whether or not they deserved my hatred, I just learned early on that the sources spewing this propaganda hadn't impressed me in their other professed areas of expertise. As a child of violence, I intuitively knew where this ugliness came from, and it wasn't half a world away - it was buried deeply in the chests of the adults gloating noisly with impunity in my presence, I saw it clearly on their faces.
I remember the Polish jokes, the Black jokes, the Blonde jokes, and a thousand others aimed passionately at a group either not directly present, or yet to be allowed to square off fairly with the bully in the room. Again, it was the cruelty scribed across the faces, the subtle incongruity of the contrived smile and snide context. I did not have to wait to learn about low self-esteem and insecurity in my college psychology class, the humor of my elders enlightened me.
As a male, I inherited "my teams" from my step-father, grandfather, and my geography. Logically, not a very cogent excuse to assign the closest thing to love that I owned at the time. I lived and died with my teams, I never hated their foes, but I did get angry at them when they prevailed. They were the enemies for 48 to 60 minutes depending on the league, but no longer. I never rooted against a rival in other engagements, or took pleasure in their misfortune. I never felt the need to curse, hurl projectiles at, or to make death threats to their players (let alone their family members). I never felt like burning something in the street after a win or loss, and I somehow failed to develop the American virtues of internalizing the "heroic" deeds of my sports idols and rationalizing away their defects. At worst though, I was mildly bemused by the vehement vitriol produced against athletes, coaches, cities, and fans of opposing sides. Perhaps I was a poor fan. I did notice however, the unabashed hatred directed in these largely meaningless fracases. Once again, I sensed an intrinsic malady publicly exalted, deemed innocuous by a society racked in violence and hatred. Hatred is good, I guess, in the right places, not at the wrong faces.
I have a private theory that the appeal and futile and puerile functions of sport have drifted directly to the camp of politics, in part due to the advent of free agency. I remember my teams as groups of guys, not an emblem on a city's franchise. I loved the "team" not the landlord. It is hard for me to cheer on a temporal amalgamation of spoiled and selfish athletes. Heck, you can't even count on four years anymore out of your collegiate luminaries. So if you are not engaged to a city (really one or more really rich white guys), what do you do? You may choose to focus your fealty on a political party - there are only really two, yet they yield a a plethora of contests, a profusion of public engagements(elections, debates, forums, innumerable media frays). And the good news, your guys (and gals) seldom switch sides. They are yours forever! Or until a fan of the other team shoots them in the head.
This partisan contrivance we have constructed is the perfect vehicle to showcase our brazen expressions of hatred. Just listen to the tone, watch that lip curl, notice the smug self-righteousness of the detractor. Turn the volume off, and you may not be able to differentiate the monikers of the targets: Democrat, Republican, Jew, Nigger, Liberal, Conservative, Towel Head, Spic, etc, etc, etc. Political dialogue has all the hallmarks of hate speech, without the ism marking it out of bounds. From the flat and unilateral illusion of consensus on either side, to the remarkably unambiguous derision leveled at all things other. I marvel at grownups who have developed the ability to believe that two entities can be so permanently polar, so pedantically right and wrong, wrong and right, blue and red. Yet this playground might just be the last refuge for our inner ugliness, our need to disparage, denigrate, deprecate, deride, and decry openly and proudly. Our pride is now measured by our propensity to hate successfully - just not at the wrong people or the wrong groups. Is it any wonder that our society mourns the proliferation of bullying in our schools? Perhaps our children just haven't learned the etiquette and sportsmanship of hating yet.
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