In training for a 5 km swim to Goree Island (November 1) today I had my first ocean swim training at Oukam beach. I went with a colleague – Tod – who is part fish so I could hardly keep up. I was extremely nervous – just a miniscule sac of organs in an ocean world ready to swallow me without hesitation or regret. The water was dark, salty, and – in my mind – unpredictably swaying. I was scared to trust myself to be at ease with the strokes of my arms, the kicks of my legs, the breathes of my lungs. The depths of the waters seemed endless, uncharted, and impenetrable. What the hell am I doing here, I thought, no, I mentally shuddered.
As I struggled to follow Tod – psychologically first, then physically – Mother Nature began to laugh at me. I swam by schools of fish that were unsympathetically unimpressed with my homo sapien sapien superior existence. We came across a tiny jellyfish that was wondrously wading at ease in the massive Atlantic without a qualm or worry in the world, while I drudgingly tread the waters.
We reached the beginning of a cove area that contained a significant amount of plastic trash. The ocean still swayed, unfettered. If I could understand its speech, I wondered, what it would say?
On our return swim to the shore Tod suggested that I may want to avoid the area where the surf breaks. Sounds good, I said, I’ll follow you. 15 minutes later I found myself in the area where the surf breaks. Rocks were all around, covered in porcupine-ish sea urchins, while I swallowed cup-full after cup-full of salt water from the breaking waves.
After an hour (1 mile) of swimming, we reached the shore. Standing, I gazed out upon the water in awe of the force and splendor of the ocean. Looking down, I noticed that one of the two hookworms, which temporarily inhabit my left foot, had moved all the way from the toe next to my pinky toe all the way to my big toe. I wondered what Mother Nature had in store for me next…
27 September 2009
07 September 2009
Breaking fast with friends and reflecting upon my own metaphysical thoughts...
The often immediate response of many when I tell them I live in a predominately Muslim country usually consists of at least one raised eye brow and a, “is it safe?” Certainly, I am generalizing, but to those with little exposure to borders outside of their own city, county, or country, and/or to those high on CNN or Fox News, this might be a reality.
We are all, uh, how shall I say, victims of our environment…or is it products?
In theory, the philosophical nominalist view of the things in our world (universals are only that way because of the language by which it is defined, thus, a tree’s leaves are only green because that is the name we give it) is ideal, but the realist view seems to take control of our minds (I know a Muslim is _______, _______, and _______ because that is how I know I see it). I certainly had my own misconceptions about the Muslim faith before having lived with my Turkish brother and my African brothers and sisters and consequently altering those perceptions.
Ramadan began here in Dakar two weeks ago. This is the month of the Islamic calendar in which people of the Muslim faith fast from dawn to sunset. The fast is usually broken at sunset with sweet dates and juice or water – a tradition started by the prophet Muhammad. After the fast is broken there is a time for prayer and personal reflection and later a meal is served and shared among family and friends.
I was fortunate enough to be invited to break fast with some of my Muslim sisters and brothers recently. As difficult as this fast is for many – teachers teach and construction workers build without eating or drinking anything throughout the day – the overwhelming response is that it is not only a necessary and essential element of the Islamic doctrine, but one of great personal and societal importance and significance.
There are various ways to “get” the month of Ramadan and I’m sure each Muslim will have their own specific reason for why it is significant to them. I’ve heard some state that the month of Ramadan is a time to connect with Allah in a new or refreshed light, with a new and refreshed mentality and heart. It is a time to reflect upon sins committed and to seek forgiveness and to renew their commitment to Allah. I’ve also heard that Ramadan is about the sacrifice and the struggle through a temporarily impoverished state and about understanding the constant struggles that many undergo throughout an entire year or lifetime.
I completely admire their reverence in this practice. My brothers and sisters have freely chosen to sacrifice the core and quintessential elements of life as a gesture, an act, a deed, a personal commitment of acknowledgment to a supreme and omnipresent being and to the societal cry of humankind.
In thinking about my own American Christian background and upbringing I can’t help but to chuckle (loudly and hysterically) at the lack of reverence many of my American Christian brothers and sisters have. Growing up in the Lutheran church, I spent countless weekends performing some type of service act, whether it be Meals-On-Wheels or Habitat-for-Humanity. However, I do believe American Christianity on a whole has become diluted with Christian and Religious jargon and lingo that has polarized the idea of what it is to be called a Christian without the true discipline, acts, and reverence necessary to be a Christian. Some Christians would reject this notion, claiming that all you need is Jesus in your heart to be Christian. While I am not here to judge or disclaim anyone’s personal faith, we can certainly look at models and examples within society to suggest a point.
Our climatic American Christian “holiday” has been saturated with the act of commerce and the gesture of gift giving. In place of the sympathizing and humbled hearts are the distracted minds and fidgety hands impatiently waiting to bask in the warmth of their not-yet-satisfied want.
America’s push into 21st century consumerism has turned churches into state of the art sound-system controlled mega-churches living and breathing off the shear number of “saved” members (and tithes), rather than the community based home centered around the core value of service to others.
Renewed Christian conservatism has quieted intellectualism, taken a dumb-it-down approach to past and present American societal struggles (claiming God can and will make all things possible), and alienated the “other” in a game of good versus evil. To be not Christian is not to be in America.
I have found it gravely difficult to settle in one church for many reasons. I refrain from calling or labeling myself a ________________, rather I would prefer to live life with a dedication to service and a keen awareness to my societal surroundings. I do not intend to be prophetic to anyone, but I do hope humility and a humbling of sorts floods your heart as mine has been through witnessing the awe and reverence of the act of fasting during Ramadan by my African brothers and sisters. For my own mental well-being I feel much safer here in the Islamic stalwart city of Dakar, Senegal than in the many Consumerism Churches of American Christianity.
We are all, uh, how shall I say, victims of our environment…or is it products?
In theory, the philosophical nominalist view of the things in our world (universals are only that way because of the language by which it is defined, thus, a tree’s leaves are only green because that is the name we give it) is ideal, but the realist view seems to take control of our minds (I know a Muslim is _______, _______, and _______ because that is how I know I see it). I certainly had my own misconceptions about the Muslim faith before having lived with my Turkish brother and my African brothers and sisters and consequently altering those perceptions.
Ramadan began here in Dakar two weeks ago. This is the month of the Islamic calendar in which people of the Muslim faith fast from dawn to sunset. The fast is usually broken at sunset with sweet dates and juice or water – a tradition started by the prophet Muhammad. After the fast is broken there is a time for prayer and personal reflection and later a meal is served and shared among family and friends.
I was fortunate enough to be invited to break fast with some of my Muslim sisters and brothers recently. As difficult as this fast is for many – teachers teach and construction workers build without eating or drinking anything throughout the day – the overwhelming response is that it is not only a necessary and essential element of the Islamic doctrine, but one of great personal and societal importance and significance.
There are various ways to “get” the month of Ramadan and I’m sure each Muslim will have their own specific reason for why it is significant to them. I’ve heard some state that the month of Ramadan is a time to connect with Allah in a new or refreshed light, with a new and refreshed mentality and heart. It is a time to reflect upon sins committed and to seek forgiveness and to renew their commitment to Allah. I’ve also heard that Ramadan is about the sacrifice and the struggle through a temporarily impoverished state and about understanding the constant struggles that many undergo throughout an entire year or lifetime.
I completely admire their reverence in this practice. My brothers and sisters have freely chosen to sacrifice the core and quintessential elements of life as a gesture, an act, a deed, a personal commitment of acknowledgment to a supreme and omnipresent being and to the societal cry of humankind.
In thinking about my own American Christian background and upbringing I can’t help but to chuckle (loudly and hysterically) at the lack of reverence many of my American Christian brothers and sisters have. Growing up in the Lutheran church, I spent countless weekends performing some type of service act, whether it be Meals-On-Wheels or Habitat-for-Humanity. However, I do believe American Christianity on a whole has become diluted with Christian and Religious jargon and lingo that has polarized the idea of what it is to be called a Christian without the true discipline, acts, and reverence necessary to be a Christian. Some Christians would reject this notion, claiming that all you need is Jesus in your heart to be Christian. While I am not here to judge or disclaim anyone’s personal faith, we can certainly look at models and examples within society to suggest a point.
Our climatic American Christian “holiday” has been saturated with the act of commerce and the gesture of gift giving. In place of the sympathizing and humbled hearts are the distracted minds and fidgety hands impatiently waiting to bask in the warmth of their not-yet-satisfied want.
America’s push into 21st century consumerism has turned churches into state of the art sound-system controlled mega-churches living and breathing off the shear number of “saved” members (and tithes), rather than the community based home centered around the core value of service to others.
Renewed Christian conservatism has quieted intellectualism, taken a dumb-it-down approach to past and present American societal struggles (claiming God can and will make all things possible), and alienated the “other” in a game of good versus evil. To be not Christian is not to be in America.
I have found it gravely difficult to settle in one church for many reasons. I refrain from calling or labeling myself a ________________, rather I would prefer to live life with a dedication to service and a keen awareness to my societal surroundings. I do not intend to be prophetic to anyone, but I do hope humility and a humbling of sorts floods your heart as mine has been through witnessing the awe and reverence of the act of fasting during Ramadan by my African brothers and sisters. For my own mental well-being I feel much safer here in the Islamic stalwart city of Dakar, Senegal than in the many Consumerism Churches of American Christianity.
06 September 2009
Serving History to High Schoolers
On Monday my US History students will write their first Unit Test for the course. The title of this unit is, The Pre-Columbus Era and the unsettling settlers. Two quotes from two different and distinct professionals – one a historian and one a philosopher – but both prophetic professors – come to mind for me as a teacher of History:
“…the historian has been trained in a society which education and knowledge are put forward as technical problems of excellence and not as tools for contending social classes, races, nations.” – Howard Zinn
“…one has to separate the elitism from the honest acknowledgment that some people have more opportunities than others, some people have more privileges than others. And the question becomes how you use, deploy, those privileges, and how you use your privilege in such a way that it is in some way enhancing and empowering for those who are less privileged than you.” – Cornel West
In the later quote I think West not only refers to tangible and physical privileges and resources, such as money, houses, cars, but also education, rights, rights to education, so on and so forth.
So, the historian, then, and I think we are all historians in some shape or form, is not to look at history, or the past, as merely a time-line of events, but as a living document and a tool to assist in enforcing cultural and societal transformations and revolutions that reach across divides in race or economics. (insert protest sign: PASS THE HEALTH CARE BILL, DAMN IT!)
Here’s a bit I wrote and read to my class before their weekend of studying:
America
A word, a place, a name, an empire, a land
discovered
that’s what history tells us, but once
uncovered
we ask ourselves whose history is the history to
believe.
Some say our European ancestors were the ones to discover this
New world, this land of gold, but we can’t let the executioners
deceive.
America
MIGHT we take a closer look at the evidence of the land
itself
instead of them big ole books on the
shelf
we would find this land was once connected to our Asian
brethren
and through the Ice Age they moved with hopes of expansion and
settlin’
Check the DNA
America
ESKIMOS, Iroquois, Chactaws, and
Cherokees
Men, women, and children from these and other
societies
lived with the land. It was a brother, a sister, a tool, a
necessity,
without it, existence for them was nothing but a
catastrophe.
Never sell your land
America
RIPELY at the same time, the same era, another people began to
awaken,
from the age of the
forsaken.
Rebirthed in the spirit of the Ancient Greeks and
Romans,
a movement began sparking societal
explosions.
With confidence and optimism to better themselves, the people stood up
and stood out
and to the Popes and Bishops they would
shout;
a change in life was on the
horizon
and a new world they would soon be
devisin’
Santa Maria
America
INDEED, a change, a new world is what was
craved
but let’s not get
swept away,
was it religious freedom
or a King’s pleasin?
or a gold rush that compelled the Europeans to
push through
to this “new” world.
With open arms the Taino and Arawak
greeted
and like Gods Cortes and his men were
treated.
Like candy from a
baby
There were too many resources not to
stay, baby.
Dona Malinche
America
CULTURES collide and to the
victors
goes the
spoils.
Disaster in the new world went from simmer to
boil.
Hotter than
hot
what’s a truth, what’s
not
mass murders, forced labor, and chemical
warefares,
left millions dead that’s what the truth really
bears.
With a new Spanish name came a cross
That does not see the land where them Taino lived
Or those Aztec dwelled as a spiritual place, only
a place of
gold
and a tangible resource to
hold.
With a heart so
bold
to the Conquistadores their arms they were forced to
fold
but their courage will live forever, truth be
told.
America
AGAINST all odds of canonized thought here you are with a million and
one details to unravel
to un-earth,
to plant a seed
in your mind and your
heart
to better understand,
not the book,
but the look,
the look,
the look,
that look, that long-ago
look of Montezuma
as he saw his “god”
arrive
and later at his
demise
and that long-ago
look of
Isabel,
who sat there saying,
“oh hell”
not Columbus again, he’s a jerk,
that long-ago look
of the many sides of voices
and souls
of a past,
that may not be our own,
but that speaks to us
through this present day place we
all know
A-M-E-R-I-C-A
America
Happy studying knuckleheads…
“…the historian has been trained in a society which education and knowledge are put forward as technical problems of excellence and not as tools for contending social classes, races, nations.” – Howard Zinn
“…one has to separate the elitism from the honest acknowledgment that some people have more opportunities than others, some people have more privileges than others. And the question becomes how you use, deploy, those privileges, and how you use your privilege in such a way that it is in some way enhancing and empowering for those who are less privileged than you.” – Cornel West
In the later quote I think West not only refers to tangible and physical privileges and resources, such as money, houses, cars, but also education, rights, rights to education, so on and so forth.
So, the historian, then, and I think we are all historians in some shape or form, is not to look at history, or the past, as merely a time-line of events, but as a living document and a tool to assist in enforcing cultural and societal transformations and revolutions that reach across divides in race or economics. (insert protest sign: PASS THE HEALTH CARE BILL, DAMN IT!)
Here’s a bit I wrote and read to my class before their weekend of studying:
America
A word, a place, a name, an empire, a land
discovered
that’s what history tells us, but once
uncovered
we ask ourselves whose history is the history to
believe.
Some say our European ancestors were the ones to discover this
New world, this land of gold, but we can’t let the executioners
deceive.
America
MIGHT we take a closer look at the evidence of the land
itself
instead of them big ole books on the
shelf
we would find this land was once connected to our Asian
brethren
and through the Ice Age they moved with hopes of expansion and
settlin’
Check the DNA
America
ESKIMOS, Iroquois, Chactaws, and
Cherokees
Men, women, and children from these and other
societies
lived with the land. It was a brother, a sister, a tool, a
necessity,
without it, existence for them was nothing but a
catastrophe.
Never sell your land
America
RIPELY at the same time, the same era, another people began to
awaken,
from the age of the
forsaken.
Rebirthed in the spirit of the Ancient Greeks and
Romans,
a movement began sparking societal
explosions.
With confidence and optimism to better themselves, the people stood up
and stood out
and to the Popes and Bishops they would
shout;
a change in life was on the
horizon
and a new world they would soon be
devisin’
Santa Maria
America
INDEED, a change, a new world is what was
craved
but let’s not get
swept away,
was it religious freedom
or a King’s pleasin?
or a gold rush that compelled the Europeans to
push through
to this “new” world.
With open arms the Taino and Arawak
greeted
and like Gods Cortes and his men were
treated.
Like candy from a
baby
There were too many resources not to
stay, baby.
Dona Malinche
America
CULTURES collide and to the
victors
goes the
spoils.
Disaster in the new world went from simmer to
boil.
Hotter than
hot
what’s a truth, what’s
not
mass murders, forced labor, and chemical
warefares,
left millions dead that’s what the truth really
bears.
With a new Spanish name came a cross
That does not see the land where them Taino lived
Or those Aztec dwelled as a spiritual place, only
a place of
gold
and a tangible resource to
hold.
With a heart so
bold
to the Conquistadores their arms they were forced to
fold
but their courage will live forever, truth be
told.
America
AGAINST all odds of canonized thought here you are with a million and
one details to unravel
to un-earth,
to plant a seed
in your mind and your
heart
to better understand,
not the book,
but the look,
the look,
the look,
that look, that long-ago
look of Montezuma
as he saw his “god”
arrive
and later at his
demise
and that long-ago
look of
Isabel,
who sat there saying,
“oh hell”
not Columbus again, he’s a jerk,
that long-ago look
of the many sides of voices
and souls
of a past,
that may not be our own,
but that speaks to us
through this present day place we
all know
A-M-E-R-I-C-A
America
Happy studying knuckleheads…
29 July 2009
A White Boy’s Perspective on Something Being Swept up Under the Rug: don’t get bamboozled again
Over the last week or so I’ve had numerous conversations with folk – kin, fellow southerners, and friends – about the events that took place with Harvard’s Professor Henry Louis Gates Jr. and Sergeant James Crowley. Within the demographic with whom I spoke, what happened was either because of: a) blatant, stereotypical, and unjust profiling by the part of Sergeant Crowley or b) inappropriate behavior and bad citizenship by the part of Professor Gates. I wonder, however, how we might take a different approach in trying to dissect this occurrence. Instead of becoming polarized by our own individual infatuation with having the answer or resolution to this incident, let us examine how and why we arrived at this place of societal insecurity in America.
The real point of interest, in fact, is not in this one incident, but it is in trying to understand this with regard to historical significance with race relations in America. How did we arrive at this point of difference? That is the true meat of this issue. The current dialogue that is circulating is misdirected and misguided. Whether Crowley acted stupidly or is a racist or if Gates was simply uncooperative or unfairly profiled is a very small portion of a much larger picture that needs to be redrawn – the underlying social structures in America.
Gates’ story is not a unique one. This happens daily to men and women of color across America with not only our law enforcement, but within our school system, our court system, our health care system – virtually every realm of American society. What is happening now is that sides are being taken to judge this one incident. Our energy is focused on trying to decide the fate of this one particular event, rather than attempting to address this on a more intimate level. This is what often happens in America and within the American media. Our energy will be exhausted, because no one definitive answer will surface and thus, again, the greater issue at hand – the importance of redefining social structures in America – will be swept under the rug while the next, new scandal or news bit circulates.
This teachable moment is one that should be embraced by individuals, families, schools, churches, community centers, libraries, mosques, synagogues, passersby at the job water-cooler or coffee machine, the American news and media. How can we have a sincere and honest discourse about the differing social and societal experiences and causes of them on an intimate and personal level? Until we do this with an open mind and heart, the many unfair and unjust social structures that are engrained in our culture will continue to reign in America.
This is certainly not the first teachable moment presented to us. Remember Katrina? That was a prime opportunity to explore these issues of societal and racial differences in America. Our "leadership" at that time, however, flopped (big time). More significant insight and true coverage of reality came out of Spike Lee's When the Levees Broke.
President Obama is right in stating that this is a teachable moment. I hope, however, that it becomes more than a beer date. How can our youth be involved in this heart-to-heart conversation? How can our adults lead and facilitate a discussion in which we challenge ourselves and our kids to break down the stereotypes, tensions, confusions, misunderstandings, feelings of rage that so many of us possess with regards to race, religion, politics, education, the past, the present, and the future of societal America? That's what is truly at stake here.
The real point of interest, in fact, is not in this one incident, but it is in trying to understand this with regard to historical significance with race relations in America. How did we arrive at this point of difference? That is the true meat of this issue. The current dialogue that is circulating is misdirected and misguided. Whether Crowley acted stupidly or is a racist or if Gates was simply uncooperative or unfairly profiled is a very small portion of a much larger picture that needs to be redrawn – the underlying social structures in America.
Gates’ story is not a unique one. This happens daily to men and women of color across America with not only our law enforcement, but within our school system, our court system, our health care system – virtually every realm of American society. What is happening now is that sides are being taken to judge this one incident. Our energy is focused on trying to decide the fate of this one particular event, rather than attempting to address this on a more intimate level. This is what often happens in America and within the American media. Our energy will be exhausted, because no one definitive answer will surface and thus, again, the greater issue at hand – the importance of redefining social structures in America – will be swept under the rug while the next, new scandal or news bit circulates.
This teachable moment is one that should be embraced by individuals, families, schools, churches, community centers, libraries, mosques, synagogues, passersby at the job water-cooler or coffee machine, the American news and media. How can we have a sincere and honest discourse about the differing social and societal experiences and causes of them on an intimate and personal level? Until we do this with an open mind and heart, the many unfair and unjust social structures that are engrained in our culture will continue to reign in America.
This is certainly not the first teachable moment presented to us. Remember Katrina? That was a prime opportunity to explore these issues of societal and racial differences in America. Our "leadership" at that time, however, flopped (big time). More significant insight and true coverage of reality came out of Spike Lee's When the Levees Broke.
President Obama is right in stating that this is a teachable moment. I hope, however, that it becomes more than a beer date. How can our youth be involved in this heart-to-heart conversation? How can our adults lead and facilitate a discussion in which we challenge ourselves and our kids to break down the stereotypes, tensions, confusions, misunderstandings, feelings of rage that so many of us possess with regards to race, religion, politics, education, the past, the present, and the future of societal America? That's what is truly at stake here.
18 July 2009
Speech for the nation: Obama addresses the NAACP
Obama delivered an incredibly insightful and inspiring speech at the 100-year anniversary convention of the NAACP this past Thursday night in New York (July 16, 2009).
Find his speech here: http://blogs.suntimes.com/sweet/2009/07/obamas_naacp_speech.html
The New York Times gave a brief synopsis of Obama’s speech, but I think they reviewed it quite short-sightedly. At one point the author – Sheryl Gay Stolberg – states:
“But there was no mistaking Thursday night that Mr. Obama was speaking directly to black America. In part, it was a policy speech.
Mr. Obama told his audience what it wanted to hear on housing, the criminal justice system, education, health care, and jobs — all issues central to the N.A.A.C.P.’s agenda.”
President Obama addressed issues not only affecting African Americans, but America in general. The issues with health care, the prison system, the education system, HIV/AIDS, and the economic crisis that President Obama mentioned are not African American problems or people of color problems. These are issues that must be confronted, discussed, and dealt with on an American level, by all Americans – white, black, Hispanic, Asian, gay, straight, Christian, Muslim, Atheist – or change will be slow in coming.
If American politics and media label and address these issues as “black” or “white” or “rich” or “poor” then change, growth, and progress will continue to be stinted for many years as it has for many of this country’s citizens. It is not just the African Americans of Harlem or Chicago’s Southside or Raleigh’s Chavis Heights who are to “deal with” the contemporary issues of today, it is all of America’s responsibility.
What President Obama REALLY said was:
“That's why my administration is working so hard not only to create and save jobs in the short-term, not only to extend unemployment insurance and help for people who have lost their health care in this crisis, not just to stem the immediate economic wreckage, but to lay a new foundation for growth and prosperity that will put opportunity within the reach of not just African Americans, but all Americans. All Americans. (Applause.) Of every race. Of every creed. From every region of the country. (Applause.) We want everybody to participate in the American Dream. That's what the NAACP is all about. (Applause.)”
THAT’S MY PRESIDENT!!!
Find his speech here: http://blogs.suntimes.com/sweet/2009/07/obamas_naacp_speech.html
The New York Times gave a brief synopsis of Obama’s speech, but I think they reviewed it quite short-sightedly. At one point the author – Sheryl Gay Stolberg – states:
“But there was no mistaking Thursday night that Mr. Obama was speaking directly to black America. In part, it was a policy speech.
Mr. Obama told his audience what it wanted to hear on housing, the criminal justice system, education, health care, and jobs — all issues central to the N.A.A.C.P.’s agenda.”
President Obama addressed issues not only affecting African Americans, but America in general. The issues with health care, the prison system, the education system, HIV/AIDS, and the economic crisis that President Obama mentioned are not African American problems or people of color problems. These are issues that must be confronted, discussed, and dealt with on an American level, by all Americans – white, black, Hispanic, Asian, gay, straight, Christian, Muslim, Atheist – or change will be slow in coming.
If American politics and media label and address these issues as “black” or “white” or “rich” or “poor” then change, growth, and progress will continue to be stinted for many years as it has for many of this country’s citizens. It is not just the African Americans of Harlem or Chicago’s Southside or Raleigh’s Chavis Heights who are to “deal with” the contemporary issues of today, it is all of America’s responsibility.
What President Obama REALLY said was:
“That's why my administration is working so hard not only to create and save jobs in the short-term, not only to extend unemployment insurance and help for people who have lost their health care in this crisis, not just to stem the immediate economic wreckage, but to lay a new foundation for growth and prosperity that will put opportunity within the reach of not just African Americans, but all Americans. All Americans. (Applause.) Of every race. Of every creed. From every region of the country. (Applause.) We want everybody to participate in the American Dream. That's what the NAACP is all about. (Applause.)”
THAT’S MY PRESIDENT!!!
17 July 2009
1st World Misconception versus 3rd World Truth
Back in May a colleague of mine and I had a conversation about the different “Senegals” that we had experienced during our first year teaching in Dakar. We found that we couldn’t create a precise definition, or description even, of Senegal as a nation, but could understand it as an entity of culminating happenings over a period of time that started well before its independence or naming of this vast place identified on maps merely as Senegal.
For instance, the majority of Senegalese are Muslim. This is one piece of force and influence that establishes this idea of Senegal. But, within that piece, there are several more minute pieces and subsections. There are the people of the Tijane faith, the Mourid faith, and so on and so forth, each piece cohesively connected to create, once again, this idea of Senegal. Each of these subsections, moreover, can be broken down to a neighborhood level, a community level, a street level, a family level, and of course an individual level. Meaning, thus, each unique individual is a contributing piece to this idea of Senegal.
This conversation that Tod and I had has continued to resurface in my mind during my time here in the States. Just as in Senegal, there are many Americas. And to a certain point, this is a unique and celebratory characteristic of America. There is a white America, a black America, a Hispanic America, an Asian America, so on and so forth. There is a Yankee America and a Southern America and even a West Coast America. There is a Christian America, a Jewish America, an Atheist America, a Muslim America, and so on and so forth. There is a rural America and an urban America and even a suburban America. There is a rich America and a poor America.
What seems to be lacking, however, is the level of understanding that many of us Americans have of our “other” counterparts past the exposure available to (more like thrown at) us from mainstream media. Does white America understand black America and vice versa? Does Atheist America cooperate with Christian America and vice versa? Is rural America in tune with urban America and vice versa? Do our youth listen to our elders? And what’s more, do our schools encourage a collaborative dialogue between how we individually identify ourselves and how we see “others”?
Many of us cling dearly to how we label ourselves – to how we create the persona of who we want to be. Controversial issues within religion, politics, sexuality, style, race, language, music even force many of us to fearfully defend the labels of ourselves and to shun the concepts and opinions of the “other”. This makes us, in many aspects, a polarized nation of various non-compromising ideas and values.
In Senegal it is common to find Christians celebrating Tabaski, a Muslim holiday, with their Muslim brothers and sisters and Muslims celebrating Easter, a Christian holiday, with their Christian brothers and sisters. You will find that Senegalese first and foremost celebrate their African culture, heritage, language, and existence on the motherland and will welcome any outsider as their brother or sister. We Americans are often quick to assume that we are the leaders of the free world, but yet, we find it difficult to sacrifice a bit of our labeled selves, for just a moment, to wear and walk in the shoes of the “other” fellow American, or immigrant even, living on this American soil.
For instance, the majority of Senegalese are Muslim. This is one piece of force and influence that establishes this idea of Senegal. But, within that piece, there are several more minute pieces and subsections. There are the people of the Tijane faith, the Mourid faith, and so on and so forth, each piece cohesively connected to create, once again, this idea of Senegal. Each of these subsections, moreover, can be broken down to a neighborhood level, a community level, a street level, a family level, and of course an individual level. Meaning, thus, each unique individual is a contributing piece to this idea of Senegal.
This conversation that Tod and I had has continued to resurface in my mind during my time here in the States. Just as in Senegal, there are many Americas. And to a certain point, this is a unique and celebratory characteristic of America. There is a white America, a black America, a Hispanic America, an Asian America, so on and so forth. There is a Yankee America and a Southern America and even a West Coast America. There is a Christian America, a Jewish America, an Atheist America, a Muslim America, and so on and so forth. There is a rural America and an urban America and even a suburban America. There is a rich America and a poor America.
What seems to be lacking, however, is the level of understanding that many of us Americans have of our “other” counterparts past the exposure available to (more like thrown at) us from mainstream media. Does white America understand black America and vice versa? Does Atheist America cooperate with Christian America and vice versa? Is rural America in tune with urban America and vice versa? Do our youth listen to our elders? And what’s more, do our schools encourage a collaborative dialogue between how we individually identify ourselves and how we see “others”?
Many of us cling dearly to how we label ourselves – to how we create the persona of who we want to be. Controversial issues within religion, politics, sexuality, style, race, language, music even force many of us to fearfully defend the labels of ourselves and to shun the concepts and opinions of the “other”. This makes us, in many aspects, a polarized nation of various non-compromising ideas and values.
In Senegal it is common to find Christians celebrating Tabaski, a Muslim holiday, with their Muslim brothers and sisters and Muslims celebrating Easter, a Christian holiday, with their Christian brothers and sisters. You will find that Senegalese first and foremost celebrate their African culture, heritage, language, and existence on the motherland and will welcome any outsider as their brother or sister. We Americans are often quick to assume that we are the leaders of the free world, but yet, we find it difficult to sacrifice a bit of our labeled selves, for just a moment, to wear and walk in the shoes of the “other” fellow American, or immigrant even, living on this American soil.
08 July 2009
Is Michael coming for dinner?
Michael Jackson’s death hit me kinda hard. I was trying to explain this, but it doesn’t make sense, really. I feel like I know him. He’s like my far-off and distant cousin whom everyone gossips about during reunions and get togethers.
What have you heard about Michael?
Still crazy as ever, pass the ketchup…
I’ve certainly had a full cup of Michael gossip the last few weeks whether on TV, radio, or just in conversation (as have we all). I also can’t seem to stop playing his music – classic hits. My favorite has to be P.Y.T., though. And, through that song is how I want to remember the King of Pop. Just a good song anyone can cut a rug to.
I don’t think Michael gets the credit he deserves with how he changed not only the music industry, but American society as well, and also how the world has viewed American society. In just a four minute-or-so song his music pauses stress and tensions dealing with race, religion, homosexuality, economic status, political strife. In watching the memorial service I think the Reverend Al Sharpton alluded to that point. One of the lines that stood out to me the most (during the entire service) was when he addressed Michael’s kids:
I want his children to know there was nothing strange about your daddy, it was strange what your daddy had to deal with.
Sadly, however, I think Sharpton’s speech(or point) will be overlooked by many. Many are quick to discredit the validity of Sharpton, sighing with disgust and even hatred when they see his black face or hear his sermon-delivering voice. This is exactly what Michael and his music worked against – being quick to judge, neglecting to understand a perspective or side, buying in to what “others” might say.
Furthermore, since the time of Michael’s true musical genius – the 80s – dialogue between the various genres of music have in a way separated even more. His work was a medium in which artists across many styles, shapes, and forms could collaborate.
His personal life was certainly filled with question marks, but he was human. He was a genius and far ahead of his time and attempted to deal with this as best he could. But, he was human, as well. He was just like each one of us, as much as many of us would like to refute. Time will tell, but I think Michael will always be that far-off distant cousin who captures our ears and wonderment and keeps us dancing during parties. SHAMOAN…GO ON GIRL…
What have you heard about Michael?
Still crazy as ever, pass the ketchup…
I’ve certainly had a full cup of Michael gossip the last few weeks whether on TV, radio, or just in conversation (as have we all). I also can’t seem to stop playing his music – classic hits. My favorite has to be P.Y.T., though. And, through that song is how I want to remember the King of Pop. Just a good song anyone can cut a rug to.
I don’t think Michael gets the credit he deserves with how he changed not only the music industry, but American society as well, and also how the world has viewed American society. In just a four minute-or-so song his music pauses stress and tensions dealing with race, religion, homosexuality, economic status, political strife. In watching the memorial service I think the Reverend Al Sharpton alluded to that point. One of the lines that stood out to me the most (during the entire service) was when he addressed Michael’s kids:
I want his children to know there was nothing strange about your daddy, it was strange what your daddy had to deal with.
Sadly, however, I think Sharpton’s speech(or point) will be overlooked by many. Many are quick to discredit the validity of Sharpton, sighing with disgust and even hatred when they see his black face or hear his sermon-delivering voice. This is exactly what Michael and his music worked against – being quick to judge, neglecting to understand a perspective or side, buying in to what “others” might say.
Furthermore, since the time of Michael’s true musical genius – the 80s – dialogue between the various genres of music have in a way separated even more. His work was a medium in which artists across many styles, shapes, and forms could collaborate.
His personal life was certainly filled with question marks, but he was human. He was a genius and far ahead of his time and attempted to deal with this as best he could. But, he was human, as well. He was just like each one of us, as much as many of us would like to refute. Time will tell, but I think Michael will always be that far-off distant cousin who captures our ears and wonderment and keeps us dancing during parties. SHAMOAN…GO ON GIRL…
Fragmented memories of the summer thus far...
Permanant ink, Wiggy hairs, the Sophie, Al Green and Heinekens, grey business suit, raiding the pantry, Minnewaska trails, Al Green and Coronas, graduation celebration ’09, Damn I wanna go to Jamaica, Dead prez, PISS, auntie’s bday, surprise surprise-MA, Al Green and my friend Jack, River station, crazy commuting, what’s wrong with their ak-sent, Hyde Park, Billy Elliot, the Tube, Abu Dhabi and Australian history lesson, pints on the street, Aston Martin, I’m rich biotch, shamoan…go-on girl, where were you when? Auntie told me, Al Green and MJ, River station revisited, A-key-lah, Howard Zinn, rain, vistas, antiquely antique-in’, differences of opinion, Imasayimasamanakooka, home again…
16 June 2009
going, going, back, back...
Ready for the summer, but I know I’ll get restless soon as the charm and newness has worn and I realize I no longer feel the African sun.
On the plane ride across the pond I sat next to Mamadou Ndiaye, one of the few Senegalese men on our South African Airways flight. Mamadou, who is somewhere in his 70s, doesn’t speak English and the South African flight attendants were not particularly adept to parle france. I helped him via Wolof and found later that Mamadou is traveling to Greensboro, like he does every nine months or so to sell Senegalese goods at a market. He has some family in New York, some in North Carolina, and he spends about 3 months traveling around to visit and to restock the café touba, the spices, the African fabrics and emblems.
When I exit the plane I spot a large group of masked Asians – maybe Chinese. They ask in accented English which stop off the Airtran will take them to the car rental services. An airport employee responds. She comes from Sudan, but most recently Egypt. She fled Sudan with her parents some 23 years ago because of the janjaweed and spent most of her childhood in Cairo. Now, she lives in Queens and works at JFK. She says Sudanese food is like Ethiopian.
I finally reach the A train, headed to the L, to transfer to the 4,5,6, to catch the Metro North. As we near Manhattan, the subway cars become filled with Puerto Rican flag holding Boricuas of all ages. They are venturing to the PR day parade.
I finally reach Poughkeepsie and we settle to eat lunch at the River Station restaurant, just off the Hudson River. The sky is blue, the beer is flowin’, and the band – The Differents – led by a female percussionist, plays Sheryl Crow.
All in a day’s travel…I’m exhausted, but excited for summer and slightly buzzed off the Coronas.
On the plane ride across the pond I sat next to Mamadou Ndiaye, one of the few Senegalese men on our South African Airways flight. Mamadou, who is somewhere in his 70s, doesn’t speak English and the South African flight attendants were not particularly adept to parle france. I helped him via Wolof and found later that Mamadou is traveling to Greensboro, like he does every nine months or so to sell Senegalese goods at a market. He has some family in New York, some in North Carolina, and he spends about 3 months traveling around to visit and to restock the café touba, the spices, the African fabrics and emblems.
When I exit the plane I spot a large group of masked Asians – maybe Chinese. They ask in accented English which stop off the Airtran will take them to the car rental services. An airport employee responds. She comes from Sudan, but most recently Egypt. She fled Sudan with her parents some 23 years ago because of the janjaweed and spent most of her childhood in Cairo. Now, she lives in Queens and works at JFK. She says Sudanese food is like Ethiopian.
I finally reach the A train, headed to the L, to transfer to the 4,5,6, to catch the Metro North. As we near Manhattan, the subway cars become filled with Puerto Rican flag holding Boricuas of all ages. They are venturing to the PR day parade.
I finally reach Poughkeepsie and we settle to eat lunch at the River Station restaurant, just off the Hudson River. The sky is blue, the beer is flowin’, and the band – The Differents – led by a female percussionist, plays Sheryl Crow.
All in a day’s travel…I’m exhausted, but excited for summer and slightly buzzed off the Coronas.
04 June 2009
Nu dem Ndar - 5.29 - 6.2
Last weekend we traveled to Saint Louis, more commonly known as Ndar to Wolof, Pulaar, and Serer. Saint Louis has a mainland continental side, an island, and an ocean side inlet. It is also just a stones throw away from Mauritania. Every year around this time Saint Louis hosts a West African Jazz Festival. Saint Louis also resembles New Orleans in architecture. The quant cobble stone streets and side street jazz clubs and pubs are very French Quarter-esque. There’s no Bourbon Street, but the city definitely has a Nawlins like flavor.
We heard some very good jazz and had an experience people-watchin’ as well. On one night a bongo player joined a Dakar based band for a few sets and played percussion on his cheeks and his noggin. On our last night at club Le Comptor, a kora player joined an African jazz band, playing with both African percussion instruments and standard American jazz instruments (bass, trap set, guitar). The kora has over 15 strings, and, in my opinion, way more intricate than most Western stringed instruments.
Most of the bars we visited were very cautious about which patrons were allowed to enter. In other words, Black Africans who didn’t look the part or have the cash were not welcomed. From my observations this played out in a few forms, two of which I will comment on.
As the night played on, I spotted many disgruntled young men who were denied entrance by the stern and muscular bouncer. Some of these men looked young, but I gathered they were denied more so because of their attire. They didn’t quite look the part to many of the white faced and fancy pants clad Europeans. One man was even challenged to show the contents of his wallet, though I paid no cover charge.
Inside the club, a similar stern and muscular bouncer approached Jazzy. He had two small cuts by each eye – the Wolof and Djola birthmark. He asked why she wasn’t drinking. The club was crowded. Many others were not holding a drink. I approached him and began to address him in Wolof. I explained to him that we were waiting for our beverages from our friend at the bar. We exchanged greetings and I told him we were visiting for the weekend. I further explained that we were American teachers and that Jazzy speaks some French and not much Wolof. He understood and kept moving through the crowds.
I don’t want to offer speculation as to why these particular bouncers challenged certain patrons. These instances may have occurred because of some club regulation or even band request that I don’t know about. It seems to come down, however, to perceptions of cleanliness, on some level.
On the Atlantic Ocean side of Saint Louis the neighborhood Guet Ndar vibrates throughout the day. Along this stretch of land, before the cemetery, there are no fancy hotels. The dusty and bumpy roads are filled with debris. Sheep and goats roam the streets. Laughing children run barefoot through the sand, the trash, and the animal pellets of poop. The house walls are lined with cement, not paint or wallpaper, and the latrines offer no supportive or cozy toilet seat. Private living space is minimal and conversations are loud and fast.
Many of us would consider this unclean, dirty, disease ridden, uninhabitable. Many of us wonder in awe at how the locals live, but then drive comfortably to our guarded homes and sit down to watch reality TV. I wonder in awe at the irony of the African jazz music that is too expensive for the people of the land from which it comes to enjoy freely. The bars were being rid of the debris that would disappoint and discomfort the trump card holding European/American patron.
We heard some very good jazz and had an experience people-watchin’ as well. On one night a bongo player joined a Dakar based band for a few sets and played percussion on his cheeks and his noggin. On our last night at club Le Comptor, a kora player joined an African jazz band, playing with both African percussion instruments and standard American jazz instruments (bass, trap set, guitar). The kora has over 15 strings, and, in my opinion, way more intricate than most Western stringed instruments.
Most of the bars we visited were very cautious about which patrons were allowed to enter. In other words, Black Africans who didn’t look the part or have the cash were not welcomed. From my observations this played out in a few forms, two of which I will comment on.
As the night played on, I spotted many disgruntled young men who were denied entrance by the stern and muscular bouncer. Some of these men looked young, but I gathered they were denied more so because of their attire. They didn’t quite look the part to many of the white faced and fancy pants clad Europeans. One man was even challenged to show the contents of his wallet, though I paid no cover charge.
Inside the club, a similar stern and muscular bouncer approached Jazzy. He had two small cuts by each eye – the Wolof and Djola birthmark. He asked why she wasn’t drinking. The club was crowded. Many others were not holding a drink. I approached him and began to address him in Wolof. I explained to him that we were waiting for our beverages from our friend at the bar. We exchanged greetings and I told him we were visiting for the weekend. I further explained that we were American teachers and that Jazzy speaks some French and not much Wolof. He understood and kept moving through the crowds.
I don’t want to offer speculation as to why these particular bouncers challenged certain patrons. These instances may have occurred because of some club regulation or even band request that I don’t know about. It seems to come down, however, to perceptions of cleanliness, on some level.
On the Atlantic Ocean side of Saint Louis the neighborhood Guet Ndar vibrates throughout the day. Along this stretch of land, before the cemetery, there are no fancy hotels. The dusty and bumpy roads are filled with debris. Sheep and goats roam the streets. Laughing children run barefoot through the sand, the trash, and the animal pellets of poop. The house walls are lined with cement, not paint or wallpaper, and the latrines offer no supportive or cozy toilet seat. Private living space is minimal and conversations are loud and fast.
Many of us would consider this unclean, dirty, disease ridden, uninhabitable. Many of us wonder in awe at how the locals live, but then drive comfortably to our guarded homes and sit down to watch reality TV. I wonder in awe at the irony of the African jazz music that is too expensive for the people of the land from which it comes to enjoy freely. The bars were being rid of the debris that would disappoint and discomfort the trump card holding European/American patron.
29 May 2009
Car rapides, ndambe, and SANDAGA
“Mr. Philen.”
“What up!”
“Guess what?”
“What?”
“This morning for breakfast I had Café Touba and it was sooooo good. I really like it.”
Christine is one of my many international kids. She’s half Cameroonian and half Canadian. She’s also a talker. In class, I constantly have to give her the look; you know that stern teacher look that somehow tells the kids to shut it. Yeah, well, that look, apparently, I don’t have. I try to give her the look, but she keeps talking. She’s a talker.
Jorge, who introduces himself as “Jorge Che”, is a revolutionary ____________ in the making. He’s not sure what he is going to revolutionize, but, well, those are just minor details. However, he may have found his true calling in the car rapide business.
Here are some pictures from our field trip last Thursday (May 28). We toured sites less visited by some of my students. My friend Almamy was our tour guide. This curriculum of observation, examination, explanation, understanding, and listening beats classroom curriculum any day of the week. My colleague and friend Tod accompanied us and took some photos as well. Check out his blog (to the right "Lariam Dreams") for more pictures.
We had a pretty good day. The primary purpose was to get them out of the sheltered environments in which they live. They are essentially aware of the disparities in life that exist in Senegal, but I wanted to throw as much evidence at them as I could. My most memorable moment was our walk-through of Fass. I'm more interested (personally) in how kids observe these differences and either adjust, adapt, or struggle. When we arrived to the buroom butig to order the ndambe one student warned me that she was a picky eater. I told her to try it and if she didn't like it, I would eat it. She ended up eating two servings. Maybe little was learned here other than she found a new desire for beans and bread in the morning, but perhaps her perception of what she thought she knew was altered.
Here are some quotes from some kids' writing assessment they completed after the field trip:
"Fas neighborhood was my favorite place...the neighborhood is full of life. People are always moving and they all know each other."
"I enjoyed seeing a neighborhood that was largely untouched by a ridiculously high standard of living...Fas allowed me to see how normal people in Dakar live, and that Dakar can be an interesting place to live. It was also nice meeting local people, seeing the houses because it showed me that even people that are not poor live far below western standards, but that this is not always a bad thing. It makes families support each other more. Communities are friendlier and more lively."
"I found that the standard Senegalese lifestyle and way of addressing foreigners is very friendly and kind. They treat you as they were your best friends..."
"I know that people tend to think that if you have less money then life is harder and you can't be as happy, but I could see there that they were all pretty happy with what they had and did what they could to have a rather normal life."
"Struggle is the word I will use to describe their life. They fight everyday to survive, but they still have their happiness. They all kept smiling like if they were taking everything in a positive way..."
"Life in Fas is very different from life in Almadies for example. It's way poorer and dirtier, but at the same time there's way more life in Fas. People are really nice and even though they are poor, they seemed very happy. I really enjoyed their food, because it made me feel like I was more 'accepted' by the people there, I guess. It made me come out of my expat 'shell' for a bit."
In the classroom, I could never have exposed the students to what it felt like to walk the streets of Fas or to taste ndambe or to sit in a 20+ person house and share a story with a mother of many.
“What up!”
“Guess what?”
“What?”
“This morning for breakfast I had Café Touba and it was sooooo good. I really like it.”
Christine is one of my many international kids. She’s half Cameroonian and half Canadian. She’s also a talker. In class, I constantly have to give her the look; you know that stern teacher look that somehow tells the kids to shut it. Yeah, well, that look, apparently, I don’t have. I try to give her the look, but she keeps talking. She’s a talker.
Jorge, who introduces himself as “Jorge Che”, is a revolutionary ____________ in the making. He’s not sure what he is going to revolutionize, but, well, those are just minor details. However, he may have found his true calling in the car rapide business.
Here are some pictures from our field trip last Thursday (May 28). We toured sites less visited by some of my students. My friend Almamy was our tour guide. This curriculum of observation, examination, explanation, understanding, and listening beats classroom curriculum any day of the week. My colleague and friend Tod accompanied us and took some photos as well. Check out his blog (to the right "Lariam Dreams") for more pictures.
We had a pretty good day. The primary purpose was to get them out of the sheltered environments in which they live. They are essentially aware of the disparities in life that exist in Senegal, but I wanted to throw as much evidence at them as I could. My most memorable moment was our walk-through of Fass. I'm more interested (personally) in how kids observe these differences and either adjust, adapt, or struggle. When we arrived to the buroom butig to order the ndambe one student warned me that she was a picky eater. I told her to try it and if she didn't like it, I would eat it. She ended up eating two servings. Maybe little was learned here other than she found a new desire for beans and bread in the morning, but perhaps her perception of what she thought she knew was altered.
Here are some quotes from some kids' writing assessment they completed after the field trip:
"Fas neighborhood was my favorite place...the neighborhood is full of life. People are always moving and they all know each other."
"I enjoyed seeing a neighborhood that was largely untouched by a ridiculously high standard of living...Fas allowed me to see how normal people in Dakar live, and that Dakar can be an interesting place to live. It was also nice meeting local people, seeing the houses because it showed me that even people that are not poor live far below western standards, but that this is not always a bad thing. It makes families support each other more. Communities are friendlier and more lively."
"I found that the standard Senegalese lifestyle and way of addressing foreigners is very friendly and kind. They treat you as they were your best friends..."
"I know that people tend to think that if you have less money then life is harder and you can't be as happy, but I could see there that they were all pretty happy with what they had and did what they could to have a rather normal life."
"Struggle is the word I will use to describe their life. They fight everyday to survive, but they still have their happiness. They all kept smiling like if they were taking everything in a positive way..."
"Life in Fas is very different from life in Almadies for example. It's way poorer and dirtier, but at the same time there's way more life in Fas. People are really nice and even though they are poor, they seemed very happy. I really enjoyed their food, because it made me feel like I was more 'accepted' by the people there, I guess. It made me come out of my expat 'shell' for a bit."
In the classroom, I could never have exposed the students to what it felt like to walk the streets of Fas or to taste ndambe or to sit in a 20+ person house and share a story with a mother of many.
27 May 2009
Déébaadééb (the rituals)
Some of my 9th graders are currently reading Leslie Silko’s Ceremony. This is a pretty difficult book for any 9th grader to tackle. I even taught this book to my 11/12 graders in World Literature a few months back, but a handful of my 9th graders are seriously sharp and I thought they deserved a challenge.
I don’t want to talk shop too much (talk shop = teacher talk) as I know that can be seriously boring to listen to and more so to read. Anyways, they’ve been having some trouble relating the struggles the protagonist experiences with their own life. To a high schooler this translates to mean that the book is dumb/mad boring. Long summary short: Ceremony is about a Native American WWII veteran who returns to life on the reservation. He struggles to exist with a secure peace of mind from his experiences in the Philippine-Japanese war and yearns to find a true sense of identity from his Laguna Pueblo heritage. Tayo finds he is able to get his life back on track by revisiting the ceremonies, the rituals that are important to his people.
I pressed my kids to think about ceremonies, rituals that may exist in their cultures and what they truly mean. The group is composed of a Malian, a Senegalese, a Senegalese-American, and an American of Indian decent. After some prodding and probing they discovered they had more in common with Tayo than they thought. One student told the group of how his mother kills a lamb before every time he (or any family member) travels out of town. Another talked of marabouts and seetkats whom some believe hold mysterious powers. I found their discussions intriguing as these kids are well traveled, highly bright, but a bit tainted as well by our American Western World of thought. None of them openly expressed belief or disbelief in these ceremonies or rituals, but all could agree that they were significant in some way, shape, or form.
A few weeks back I visited a Seetkat. Her name is Awa and she is of the Baye Fall brotherhood of the Mouride sect of Sufi Islam. Brothers (and sisters) of the Mouride sect follow the teachings of Cheikh Amadou Bamba. Awa throws sacred ocean shells and from the pattern in which they fall she is able to give insight to one’s life. Many Senegalese (and West Africans) regard highly the abilities and advice of these Seetkats, which is the Wolof word meaning, “person who can see the future”.
I’ve visited several psychics in the past – never for reassurance or a true fortune telling, but more so for the experience. I usually walk away with feelings of excitement, doubt, curiosity, and suspicion. There was something different about Awa, however. Perhaps it was the simplicity of the room in which we sat. There were neither dreamweavers hanging from the wall nor was there strong incense burning. Maybe it was the unassuming manner in which she interpreted and read the shells. She was not trying to convince me of her abilities; she merely used her abilities the way in which she understood them. Maybe even, it was her tone, her movements, her facial expressions, or a certain look that struck me as intense and very aware of the people in her presence.
After Awa finished, she advised me to make a sacrifice to acknowledge the powers that be and to fulfill the prophecy – as was explained to me through a translator. I was to give one red kola nut and one white kola nut to two different older women. I trekked to a local market with a friend and bought the most beautiful kola nuts I could find. I kept them in the fridge over night so that they would remain firm and not spoiled.
The following morning I delivered the red kola nut – wrapped in a small piece of newspaper – to the woman who runs a sheebeen just below our apartment. I took the wrapped nut and placed it in her two hands and said Yalla am na jox la Amen, which means something along the lines of, “from Allah this is a gift to you, Amen.” Sama Yaay graciously accepted the kola nut and repeated her own prayer, which I did not quite understand.
Next, I delivered the white kola nut to another Boroom butig, side street shopkeeper, who sells ndambe, a local bean-and-bread breakfast. She is a heavy-set woman with a loud voice. I approached her the same, gave her the wrapped white kola nut and said the same prayer. Again, she was very gracious and she repeated the same prayer that the first woman uttered.
What intrigued me about this was how they revered the gift and the process, the ritiaul of the giving of the sacrifice. This is a meaningful ritual in their lives, even if it is given to them from someone outside of their religion and their culture. While I wasn’t obligated to follow through with this sacrifice, I felt I needed to as respect to Awa, to her beliefs, to her abilities, and to her cultural rituals.
Ceremony
I will tell you something about stories,
[he said]
They aren’t just entertainment.
Don’t be fooled.
They are all we have, you see,
All we have to fight off
Illness and death.
You don’t have anything
If you don’t have the stories.
Their evil is mighty
But it can’t stand up to our stories.
So they try to destroy the stories
Let the stories be confused or forgotten.
They would like that
They would be happy
Because we would be defenseless then.
He rubbed his belly.
I keep them here
[he said]
Here, put your hand on it
See, it is moving.
There is life here
For the people.
And in the belly of this story
The rituals and ceremony
Are still growing.
What she said:
The only cure
I know
Is a good ceremony,
That’s what she said.
-Leslie Silko
I don’t want to talk shop too much (talk shop = teacher talk) as I know that can be seriously boring to listen to and more so to read. Anyways, they’ve been having some trouble relating the struggles the protagonist experiences with their own life. To a high schooler this translates to mean that the book is dumb/mad boring. Long summary short: Ceremony is about a Native American WWII veteran who returns to life on the reservation. He struggles to exist with a secure peace of mind from his experiences in the Philippine-Japanese war and yearns to find a true sense of identity from his Laguna Pueblo heritage. Tayo finds he is able to get his life back on track by revisiting the ceremonies, the rituals that are important to his people.
I pressed my kids to think about ceremonies, rituals that may exist in their cultures and what they truly mean. The group is composed of a Malian, a Senegalese, a Senegalese-American, and an American of Indian decent. After some prodding and probing they discovered they had more in common with Tayo than they thought. One student told the group of how his mother kills a lamb before every time he (or any family member) travels out of town. Another talked of marabouts and seetkats whom some believe hold mysterious powers. I found their discussions intriguing as these kids are well traveled, highly bright, but a bit tainted as well by our American Western World of thought. None of them openly expressed belief or disbelief in these ceremonies or rituals, but all could agree that they were significant in some way, shape, or form.
A few weeks back I visited a Seetkat. Her name is Awa and she is of the Baye Fall brotherhood of the Mouride sect of Sufi Islam. Brothers (and sisters) of the Mouride sect follow the teachings of Cheikh Amadou Bamba. Awa throws sacred ocean shells and from the pattern in which they fall she is able to give insight to one’s life. Many Senegalese (and West Africans) regard highly the abilities and advice of these Seetkats, which is the Wolof word meaning, “person who can see the future”.
I’ve visited several psychics in the past – never for reassurance or a true fortune telling, but more so for the experience. I usually walk away with feelings of excitement, doubt, curiosity, and suspicion. There was something different about Awa, however. Perhaps it was the simplicity of the room in which we sat. There were neither dreamweavers hanging from the wall nor was there strong incense burning. Maybe it was the unassuming manner in which she interpreted and read the shells. She was not trying to convince me of her abilities; she merely used her abilities the way in which she understood them. Maybe even, it was her tone, her movements, her facial expressions, or a certain look that struck me as intense and very aware of the people in her presence.
After Awa finished, she advised me to make a sacrifice to acknowledge the powers that be and to fulfill the prophecy – as was explained to me through a translator. I was to give one red kola nut and one white kola nut to two different older women. I trekked to a local market with a friend and bought the most beautiful kola nuts I could find. I kept them in the fridge over night so that they would remain firm and not spoiled.
The following morning I delivered the red kola nut – wrapped in a small piece of newspaper – to the woman who runs a sheebeen just below our apartment. I took the wrapped nut and placed it in her two hands and said Yalla am na jox la Amen, which means something along the lines of, “from Allah this is a gift to you, Amen.” Sama Yaay graciously accepted the kola nut and repeated her own prayer, which I did not quite understand.
Next, I delivered the white kola nut to another Boroom butig, side street shopkeeper, who sells ndambe, a local bean-and-bread breakfast. She is a heavy-set woman with a loud voice. I approached her the same, gave her the wrapped white kola nut and said the same prayer. Again, she was very gracious and she repeated the same prayer that the first woman uttered.
What intrigued me about this was how they revered the gift and the process, the ritiaul of the giving of the sacrifice. This is a meaningful ritual in their lives, even if it is given to them from someone outside of their religion and their culture. While I wasn’t obligated to follow through with this sacrifice, I felt I needed to as respect to Awa, to her beliefs, to her abilities, and to her cultural rituals.
Ceremony
I will tell you something about stories,
[he said]
They aren’t just entertainment.
Don’t be fooled.
They are all we have, you see,
All we have to fight off
Illness and death.
You don’t have anything
If you don’t have the stories.
Their evil is mighty
But it can’t stand up to our stories.
So they try to destroy the stories
Let the stories be confused or forgotten.
They would like that
They would be happy
Because we would be defenseless then.
He rubbed his belly.
I keep them here
[he said]
Here, put your hand on it
See, it is moving.
There is life here
For the people.
And in the belly of this story
The rituals and ceremony
Are still growing.
What she said:
The only cure
I know
Is a good ceremony,
That’s what she said.
-Leslie Silko
24 May 2009
Popenguine 5.22-5.24
Popenguine lies just a few hours south of Dakar. It is predominately a Serer community, which is a different ethnic group from the majority (Wolof) in Dakar. Serers speak a different language – Serer – and are predominately Christian (while most Wolof are of the Muslim faith). At the center of the serene and modest village of Popenguine is a beautiful and quaint church.
click on the photo for a closer look at the map of Senegal
On Saturday morning I walked out on the beach in time to catch some photos of a pirogue that just hit shore. First, the men worked to pull in the fish nets. Once they pulled them up to shore it was almost a free-for-all to retrieve the fish. Men, women, and children came to take their portion of the fish. It seemed a bit chaotic, but I’m sure there is some type of order to it. I didn’t quite understand the routine or rules of the distribution of the catch, but my best hunch is that this is a family/community deal. There are particular fish that are off-limits and will probably be sold for the best offer, while other fish, which hold less value, are for the families to eat (or sell). This may, in fact, be off, but if they are subsistence fishermen that would be my best guess.
click on the photo for a closer look at the map of Senegal
On Saturday morning I walked out on the beach in time to catch some photos of a pirogue that just hit shore. First, the men worked to pull in the fish nets. Once they pulled them up to shore it was almost a free-for-all to retrieve the fish. Men, women, and children came to take their portion of the fish. It seemed a bit chaotic, but I’m sure there is some type of order to it. I didn’t quite understand the routine or rules of the distribution of the catch, but my best hunch is that this is a family/community deal. There are particular fish that are off-limits and will probably be sold for the best offer, while other fish, which hold less value, are for the families to eat (or sell). This may, in fact, be off, but if they are subsistence fishermen that would be my best guess.
20 May 2009
Spike doin' work
Spike Lee came out with a new joint. It's called Kobe Doin' Work. He sets up 30 different cameras all projected on Kobe during a game between LA and San Antonio - just before the start of last year's playoffs. As the viewer watches the footage of the game, Kobe offers voice-over commentary that was recorded the same night he dropped 61 at the Garden (against my team, the Knicks, who have been struggling ever since Patrick Ewing retired).
This movie is vintage Spike - work that he doesn't necessarily control as a director, but he allows the movie to transform itself as it plays out. The music isn't hip-hop as one might expect with b-ball. There's a bit of jazz and music by Bruce Hornsby. This is an original way to depict a day in the life of a NBA superstar.
This isn't nearly as compelling as the Tyson movie that just came out, which is a must see, but this is pretty entertaining...I guess...if you like Spike Lee and/or basketball. I fall victim to both categories, so I purchased it on iTunes for $9.99...I'm such a sucker.
This movie is vintage Spike - work that he doesn't necessarily control as a director, but he allows the movie to transform itself as it plays out. The music isn't hip-hop as one might expect with b-ball. There's a bit of jazz and music by Bruce Hornsby. This is an original way to depict a day in the life of a NBA superstar.
This isn't nearly as compelling as the Tyson movie that just came out, which is a must see, but this is pretty entertaining...I guess...if you like Spike Lee and/or basketball. I fall victim to both categories, so I purchased it on iTunes for $9.99...I'm such a sucker.
19 May 2009
Jappalé = learning to be aware
Moving to the private school sector of education has been a change of pace and of personal insight and experience. In the Bronx, many of my students were often challenged inside the classroom because of factors affecting them outside the classroom. Factors, such as poor diet, lack of parental guidance, economic struggles in the home, drug/alcohol abuse, homelessness were some of the issues prevailing in the lives of the Stephanies, the Carolyns, the Argenises, the Ishmaels, the Sheilas. The same can be said of the students who taught me so much from the bush village of Okamukwa in Namibia.
The resources are plentiful in the international private school system - both in the school and in the home. At the beginning of this academic year, my 9th grade English class began a unit on the Renaissance - Macbeth, Marlowe, the Reformation. More than 2/3 of my students had traveled to the Sistine Chapel. Experiences like these are invaluable to a child's foundation for an educational system that seems to cater best to the most exposed, the most "cultured" in Western world terms, the most versed in the language of the educational system. And there is a language.
Here, at my new school, if kids forget their homework, their lunch, or their books many of them call their maids and soon their driver will arrive with the requested items. No questions asked. The students here are privileged. They are privileged, but it is neither their fault nor because of their actions. They are, in a wayward way, reaping the benefits of their parents' privileges.
And, that is okay. But, it becomes problematic and disastrous when we forget to acknowledge our blessings and privileges and assume they are a given or a part of who we are. This is no easy task for a teenager - especially a high schooler. However, a handful of students at my school here in Dakar have chosen to, first, acknowledge that there are economic disparities within our school community that does significantly affect life, as is, in Dakar, and, second, act to better support those in need within our community, within our school-wide family.
Here is a video about the recently formed Jappalé committee at our school here in Dakar. I'm proud to say I teach the kids who have put this together.
The resources are plentiful in the international private school system - both in the school and in the home. At the beginning of this academic year, my 9th grade English class began a unit on the Renaissance - Macbeth, Marlowe, the Reformation. More than 2/3 of my students had traveled to the Sistine Chapel. Experiences like these are invaluable to a child's foundation for an educational system that seems to cater best to the most exposed, the most "cultured" in Western world terms, the most versed in the language of the educational system. And there is a language.
Here, at my new school, if kids forget their homework, their lunch, or their books many of them call their maids and soon their driver will arrive with the requested items. No questions asked. The students here are privileged. They are privileged, but it is neither their fault nor because of their actions. They are, in a wayward way, reaping the benefits of their parents' privileges.
And, that is okay. But, it becomes problematic and disastrous when we forget to acknowledge our blessings and privileges and assume they are a given or a part of who we are. This is no easy task for a teenager - especially a high schooler. However, a handful of students at my school here in Dakar have chosen to, first, acknowledge that there are economic disparities within our school community that does significantly affect life, as is, in Dakar, and, second, act to better support those in need within our community, within our school-wide family.
Here is a video about the recently formed Jappalé committee at our school here in Dakar. I'm proud to say I teach the kids who have put this together.
Reflections of an African doctor
I felt like he was looking through me. I had an incredibly moving experience in, perhaps, one of the most unlikely of places. Within the mud and cement hut in the village of Combol, I first met Yorro, who is my friend’s doctor. Almamy, a close friend of mine, travels to Yorro from Fas, Dakar every month or so to collect his medicine to aide him with his sickness (that I will not discuss here). Yorro is not a doctor in the Western World sense. He does not perform surgery and does not promise immediate healing.
He is a healer, however.
When I first shook Yorro’s hand I was in awe of his strength and agility. He is undoubtedly in his late 70s and may even be in his 80s. He did not shake or have tremors in his motion. He was very much in control of his limbs, movements, and mind. His warm smile is one that tells me he is by far the favorite parent among his many children and grandchildren.
After he shook my hand he gently felt my sternum. I wasn’t surprised and didn’t flinch as I had seen him do this with Tod, a colleague who accompanied Almamy and I. He nodded in a manner of approval and then told me that I get hot and tired easily and don’t sleep or relax well. This is probably an accurate diagnosis for any Toubab under the African sun, but I felt he meant something deeper. Perhaps he couldn’t explain my condition in a Western World manner, but it took him merely a handshake and a touch of my chest to translate his concern for me.
I was sick, but treatable, Yorro said.
Our visit continued. There were three of us there. We sat in the hand-made, wooden folding chairs that remained in his office, which is also his bedroom. Yorro’s grandkids constantly came in to greet their Papa’s visitors. Every new handshake came from a beautiful smiling and shining African child. If you could zoom forward 50 years, one of these kids will most certainly be practicing in the same or similar manner of Yorro. He is a Marabout, a religious Islamic healer. His title and abilities have been passed to him from past ancestors and generations.
Yorro heals all who are open to his practice, though there are some limitations. He makes no cuts or incisions and can not treat paralysis, among a few others ailments. Yorro has one remedy or treatment: the ritual of prayer, his prayer to Allah, and a concoction composed of water and roots and leaves from a specific plant found in the fields and bush of Senegal. Coincidently, perhaps, garab bi is the Wolof word for both medicine and tree or plant.
Yorro openly collaborates with a western medicine doctor in Kaolack, the closest city and regional capital of Kaolack. He refers his patients to this doctor, as does the doctor to Yorro. He spoke of this without judging or offering his opinion of western medicine, but with a sincere passion for his patients and his practice.
Almamy and Yorro passed the time talking in Wolof. Yorro entertained our questions and talked of things new with the family and the village. Almamy spoke of his family and the life in the metropolitan of Dakar, a place far removed from Combol by time, pace, and day-to-day realities. Yorro continually returned his attention to Tod and I in the honest and welcoming way Africans do. We were in his house, therefore, we were his brothers.
Before gently placing Almamy’s medicine in the plastic bags, Yorro blessed each piece. He was steadfast, pragmatic, and methodical. Slowly he caressed each bundle in his powerful, but gentle hands and recited his prayer. In one movement he softly and silently spat upon the roots and leaves as if sprinkling holy water upon them. Yorro was not fazed or angered by his grandchildren who continued to peek in at the visiting Toubabs or paraded by the mud hut, his medical office, with the latest found toy.
photos of sama garab bi
This experience makes me wonder what healing really means. Is it the recovery itself or is it the process? Is true healing the end feeling or is it the work, the mindset it takes to approach a sense of healing? Perhaps, it is somehow a mixture of the two. Is my friend truly healed by completing the grueling trip to Combol from Dakar or is it the process, the ritual that heals him? I presume, for now, that this was, for me, just one more unique experience, which I shall remember and use to question things I think I already know.
He is a healer, however.
When I first shook Yorro’s hand I was in awe of his strength and agility. He is undoubtedly in his late 70s and may even be in his 80s. He did not shake or have tremors in his motion. He was very much in control of his limbs, movements, and mind. His warm smile is one that tells me he is by far the favorite parent among his many children and grandchildren.
After he shook my hand he gently felt my sternum. I wasn’t surprised and didn’t flinch as I had seen him do this with Tod, a colleague who accompanied Almamy and I. He nodded in a manner of approval and then told me that I get hot and tired easily and don’t sleep or relax well. This is probably an accurate diagnosis for any Toubab under the African sun, but I felt he meant something deeper. Perhaps he couldn’t explain my condition in a Western World manner, but it took him merely a handshake and a touch of my chest to translate his concern for me.
I was sick, but treatable, Yorro said.
Our visit continued. There were three of us there. We sat in the hand-made, wooden folding chairs that remained in his office, which is also his bedroom. Yorro’s grandkids constantly came in to greet their Papa’s visitors. Every new handshake came from a beautiful smiling and shining African child. If you could zoom forward 50 years, one of these kids will most certainly be practicing in the same or similar manner of Yorro. He is a Marabout, a religious Islamic healer. His title and abilities have been passed to him from past ancestors and generations.
Yorro heals all who are open to his practice, though there are some limitations. He makes no cuts or incisions and can not treat paralysis, among a few others ailments. Yorro has one remedy or treatment: the ritual of prayer, his prayer to Allah, and a concoction composed of water and roots and leaves from a specific plant found in the fields and bush of Senegal. Coincidently, perhaps, garab bi is the Wolof word for both medicine and tree or plant.
Yorro openly collaborates with a western medicine doctor in Kaolack, the closest city and regional capital of Kaolack. He refers his patients to this doctor, as does the doctor to Yorro. He spoke of this without judging or offering his opinion of western medicine, but with a sincere passion for his patients and his practice.
Almamy and Yorro passed the time talking in Wolof. Yorro entertained our questions and talked of things new with the family and the village. Almamy spoke of his family and the life in the metropolitan of Dakar, a place far removed from Combol by time, pace, and day-to-day realities. Yorro continually returned his attention to Tod and I in the honest and welcoming way Africans do. We were in his house, therefore, we were his brothers.
Before gently placing Almamy’s medicine in the plastic bags, Yorro blessed each piece. He was steadfast, pragmatic, and methodical. Slowly he caressed each bundle in his powerful, but gentle hands and recited his prayer. In one movement he softly and silently spat upon the roots and leaves as if sprinkling holy water upon them. Yorro was not fazed or angered by his grandchildren who continued to peek in at the visiting Toubabs or paraded by the mud hut, his medical office, with the latest found toy.
photos of sama garab bi
This experience makes me wonder what healing really means. Is it the recovery itself or is it the process? Is true healing the end feeling or is it the work, the mindset it takes to approach a sense of healing? Perhaps, it is somehow a mixture of the two. Is my friend truly healed by completing the grueling trip to Combol from Dakar or is it the process, the ritual that heals him? I presume, for now, that this was, for me, just one more unique experience, which I shall remember and use to question things I think I already know.
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