Pandu

Mungi dem foo fu ndaxte…A story about a Senegalese girl

2010-04-06T16:58:00.001-04:00

The night was dark and still. A slight chill crushed the air – a remnant of the Sahara dust that was in season. In the humid, but breezy room mosquitoes began to buzz with the early cry of the Imam from the Oukam jack ji. Coumba always woke with the early call to prayer. Eyes ajar, the wailing pierced her ears. Though she was accustom to the cherished chants to Allah and though her heart prostrated to Him, as did his male cousins and brothers every morning at the call to prayer, the cries still pierced her. What had become of her restrained youth pierced her – a woman full of voice in a fog of voiceless masses.

Her faith was the answer to her questions of moral and integrity. It was her community, her society, her nation that continually left her distraught. The men who controlled the nation – whether it be government officials or Marabouts – stood firm in their faith and devotion to Allah and it was through their Allah that the decisions were made and policies played. To Coumba, however, their Allah was not their Allah and she thought of this, doubted this, and prayed to her Allah about this. And Allah certainly answered her.

Amidst a soaring crime rate, undaunted poverty, and monthly teacher strikes that left the youth uneducated, Coumba loved her people, her culture. She loved her peppered mango and her mafe and the extra cube of sucre she slipped in the steaming café touba she purchased daily. But the longing nostalgia for these things was romantic and appealing enough to leave them. Having touched and tasted them was proof enough for their existence and validation enough for her personal identity.

Coumba listened as her uncle, cousins, and two brothers enrobed themselves in their boubou attire and quietly shuffled their feet as they exited towards the mosque. She listened as the Imam cried and she listened as the mosquitoes zipped by her ears. She listened, but didn’t move. She listened and didn’t move, but prayed to her Allah for the strength to walk through the masses to be heard. She prostrated in her heart to Allah as tears rolled down her cheeks. And she sat and listened.

Later that evening as the day cooled and the women began to prepare reer, Coumba and her mother argued about the African Renaissance statue that was rumored to be erected. The design was published in the weekly paper. It was to be a Muslim man, strong and imposing, like Balla Beye, lifting his prized child in one hand and grasping his African woman with the other, facing west to the Atlantic and to America. It was also rumored that construction would take place only once the China men arrived. The finished product would boast taller than the Statue of Liberty and house a 5-star hotel.

-Have you heard what it will cost? (Coumba)

-My dear, you know it is not the people who will pay for it. Think of it – no other country in West Africa has such a symbol of the strength of Africa. (yaayam)

-Ah, yes, think of it, the strength of Africa designed and built by the people of North Korea. (Coumba)

-You know that statue will certainly bring money to our people. (yaayam)

-Is that before or after Wade takes his cut? (Coumba)

-My dear, I don’t know why people dislike him so. I know the Marabouts have him by the pants, but he has certainly developed our country. (yaayam)

-Ah, foolish, mother. He’s got you convinced too, I see. You must be listening to Sarkozy too much. And, anyways, how is this appropriate garb for a supposed woman of Allah? (Coumba)

This was Coumba’s one vantage point with her mother. Coumba’s yaay was completely for the construction of the statue despite the estimated costs, the hired immigrant workforce, the distribution of future profits, but the woman’s garb, the short skirt that revealed the woman’s muscular thighs, was a disgrace. In weighing the pros and cons, however, this was not quite enough to sway her opinion.

And this was the argument that was reenacted among the masses and between Coumba and her family for the next year.
Upon the opening of the African Renaissance – which fell on Senegal’s independence day, Coumba prepared for her departure from her mother tongue and her mother land. She had made a promise with herself during the year of construction to leave upon the eve of the opening ceremony. She had listened and prayed and cried long enough and movement is what she yearned for. Coumba’s yaay thought she was merely running away, but Coumba knew her mother would never understand. She was Coumba’s father’s third wife and Coumba was her father’s last born child. It was to him and him only that Coumba hesitated in discussing her decision to leave. Her father listened and starred at Coumba, his last born, and rolled the Islamic beads in his hand, one-by-one. He was an old man of 68 years – tired, but unassuming with energy left only to provide, not to persuade. Coumba adored this about her father, but hardly knew him as the fighter that he was when he was younger. Much like him in build – tall, lean, and broad shouldered – and in appearance – pointed chin, muscular cheek bones, and wise eyes – they hugged in the sitting room on the night Coumba revealed her finalized plan to move to Cape Verde.

-I will be with Auntie, my father. (Coumba)

-I know you will be fine with her there, inch’ allah. (pappam)

-Inch’ allah. (Coumba)

On the morning of her departure Coumba’s father smiled at her, as the taxi pulled away from their home in Oukam. He had an easy smile, but this one told stories of her African childhood and beamed his unending pride in her.

The flight to Praia was bumpy. Winds were turbulent, more so than in past year. West African climate is greatly affected by the Saharan desert winds, which is also affected by the rainy seasons in Addis Ababa and lands further east. Though Coumba grew up with pirogue rides to Goree and the mystical isle de Madeleine, she never experienced nausea quite like the one on the sea ferry to Mindelo. She was red with anguish and worry the entire trip.

Coumba’s Aunt Coura met Coumba at the maritime pier in Mindelo. Having not seen each other in over four years, they had much catching up and reminiscing to do. Coumba sighed a tired sigh when sharing stories of home and of the latest gossip, while Coura sighed a melancholy sigh, sullen for having missed such excitement. That evening they watched news coverage of the African Renaissance opening ceremony. Presidents and people of power dressed in suits and traditional garb alike applauded and cheered to the celebratory sounds of the sabar and the djembe.

-It’s such a beautiful gift of Allah and blessing that has touched Senegal. (Coura)

-It is quite special. (Coumba)

Coumba had changed much over the 4 years that Coura had been away. The once shy, but proud last born daughter had become an inquisitive and probing woman, impatient with complacent acts and arbitrary words. But, there was time yet to reveal this to Coura, who was in deep need of a soul still scorched from the Senegalese sun.

To Coumba, Cape Verdeans were an odd-looking people. Most were light-skinned, like the Pulaar from Mauritania and Northeastern Senegal, but their faces were of a more European appeal. Locals held roots from Black African slavery and White European slave masterdom and thus the mestizo race was formed – blossoming the bare island nation. Musical styles mimicked their ethnic heritages – the blasting Zouk, filling the air with Bantu beats and Fado rhythms, and a crying, but sexy voice. This was Cape Verde – a West African nation with a familiar European feel – forming its identity in the violent waters of the Atlantic that centuries before was the battleground of continents and cultures colliding.

And there sat Coumba in her Aunt’s stall at the Municipal Market in downtown Mindelo selling crafts Coumba saw everyday at the Sandaga Market in Dakar. There she sat across form the curious China man who sold Cabo Verde shirts made in China. There she sat listening to the Kriolu Portuguese that must be learned if she ever wanted to have a voice in a nation that was not hers. There she sat prostrating in her heart to her Allah, waiting for direction for the next steps of her walk.

A possible, but probable, conversation between 2 Knuckleheads on a plane to Cape Verde or Cabo Verde

2010-04-05T18:58:00.002-04:00

Knucklehead 1 and Knucklehead 2 buckled their belts and situated themselves for the hour and a half flight.

Knucklehead 1: Ah, so, here we go.
Knucklehead 2: Yeah, man, to Cape Verde.
K1: To Cape Verde.

There was a pause. Their whiteness reeked. Everyone saw it, especially amongst their fellow passengers, who of mixed race and speaking numerous languages, looked to the two, but barely noticed them since they were the token white boys aboard.

K2: But, wait.
K1: Huh?
K2: Is it Cape Verde or Cabo Verde?
K1: What do you mean?
K2: I mean, what is it really – Cape Verde or Cabo Verde.

K1 wasn’t surprised. K2 always had a way of bringing up ridiculous notions, ideas, declarations that were absurd, but funny. But they were funny, really only to a select audience as others found K2 and K1 together quite obnoxious. It was this affect they had on others, though, that somehow sealed their friendship. Somehow.

K1: Well, if you speak Latin of some sort, like Spanish, Portuguese, or French, it’s Cabo Verde, but if you speak English, it’s Cape Verde.
K2: Man, come on. That doesn’t make sense, though. If I speak English – and I do – wouldn’t I call it Cape Green? Or, would that be Green Cape? And, when foreigners travel to Cape Cod, do they say let’s go to the Cabo Cod or Cabo – whatever the word for cod is in their language?
K1: What? Man, that’s ridiculous.
K2: I’m just saying. Let’s get some consistency here. Is it Cape Verde or Cabo Verde or neither? I would even go so far as to bet that if we were to ask each stewardess which was proper they would each have a different response.
K1: If your logic proves correct, then that would mean Spain is never Espana and Inglaterra is never England.
K2: That’s right. When was the last time you heard an American say I’m going to Espana – unless he/she was certain the other person knows that Espana is, in fact, Spain. You see, that’s not common knowledge. But, Cape Verde or Cabo Verde or Cape Green or Green Cape is different. I would bet 3 out of 5 Americans would think Cape Verde and Cabo Verde were 2 different countries.
K1: 3 out of 5?
K2: Well, maybe 2.75 out of 5.
K1: Oh, so you count 75th’s of people now? Why don’t you just give a whole number?
K2: Man, you always multiply by 100 when giving stats out of 5 so that would be 275 out of 500.
K1: What?

K1 could no longer hold it. He laughed until he coughed. He laughed like that time K2 modestly said he would carry the bag for both of them while hiking and after the first day of the hike K1 and the others realized K2 had carried over 100 pounds that day on a 8 mile hike, like that time he, K2, and that other guy linked hands and grabbed the electric fence to see how fast the shock would penetrate to the last man, like that time that other guy lost the bet and bit into the centipede that shot poison out and numbed his mouth for 5 hours, like that time they went on a week long juice diet – just to do it – and lasted only 13 hours after realizing the juice they drank was full of sugar and they all had the runs for the rest of the day.

K2: Man, I’m just saying.
K1: Yeah, you’re probably right.

And during their trip this was the debate they reenacted, which was seemingly stupid to the outside ear, but completely meaningful to the existence of their knucklehead friendship.

The Ocean and the Hookworm

2009-09-27T19:00:00.001-04:00

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…

Breaking fast with friends and reflecting upon my own metaphysical thoughts...

2009-09-07T04:42:00.003-04:00

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.

Serving History to High Schoolers

2009-09-06T11:28:00.000-04:00

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…

A White Boy’s Perspective on Something Being Swept up Under the Rug: don’t get bamboozled again

2009-07-29T09:56:00.003-04:00

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.

Speech for the nation: Obama addresses the NAACP

2009-07-18T19:22:00.002-04:00

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!!!

1st World Misconception versus 3rd World Truth

2009-07-17T21:56:00.000-04:00

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.

Is Michael coming for dinner?

2009-07-08T12:55:00.002-04:00

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…

Fragmented memories of the summer thus far...

2009-07-08T11:40:00.000-04:00

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…

going, going, back, back...

2009-06-16T09:02:00.001-04:00

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.

Nu dem Ndar - 5.29 - 6.2

2009-06-04T04:15:00.005-04:00

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.

Car rapides, ndambe, and SANDAGA

2009-05-29T16:35:00.012-04:00

“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.

Déébaadééb (the rituals)

2009-05-27T06:29:00.004-04:00

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

Popenguine 5.22-5.24

2009-05-24T18:03:00.012-04:00

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.

Spike doin' work

2009-05-20T07:52:00.006-04:00

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.

Jappalé = learning to be aware

2009-05-19T08:00:00.010-04:00

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.

Reflections of an African doctor

2009-05-19T05:45:00.006-04:00

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.

Sean Bell and the hot summer...

2008-06-17T23:42:00.004-04:00

The heat makes people do crazy things. You can’t sit still. The oscillating fan never gets to you quick enough and never stays on you long enough. The air is thick and muggy. Breath is short; patience is shorter. And, I have a theory that the New York City summer is going to be HOT. Of course, the temperature will reach the upper 90s as will the humidity as it does every blistering New York City summer. However, I’m referring to the intense sweat that the summer will drop all over the streets and blocks of the city. With “city,” though, I don’t mean the ever-coveted upper East or West sides or the hippie/yuppie Williamsburgs, but the Harlems, the Jamaica Queens, the Mount Vernons, the Mott Havens, the Washington Heights, and the Bed-stys. It will be a different type of heat, attributing my theory in part to the Sean Bell verdict.

Everyday occurrences are microcosms of a bigger cosism or picture. The Sean Bell verdict is a microcosm of a tension that swells the lymph nodes of America – the struggle for racial equality. This is a struggle experienced by the African American community primarily – as the media would have us, the viewer, believe that is the only struggle – but within all minorities living in America, be it Native American, Pakistani, Mexican, Chinese, Vietnamese, Dominican, Middle Eastern, Ghanaian, or Bolivian.

The last couple of days I’ve been reading various reactions and points of view in regards to the Bell verdict. You either agree or disagree with the verdict and based on what I’ve read from various perspectives, there’s hardly any in-between. There are always the extremists or conservatives (on both sides). See http://www.sharprightturn.wordpress.com for the “Ann Coulter” side of the argument. Don’t stay too long, though, because it just makes you angry. (I lasted about 3 minutes). There are even more sites – though it was very easy to search for both sides – with the opposing perspective – disagreeing with the verdict. (Check out http://www.lipmagazine.org/~timwise/theyshoot.html .) I would say that this is the majority of the nation’s opinion, only it’s just that the people who do disagree with the verdict have a little more (actually, a lot more) to say about it. If you agree with the not guilty verdict what’s the point to advertise it? Why waste your breath on defending the power and assumed right to power when the power that is held is rarely challenged to the point at which power will switch hands or, even more utopian, be shared. There’s more at stake for the people who choose to be silent about their disgruntlements. I am in no way spiting or sniggering at the leaps forward that have been made; it is only that it isn’t enough. To be satisfied without true equality is not to be satisfied. More than two black men (in the city alone within the last couple of years) have been shot at with more than one full clip, killed, and it be determined that the cops acted as they should have. The re-occurrence of this happening throughout the country to minorities is appalling. Michael Moore augments this point in a typical Moore-ian short film off YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LfFfUxBDMDY . When was the last time a white male was shot at and killed under the same conditions and with the same results?

I’m not in any way suggesting more white deaths by police would lead to a more equal America. I am suggesting however, that there are inequities in the treatment of American people and people living in America based on a long history of white dominated power. A wise man once said, “he would not bleach his Negro soul in a flood of white Americanism, for he knows that Negro blood has a message for the world. He simply wishes to make it possible for a man to be both a Negro and an American, without being cursed and spit upon by his fellows, without having the doors of Opportunity closed roughly in his face” (that wise man was W.E.B. Du Bois).

So, what does this verdict mean for the African American community? It depends on what level you look into this verdict. Some would say it was a blatantly racist decision, which builds more rage into the conspiracy theory life lived by most minorities across the country. I don’t think a guilty verdict would have changed or reversed the injustice that has consistently been served to minorities in this country, but the not guilty verdict most definitely fuels fire for revolution. And when will that come? To the verdict, Spike Lee (on http://www.bet.com/Music/News/musicnews_russellsimmonsandspikeleetalkseanbellverdict_04.25.08.htm ) was quoted as saying, “I feel very bad and I guess it’s business as usual. Of course, race relations are better here in NYC then it was under Mayor Guillani’s and the infamous Ed Koch, but Sean Bell should be alive.” True and true. Again, what Lee says is a microcosm of something bigger. It’s the 2,000 pound elephant in the room. It’s the usual business of the power struggle for minorities. It’s the constant beat down of a system that will get you one way or another. This verdict, but more intensely, the severity of the situation itself, the fact that this happens and can happen is the true beat down to the advances and hopes for an equal and just country and World.

Some would say that this wasn’t a case about race since two of the defendants were people of color. Since they were acquitted and they were people of color themselves doesn’t that clear them of any racial tensions or racist mentality? I don’t think the cops were racist, but I do believe their job promotes a stereotyping mentality. Would the officer have acted differently had it been a white man who said, “I’m going to get my gun”? Probably, but that is merely speculation. The point here is that the officers most definitely had other options. Upon hearing the alleged “gun” phrase, they could have immediately identified themselves and then conducted a search. I think, though, because Sean Bell and his friends were men of color, these cops immediately acted a bit more intensely and nervously. (Dr. Boyce Watkins, professor at Syracuse University, addresses this on his YouTube video at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lQRQa-oND4o .)

That seems to be the reaction of the police, the government, the majority of America and the World when it comes to the minority – a bit more nervous and cautious and scared. Scared of what? I think it’s a deep fear of losing the power edge, the aura of control, the sense and entitlement of empowerment. It’s the manipulated mind that won’t allow any give-in to the power structures that exist. That is why this Bell verdict is a microcosm of a bigger picture.

I find in myself that I am not beyond this mentality in some shape or form. There have been times when I have passed black men on the street and thought more than twice about my safety. Why? Perhaps it was a neighborhood I was in or perhaps it was a look I thought I saw or felt. Basically it was out of fear on some level. Is it all right to feel this? Sure, as long as you acknowledge it and try to confront it and understand it at some point. I do not think our police departments, our educational leadership, our government, our America, and our World is honest with this issue. The status quo has remained just that from the perspective of minority America – and I don’t mean this for just African Americans, but all minorities. It’s difficult to judge this since there are so many perspectives, but I think if one takes the time to read between the lines, it’s clear.

What does music tell us about our culture? Is culture a product of music or vice-versa? Whichever you believe, they directly have an effect on one another. What does Bob Marley sing about? What are themes in various forms of hip-hop music? What themes are there in the Blues, which is the foundation for American Rock and Roll? These are genres created, by people of color, with common themes engrained within them: revolution, change, growth through hardship, progress, the right to equality, and justice. Once again, music is a microcosm of a bigger picture.

As an educator I worry for many of my kids. Education is a crucial and essential tool when dealing with issues of societal norms and power structures (to name a few issues). I think it is an issue overlooked by our school systems. Why are inner city schools struggling? Does it really boil down to money and standardized tests? The amount of resources provided to inner city schools and suburban schools is incomparable. There is enough here to write several more entries about the limitations forced upon schools because of the bureaucratic rule and economic mismanagement. What I want to focus on is how the Sean Bell verdict affects our children.

First of all, I think many of our students are angry. It’s okay to be angry as long as you have the mentality and maturity to know how to deal with the anger. This is not an “easy” thing to do by any means or at any time, especially when one’s life is or has been faced with a cycle of continuous anger or struggle. I am not suggesting that all “inner-city” have experienced this, but suggesting it is a possibility for any youth or any person to have this in their life. I do not want to stereotype “inner-city” or “under privileged” children, only merely suggest a point in general (this is wordy, I know, my bad).

If any anger exists because of the Bell verdict (from a minority kid point of view), it is most likely at the police. I have found this through many informal interviews and discussions with my kids. The police are now a symbol of unstoppable and threatening power, rather than service and protection (they may have been before as well, but even more so now). Just this mentality is proof that something needs to be changed. Remember this is a police department funded by the people through taxes with the purpose of service and protection.

Kids can easily be over emotional. They need process time and a venue to express happiness, sadness, confusion, and anger (we all do). Without a proper understanding of all that this Sean Bell case brings to surface about our American-ness and a venue in which to break these items down, our kids can and will hold in their feelings until struck to release them. I fear for those kids who are just at their breaking point. I fear for those kids who are in school, but often checking out to be with friends or to do other things with, perhaps, little purpose or direction, perhaps who are bored. I fear for those kids who are easily manipulated and when fed things they perhaps lack a confidence to think for themselves and choose to follow the emotions of others. Those kids on the brink are soaking in the things around them. A little anger can sway a kid to lead in one direction, perhaps one a little more positive, or the other, perhaps one a little more negative. I don’t believe life is black and white, that people are all good or all bad. I think we all have our moments and in them we confront the good self and the potentially bad self. For our youth, however, one bad decision can affect him or her for a lifetime. The stakes are high now and the city is hot.

I’m not suggesting there will be an all-out war throughout the city, but I think this case has and will continue to rekindle frustrations on both sides of the issues. The people are upset at the verdict and the continual mishaps and excessively aggressive tendencies acted out by New York’s finest. The police have their own frustrations, perhaps one being, having to deal with the constant analysis by the public and the pressures of trying to be the good guy in the midst of the public’s bad guy perception.

The question and the challenge here is how do we move on? There is no one answer. But, a dialogue must be kept alive and healthy and REAL. Merely brushing this under the rug as the NYPD has a tendency to do is a slap in the face to the people for whom they “serve”. This is not just a challenge to African Americans and the NYPD, but to all New Yorkers and people living in New York (to our nation and to our World). That means the ever-coveted Upper East and West sides must include themselves. They must have the audacity and integrity to be a part of the change that so desperately needs to happen. To be silent is to ignore the issues. To be silent is to close the door on others, especially our youth who are craving to be heard and understood.

“The Nation has not yet found peace from its sins; the freedman has not yet found in freedom his promised land.” W.E.B. Du Bois wrote that in his book The Souls of Black Folk over a hundred years ago and yet his words still speak loudly to us today. We are all “free”, but now we have to strive to find OUR promised land. We have to be the conductors of change and the creators and the writers of the revolution.

a long week or more...

2007-08-21T11:17:00.000-04:00

Since meeting up with the entire group on the 11th we´ve been pretty busy with traveling on windowless buses, hiking to green lagunas, building brick houses amist great dust tornadoes, and surviving a bout of a mysterious stomach virus. I haven´t had a lot of time or consistent email access to insert new entries, so I´m going to do a little summary in a series of ups and one down. Here goes:

THE UPS

1. The group - There are now 14 of us Gringos in our Habitat group. Originally there were 12, however, 2 long term Habitat volunteers living in Cochabamba (an hour or so from La Paz) joined us to help us get situated and going on our trip. Everyone is very cool. There are several teachers, a couple of lawyers, a nurse, a recent college grad, an IT guy, an architect, and a toxicologist. What´s cool though is that it´s a group with similar interests in volunteerism (at a cost?) and travel. We´ve all become pretty good friends and have now stories to tell about our shared experiences in Bolivia.

2. Sorata - On the 11th we all arrived in La Paz which sits at 13,000 feet or so and headed to Sorata, a small valley mountain village which sits at about 6,000 feet. We went to Sorata for orientation and to help us adjust to the high altitude. Sorata was a very cool and tranquilo little mountain village. We stayed at this old hotel built in the 1940s. This hotel, called the Ex-profectoral, is huge with high ceiling walls, dim lighting, and creaking hardwood floors. It is a bit reminiscent of the Bolivian version of the hotel in the Shining. Red-rum. Very beautiful, but a bit creepy at night.

On our second day in Sorata most of our group ventured on a hike to Laguna Chilata. 13 of us jumped into the back of a pick-up truck with guard rails and drove on oh-so narrow and steep roads to the hiking trail head. We then ascended up about 500 feet to this green water lagoon just below snow-capped mountains. The hike was difficult, but the views from the top were magnificent.

3. Oruro - We traveled from Sorata to Oruro, which is about a 7 hour drive. Our bus mysteriously lost it´s front driver´s side window so plastic and tape covered the hole. Oruro is the capital city of the state of Oruro. Some guide books say that Oruro is where most of the indigenous population lives or is from. Most Oruro-ians speak either Ayemara or Quechua, but all speak Spanish. The Ayemara were before the Incans and the Quechua were after the Incans. Oruro is a very poor region of the country. Bolivia is in fact the poorest country in all of South America and second only to Haiti for the entire Western hemispere. Oruro is a place of parades. We have seen or heard a parade every day since we´ve been here. Oruro is also home to the Carnival which takes place in February. The people here seem very proud of their heritage and their history and their parades. It´s a very lively place. I don´t quite know how the two are connected. It´s very poor, but lively. Perhaps monetary wealth and happiness are two separate things. Sure they are. There are other aspects, however, to look at as well, such as health care, education, housing facilities. I haven´t been here long enough to get a true sense of what that means for Bolivians. As a travelor you get a perspective, but not necessarily the perspective that helps you understand the people.

3. Habitat Bolivia - HFH Bolivia is very organized and on-point. They have purchased a plot of land just outside the center of Oruro called El Barrio. They have completed already 120-some houses and are to add another 20 by the end of the year. Our group is helping with three different families. The houses are made of red brick. The model home we are working on are two-story homes. The three houses are in different stages on development so we have seen how each part of the construction goes. On the first day I helped to lay brick on a house that already had the foundation up. On the second and third day, however, I worked on a different home and had different jobs. First we were putting in the foundation and needed rocks to be mixed with the cement. So, I was given a sledgehammer and went at it breaking up these huge rocks so they could be used in with the foundation. That was a hard job. I was real soar by the end of the day and had broken two different sledgehammers. It was cool though.

Each home has its own albanel - who is basically in charge of the building. A fellow by the name of Eddson is in charge of all the building. Eddson, a Bolivian, is very hard working and makes sure that each of us volunteers has a job and is not idle. He has had us mixing cement, breaking rocks, laying bricks, putting in posts for the home layout.

THE DOWN

1. Diarrhea - sorry to be so blatant. Our group got something. At one point this past weekend, 12 of 14 of us were under the weather with some kind of stomach virus. We are recovering however, and most of us are on the up and up.

There´s definetely more to write and the ups overwhelmingly outweigh the down. More to come...hasta pronto!

Beenie Weenies and Brad Pitt

2007-08-11T11:04:00.000-04:00

August 10, 2007

Mi cumpleano. I overslept today. I wanted to get up and at em by 6:30 or 7 am, but I think the hiking from the day before did me in. The night (9th) before I checked into a less expensive hostel. I stayed at la residencial Paris for 15 bolivianos. I grabbed a late dinner at, again, a Bohemian place called Pueblo Viejo. There´s many little Bohemian spots in Copacabana-it´s got the feel of a beach town. It´s a cool little place, though touristy, as I´ve already mentioned. Pueblo Viejo was good. I ate a dish called Pique Machu-a Bolivian dish said the waiter. It was patatas fritas, covered with green and red peppers, and 3 types of meat-beef, chicken, and my favorite beenie weenies. It was good. I slowly sipped on a Bolivian pilsner which was really refreshing after being under the sun all day.

The waiter, Javier, was really cool. We got to chatting and I asked him about a couple of things I was curious about. First, about how the people have reacted to Evo Morales. Talking politics can be an iffy subject in foreign countries. You really have to take what you hear more as a personal opinion than as the facts. Living with the Owambo people in Namibia they raved about the president Sammy Sam Nujoma and the SWAPO party. However, analyzing it a little more Owambos are more than 60 percent of the population meaning their tribe will probably always carry the most weight when voting time comes around. This may mean that SWAPO rule is great for Owambos, but may not be for the Hereros or the Namas, or the rest of the nation. Anyways, Javier stated that it depends on who you talk to. He said some really like Morales, while others don´t. He did say though that only about 50 percent of teh population votes. I told him that was about the percentage of voters in my country as well. Some of Javier´s responses I didn´t quite understand but didn´t pry too much, we were having a good conversation.

The other thing I asked him about was the relation between Catholicism and Incan traditions in Bolivia, if there was any. He stated that almost all of the people were practicing Catholics, but celebrated Incan ancestry out of respect. I thought this was quite a response. If that´s the case in general, I have to tip my hat to the open mindedness, humility, and sense of this-life-is-much-greater-than-I perspective of the people of this region. Que linda!

I woke up on the 10th around 9am not to an alarm, but to my cell phone blowing up. I´ve been using it as an alarm clock since I didn´t bring a watch. It was some unidentified New York number. I think it was one of my students. I usually give them my number at the beginning of the school year thinking they probably won´t use it and even warn them that if they blow up my spot at 4 in the morning I´m not answering. But oh contrar. Be careful giving your number to knucklehead students.

I got my stuff together, took a drip-drip cold shower with no soap or towel (don´t ask for details) and did some internet errands. Wouldn´t it be nice if when you left the country your bills were just on hold until you got back (insert question mark-i´m sitting at an internet cafe in la paz but the keyboard is in chinese and i really can´t decipher this thing)

I grabbed a late breakfast and caught the one oclock bus to La Paz. I am to meet the Habitat group over the next day and a half as folks start to arrive. The bus departs from Copacabana and stops at Tiquina where we take a ferry and continue on our way. The bus ride was pretty smooth-this wasn´t a kambee bus, but a larger charter bus. For most of the way we passed rolling hills with brown grass and tiny pueblos where the people were beginning to till the land. I asked the lady sitting next to me what they would grow and she said beans...I think. Talking Spanish with people with no English background is a little more difficult. The accents, I´ve found, are much thicker, and I guess I´m a bit embarrassed to continue asking que, que diciste, que, no entiendo. Hopefully my ear will become a little more accustomed to the language as time passes. I did make out, however, that nothing will be growing for another month or so. The people are working a bit early in preparation for the big celebration day on August 15-el dia de Pachamama (the earth mother)...At least, I think that´s what she said.

I arrived to La Paz by 5:30 and found the hotel-estrella andina-where I will meet the rest of the group. Only 2 folks had checked in, and I figured they were crashin´from jet lag, so I headed out to check out La Paz. It´s a crazy, hilly place. Very steep hills.

I was walking down a hill and saw a peloqueria. I decided to stop in and get a haircut. Un hombre named Juan cut my hair for 40 bolivianos. He gave me a nice trim and a shave. We were talking and I told him I had a friend in the States who was a stylist and that he had to go to school for 6-12 months. Juan said it was the same here and that he went to school for one year. A reggaeton video was playing on the television and Juan said that was becoming very popular music in Bolivia. I asked him about la musica autentica de Bolivia and, I don´t know the name of it in Spanish, but, it´s the music with the flute thingys. You know, that one. I´ll bring some back home. Juan is a jugador de musica as well. As I departed we exchanged names and we ran into the same problem, if you will, that I did when I lived in Spain some years back. There´s not many words in the Spanish language that end in ´d´, so when I told him my name, Juan replied, el pan-which is bread. I said, no, como el actor Brad Pitt. Ah, Brad, Juan said. When I lived in Spain though I guess he wasn´t quite the world famous person that he is now so many times I just left it as, si, mi nombre es pan. It was the same when I worked at Brothers Pizza with mis amigos mexicanos in the kitchen. They just called me Pan. Reckon there´s worse things to be called.

Tomorrow morning I will meet everyone and we will depart to Sorata for 2 or 3 days for orientation. After, we will head to Oruro where we will work, helping to build residential houses for the people in various communities. Pasas bien!

Adventures in Copacabana...

2007-08-10T10:16:00.000-04:00

August 9, 2007

I woke up around 7 am. It was cold. I was dog tired. But, I had to be by the lakeshore by 8:15 to depart on un barco to the island of the sun – la isla del sol. I would return by 4 or 5 on the same boat. I hurried myself up, skipped a shower, though, it was too cold to get wet and would require too much energy. I packed up my gear and headed downstairs to check out and get a quick breakfast. I stayed at Hotel Utama for 10 US per night, which is actually steep for the area. The most expensive hotel in Copa costs 38 US per night. At the time, however, I was so jet lagged I just wanted a bed and this was the first place I spotted. Breakfast was buenisimo and included so era muy buenisimo. I arrived at the shore by 8:10 and spotted Katerine, my German friend from the day before. She was also headed to la isla, but to a different part of the island and was to stay 2 nights there. I boarded the top of the platform of the barco “Titicaca” along with many other tourists. I think, in fact, there were only tourists aboard. Copacabana is a very touristy location. The last thing I wanted was to be in the midst of a group of gringos hiking, but it all worked out.

The boat ride was 1.5 hours and only covered a portion of the massive Lake Titicaca. The views were magnificent – mini islands popping up everywhere and the grand snow covered Andes in the far background. Our boat ride took us only several hundred feet from Peru as well. The boat was filled with mostly Europeans – some English lads and ladies, a group of private school kids, some Germans, some stinky Frenchmen – and 2 other Americans. One, an undergrad from Duke, whose name I didn’t catch, was working for the summer in Santiago, Chile. The other lad – Bill – was a newly retired linguistic professor from Indiana University. He was originally from the boogie down Bronx, holla! He was a talker though. Very interesting, but a talker. He speaks like 5 languages, had lived in Bulgaria, France, Mali, Russia, and extensively traveled throughout Spanish speaking countries. For the last 5 years he has traveled for 2 months (every 6 months) in 2 Spanish speaking countries. This was his second trip to Bolivia in as many years.

We finally arrived to la isla del sol and there were a couple of options. 1) there was a tour guided hike – NO. 2) you could check out the museum and Incan ruins with a guide – NO. 3) or, you could high tail it on your own on the hiking trails and hope to make it back to the pick up point by 3:45. Now, that’s more like it, I thought. Okay, I didn’t have a real map or a watch, but I figured I’d be miserable with the first two options. It’s cool meetin’ folk, but I dig just hiking solo. You know it’s that time I acquire my deep thoughts. HA! I joke with Jazzy that sometimes my thoughts are so deep you need a life vest so you don’t drown (which is complete rubbish). Here’s one I recently came up with. Hand sanitizer is so great. You can literally blow your nose in your hands and simply apply the sanitizer. You are not only keeping clean, but helping the planet by saving excess paper use. Don’t drown…

I wasn’t sure quite where to go, but I just continued to ask people on the island, “donde esta el paseo a Yumani,” and I was able to find my way. Que bonito paseo. The day was warming up. The cool thing is that even though it’s chilly, you’re so high and closer to the sun that being in the sun warms you up. Yes, Ma, I wore sunscreen. It was a beautiful journey. It took me along the shore for a bit, which had crystal clear water, frigid, yes, but beautiful. The trail then ascended to an area where there were more Incan ruins. It supposedly cost money, but at this point I slowed my roll and joined the large tour group and with them evaded the entry fee. I felt bad about it later though and paid a senorita dressed in traditional Incan garb to take her photo. The ruins were cool, but nothing compared to the scene at Peru’s Machu Picchu, so I have heard. The ruins were of an old ancient market overlooking mountains and the lake. There was also a large stone table that was used for various ceremonies, though it’s uncertain what ceremonies exactly. Some claim it was to behead wrongdoers while others claim it was an area to offer a sacrifice to the gods.

One very interesting aspect about Copacabana and the areas surrounding the lake is the religion of the people. Most are Catholic due to the spread of the religion in the 16th century. Supposedly in 1583 un hombre named Tito Yupanqui had a dream that a new belief in God was going to arrive and vuala, a couple of years later the Catholic priests arrived. There’s a huge statue of Yupanqui at the town’s Cathedral and story plates on the door depicting the events of the arrival of Christianity. But, Catholicism really began to flourish when the cathedral elected the Virgen Calandaria as the patron saint. After this, in the early 17th century, there were numerous claims of miraculous happenings. Despite the conversion, however, much of the Incan religious traditions remained in the lake region. It’s a sacred place to many people and la isla del sol is to many Incans the location of the creation story. Incan tradition believes the sun was born there and from that life was. This, however, is not solely an Incan history, it’s an Ayamara history, which is another tribe and is somehow connected to the Incans though I’m not quite sure how. There are other Incan idols in this part as well – the moon, who is married to the sun, and the earth mother Pachamama. There’s somehow a connection between the 2 religions in this region, though it’s not exactly clear as of yet how. It’s very interesting and intriguing, however, to learn more about.

Bueno, pues, vamos. After stopping briefly at the Incan ruins I continued on the trek. It began to get difficult because of the increased altitude. This island is above 4000 m and the air began to get thin. It’s a weird feeling. Your mind says go, but your body says no, not enough O2. I walked at a much slower pace than usual. It was okay though, because the views were spectacular. The view to the Andes was crystal clear. It must have been a view of several hundred miles. I continued along this trail for a good 2 hours and began to get a bit worried when at a stop point a Bolivian senorita selling gloves and such said my destination was another 2.5 hours! I wasn’t expecting this long a hike and didn’t want to miss the boat pick up for I would be stuck on the island por la noche. I was relieved though when minutes later 3 Bostonians passed me and said I had an hour more to walk.

I finally arrived to the beginning of Yumani and a small Bolivian girl comes up to me. “Sacar mi foto, por favor.” This meant take my picture and pay me money. The problem was, though, I didn’t have any change. I told her so and she said, “chachabamba.” I didn’t understand. “Bombo.” I still didn’t get it. “Dulce.” Sweets, oh! I didn’t have any. This conversation was going nowhere. Finally, I went New York on her. I said, all right, chica, I ain’t got no change, no candy, but an American quarter and 2 Mexican pesos with your name written all over it. Esta bien, she said. I took the photo of Gabriela and she was all smiles. I continued through Yumani and ate at a restaurant on a cliff overlooking the beach and the Andes. I made it to the 3:45 boat ride just in time.

On the ride home I sat next to a group of high school English kids who were all adolescent giggles. They raved about Ali G and Monty Python and we talked trash about Bush.

The boat returned to Copa by 5:30. I went back to my hotel to grab my bag to check into a less expensive place. I found a hostel on the main street – 6 de Agosto – for 15 bolivianos, which is 2 US dollars. I was tired, but wanted to stay up a bit. I found this little Bohemian coffee shop and sat down to do some writing and more deep thinking. I think I hurt myself trying to deep think. Don’t try it without a parachute or larium.

The same day

2007-08-10T10:14:00.000-04:00

August 8 continued…

I had the most relaxing sleep when I arrived to Hotel Utama on the north side of Copacabana. I slept till about 3 pm, but it was a dream induced jet lagged rest. I dreamnt that I would wake up at midnight wide awake and then my sleep schedule would be all off. Anyways, I woke a bit refreshed and hungry. It was cold. I was wearing a pair of long johns, a pair of pants, 2 pairs of socks, 3 shirts, and a tobagan. But, I was comfortable. I showered up when I woke and headed to the center of town, which is the street named 6 de Agosto – the day of the Bolivian independence. I exchanged some dollars – approximately 1 dollar is equivalent to 7.8 bolivianos. 25 bolivianos will get you a full meal and 40 bolivianos is sufficient for a night in a hostel.

For a late lunch I ate troucha – trout – at a side street restaurant. Lake Titicaca is full of trout, but before the early 1900s there were no trout in the lake. Some European placed some trout in the lake as an experiment and they just multiplied. The trout was great. After, I bought myself some hand woven Bolivian mittens and headed down to the lakeshore. On the way I stopped at la plaza Sucre where a Reggae band – of all things – was setting up to perform. There were 4 dread heads and a full ensemble – a guitarist, a bassist, 2 trumpeters, a drummer, and some hippie flailers. I never thought I would see a Reggae band in an area filled with indigenous Bolivians of Incan ancestry. They were pretty good. I especially liked their tune – “don’t never wanna work in the workin’ society.” The band, named Manana me chanto, was from all over – a couple of Italians, a Brazilian, an American, and some others.

I escaped the hippies and continued on my way to the shore. I was stopped once more by a girl named Katerine. She is from Germany, but spoke no English. Her Spanish was very good. She asked me how long I planned to stay in Copa and said she was looking for a hiking partner to trek from Copa to Yamaputata – a four hour hike. At Yamaputata you can catch a ferry to la isla del sol, an island on Lake Titicaca filled with Incan ruins. The problem though is that you need about 2 days to do this. I only had 1.5 days in Copa and was a bit tired to trek 4 hours at 13,000 feet. The alternative route is to take a 2 hour ferry from Copa to the island of the sun and spend half a day there to explore. I declined Katerine’s offer, but we talked for a bit. She is very cool. She is in her 2nd year in college in southern Germany, but took a year off to travel with her boyfriend in South America. Her boyfriend is currently studying in Chile and she has lived for 3 months with a family in Santa Cruz, a southeastern city in Bolivia. Before she arrived here she spoke no Spanish, but she now seemed fluent to me. We both agreed that being surrounded by a language is the best way to learn it. We said good bye, mucha suerte, and I walked along the shore.

There were still remnants of the August 6 independence day celebrations – firework wrappers, beer bottles, confetti, some families still parked in their kambees in the shoreline parking lot. The sun was slowly setting – el sol se pone. It was still cold. I took my photos and stopped in at an Americanized coffee spot to sip on mate de cocoa. This wasn’t a Starbucks, but it was close. Inside English rock blarred and the BBC World news was on the tellie. I sat outside and soaked in the mate de cocoa. It’s basically a pill of leaves from the cocoa plant and hot water. The cocoa plant in Bolivia is an ancient remedy and cooking ingredient, but has also been exploited. In the 70s with the cocaine boom in the States, Bolivian farmers were paid to grow massive amounts of the crop. It was then exported to Colombia where it was produced into cocaine and shipped to the world to use and abuse. These farmers were exploited and only saw a minute portion of the extreme profits made by many. Bolivia got a bad rap for their involvement and trade tariffs were enforced. Most recently the newly elected Evo Morales – the first indigenous president of Bolivia – has encouraged the growing and use of the crop for things outside of the drug world. It seems to make some Americanos shake their heads, but there’s a legitimate need and use for the crop and more importantly it’s a Bolivian cultural tradition. Mate de cocoa is delicious and is a remedy for the high altitudes. But, I don’t think I’ll be bringing any home anytime soon.

I sipped on my tea, wrote a bit, and ran into Katerine once again. We talked a bit more, sharing travel experiences and then invited another patron at the restaurant, who was solo, to join us. Her name was Paula and was a Marlboro Red chain smoking Argentinean actress. Paula had been traveling for 2 weeks all through Bolivia. The more I spoke with them both the more I realized I wished I had more time to explore. Sudamerica will definitely be a future travel spot for me. Paula was discussing how the movie business is all lies (mentiras). She said that there’s been several movies taking place in China and else where, but filmed all in Argentina. She also said that the movie 7 years in Tibet was all filmed in Chile and Peru. I was trying to be funny and told her that she was lying and that that was my favorite movie. I guess my humor, however, was lost in translation, because they both just looked at me like I was crazy. Allright, moving on, I thought, and changed the subject. They were both very cool and it was fun talking with them and practicing Spanish. We said our good byes and I went to my hotel and crashed.

The flight to Bolivia

2007-08-10T10:12:00.000-04:00

August 7 - 8, 2007

When I got to Mexico City it was like déjà vu. Jazzy and I had been there just 2 days earlier flying from Puerto Vallarta to LAX. I flew out of Mexico City from the same gate, in fact, that we waited at to leave just 2 days earlier. I had arrived with a 5-hour layover so I strolled around trying to practice mi espanol. Sometimes I failed miserably, but sometimes I did real well with the language. It was slowly coming back to me. It’s all about practicing and redefining your comfort zones. I spoke with one man, an Argentinean, named Flavian for some minutes before we departed. He offered some interesting information about his country – it boasts the most beautiful women and best beef to eat. Flavian had lived in Houston for two years, but preferred South America. We shared travel stories and laughed at how confusing we both found the language of the 4 Chinese gentlemen sitting in front of us.

On my flight to Peru I slept most of the way, but ran into some interesting individuals as well. First, I sat next to Linda, an American. She stole my seat, but no hard feelings because she gets motion sick. I figured a seat in the middle was better any day than a seat in danger of vomit. Linda works as a ski resort international employee recruiter. Yeah, I was like, what, too. She works at a resort somewhere in Park Slope (?), Utah that hires students from all over the world to work there. She basically gets paid to travel around the world to interview potential candidates. Over the next 3-4 weeks she will recruit in Peru, Argentina, Australia, and South Africa. I told her I wasn’t crazy about skiing, but I would dig her job. Sounds pretty cool.

Anyways, the flight wasn’t full so I was able to move to the more-spacious-but-far-from-first-class-status emergency seats, which my lanky behind needs. There I sat between a Brazilian and a Peruvian. Both were again very interesting and had incredible travel stories. Alfredo, the Brazilian, works for a medical equipment company in Brazil. There wasn’t a place I could mention – except the Philippines – that he hadn’t traveled to. He had even spent some time in Windhoek, the capital city of Namibia. He said he was getting tired of traveling, however. He just got married and hadn’t even had time to honeymoon. I asked him where he thought they would go and he said his wifey wanted to go to Orlando. I was like, Orlando? All the places in the world, and Orlando? Whatever floats your boat. Funny though, Alfredo boasted that Brazil had the best beef and the most beautiful women in the world.

Eduardo, the Peruvian to my right, is in charge of sales for a wireless telecommunications company based in Peru. He also had extensive traveling experiences. He most recently visited Israel. I had a more difficult time understanding his accent, so part of the conversation was a little shady for me. However, he reiterated how peaceful and beautiful the place was (the places in Israel he traveled that is). This paints a very different picture than what is often heard on the news in the States.

I finally made it to Peru, but my traveling via avion wasn’t quite finished. I had another 2-hour flight from Lima to La Paz, the capital of Bolivia. We arrived in Lima around 11:30 and my flight left at about 12:30. At this point I was feeling the jet lag. I had no idea what time it was or what day for that matter. Waiting for the flight I ran into a Bostonian. His name was Greg and is a special education teacher. He’s been teaching for about 7 years and him and his wife have taken muchas oportunidades to travel. He was headed to La Paz to chill for a couple of days to get used to the altitude (about 13,000 feet) then head back to Peru to climb some mountain that stands at 18,000 feet. His wife was going to meet him afterwards and they would travel a bit through Peru.

I finally made it to La Paz at about 3 am. I wasn’t set on any one plan. I wanted to get to Copacabana and tour Lake Titicaca, but I was exhausted as well. And, it was cold. It didn’t help that it was 3 in the morning, but I figured it would somehow work out (and it did). I befriended a Bolivian who is now living in San Diego. He was going to wait at the airport for an hour or so and then check into a hotel. He was traveling back to visit some of his family in the northern region of the country. I told him I had wanted to catch an early bus to Copacabana, but wasn’t quite sure how to do that. There was only one taxi remaining so we decided to split the fair and he would make sure to help me get to the bus station. We reached the station, which was just the corner of a street, and there were already some folks waiting to go. We were traveling via kambee buses, which aren’t full buses, more like a version of the VW buses. These buses were the method of travel in Namibia, so I felt right at home.

Now it was about 4 am and we departed. We drove through La Paz, stopping at various street corners to pick up more customers. It was cold. We drove for about 2.5 hours. I fell asleep. When I awoke to my left was a picturesque view of a lake coastline, the Andes Mountains in the distance, and the sun slowly rising. It was beautiful. The kambee ride stopped in Tiquina. At this point I had to take a motorboat across a portion of the lake. It cost 1.50 bolivianos (about 0.20 US). It was cold. When we reached the other side I hitched an ascending taxi ride to the top of a mountain and then down to the lakeshore town of Copacabana. Finally, I made it. I was poop tired. I found the first hostel I could and crashed. It was about 8:00 am. I had been traveling just over 24 hours. I slept till 3 in the afternoon…

July 30 hasta 6 de Agosto

2007-08-10T10:11:00.000-04:00

I flew into Los Angeles on the night of July 30 from Raleigh, NC. On the 31st Jasmeen took me to Camelot grounds, which is a huge arcade plaza. We played putt-putt and laser tag. I waxed her at both games. She might tell you a different story, but that’s the truth ;( That night we went to Medieval Times, which was cool. You wear a crown and watch knights joust and sling crazy weapons at each other. You also get to eat with your bare hands which is nice, doin’ it Medieval style.

On the first we flew to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. We stayed there until the 5th. Puerto Vallarta is a beautiful beach town, though a bit touristy. There are huge mountains surrounding the ocean waters and plenty of Pina Coladas to be found. The waves weren’t too spectacular, but apparently just some miles south of the city there are great waves for surfing. We spent a lot of time just relaxing at the beach, drinking pina coladas and Mexican snow-cones (kinda like a white Russian with a little pizzaz), and eating a lot of tacos. At night the hotel where we stayed offered entertainment shows. One night they had a Broadway show performance, another night there was a Disney show, and then they also had a discoteca as well. Jazzy made fun of my dance moves and I have to admit that’s not the first time that’s happened. We ran into a wedding party group from Calgary and chilled with them. I asked how they could afford to invite 85 people to a weeklong wedding in Mexico, but he said it was actually a lot cheaper. Apparently they invited people and were like if you can pay for it we’ll see you there. He said that the costs for an 85 person wedding party in the States or in Canada would be much more expensive. Sounds like a cool idea. At the beach there were a lot of vendors selling t-shirts, hats, silver, beach toys, women’s sarongs, and more silver. The vendors, wearing white, would walk the beach and ask and ask and ask if you wanted to just look at what they were selling. One senor said, “just give me one Mexican second.” I was like, what’s a Mexican second, and he replied, “like two minutes.” Puerto Vallarta was great!

The day after we returned Jazzy’s family had a party – Long Beach style. It was a blast. A whole lot of eatin’, listenin’ to music, playin’ cards with her 4 year old cousin Jameel – he beat me at a mixed up version of Old Maid, and just enjoyin’ chattin’ with folks. I was sad to leave, but excited to check out Bolivia.

Kuku Mndakola

2007-07-30T10:22:00.000-04:00

Mndakola entered the small hut mumbling to herself as she often did. She was usually making some fuss about the laziness of her grandkids or about all the work that needed to be done. This time she was mentioning something about the flowers she was bringing to Nelago – their size, colors, or smell. Nelago didn’t hear what she was saying, she only acknowledged the noise. She opened her eyes and watched her grandmother bending her back to enter the reed-roofed short hut. She was in her sixties but could bend over and reach anything on the ground with the livliness and flexibility of a twenty-year old. She was indeed strong, as her name told. But, Nelago didn’t think of these things. Her grandmother’s movements and actions were as normal to her as the setting sun; a world without either didn’t seem real.
Mndakola shut the small wooden door so that the chickens wouldn’t enter. Then she turned and looked along the floor of the hut. She began sweeping the dusty and sandy ground around Nelago with a bundle of long stick grass used as a broom. She was careful not to disturb her sick child and didn’t look to her face. Mndakola never felt Nelago’s wondering brown eyes watching her. After she finished sweeping she laid the handful of white and pink petal flowers around the reed mat. She gathered them from the assortment that grew along the outside walls and passages of the sandy and dusty floors of their homestead. Nelago loved those wildflowers, especially during the rainy season. They bloomed at everyone’s feet, for all to see.
She spread the flowers and knelt on the floor just by Nelago’s head. She didn’t touch or caress her with her hands, but her eyes held the child’s body to warm and protect it. Nelago felt that security of her grandmother’s eyes that were piercing, but loving. Mndakola was unlike her grandmother Kaino, who always had the most charming smile on her face and unlike her grandmother Eva who had a large deep voice to go with her wide face and warm hands. They were sisters and shared a common love for their families although they each expressed it uniquely.
Nelago often looked into her grandmother’s eyes timidly and frightfully. Mndakola had a hard face; an especially hard one for little children to look to. Nelago seldom blinked. Her arms were crossed about her chest and goose bumps rose about her body. Now she was cold. Mndakola began to speak in her sharp, fast tone.
“Nelago, oya ku leka ongolohi ya zi ko?” did they bite you last night
“Eee, Kuk.” yes, grandmother
“Tate Kulu ote ya ngashigaye na omeya.” grandfather is coming now with water
“Kuk, ondi uvite talala.” grandmother, i feel cold
Nelago was shivering. Her arms and legs were slightly shaking. She wore a waist dress, knitted by her Grandmother Hilema, that fell to her shins. Mndakola stood and grabbed the wildebeest fur that hung from the thatched roof, and placed it over her cold granddaughter.

Back in the day...

2007-07-21T07:44:00.000-04:00

This past Monday I traveled back to Virginia Tech. This was the first time I had been there since I graduated 5 years ago. Tech’s football program really came alive in the years that I attended school there. Michael Vick, who was on Thursday indicted by a grand jury on charges dealing with pit-bull fighting, put Tech on the national sports scene map. (Tech has had a great football team since before the Bruce Smith days, but it wasn’t until Vick arrived that the school received nationwide attention for the wins at Lane stadium) It was an exciting and wild time to be in Blacksburg. I always had bragging rights with high school friends about my school’s football team. Tech at that time seemed to be everyone’s favorite and the bandwagon got bigger and bigger.

I wasn’t at all surprised when upon returning to Blacksburg I found myself getting lost. When I graduated expansion had already started to explode. Many of the old streets and roads are filled with new and newly renovated shopping centers and businesses. Blacksburg now even boasts a Starbucks coffee. (I can’t seem to escape the high priced medium Mocha latte) New campus buildings have gone up everywhere with the same patented Hokie stone. While I was on campus, however, it took me over thirty minutes to find the English department. It had apparently moved a couple of times and in my pursuit I only ran into science students who quickly replied that they had no idea where the English department was and hoped that it was the furthest thing from them. I snickered. English majors get no love, especially at a technological school.

Much of the intrigue, anxiousness, and excitement I felt about returning to Tech was, sadly, in regards to the massacre on April 16. A couple of days after the shootings took place and my mind was exhausted from the in-your-face TV coverage and often vulgar New York Post headlines, I decided to talk with some of my students about what happened. One group of high schoolers with whom I spoke was either very distraught or very unaffected. A few students claimed that the incident was a random act that could have happened anywhere and at any school or college in the States. Other students stated the south must be a crazy place since stuff like that never happens in the city. I replied that people are killed, beat up, and//or robbed probably hourly in the city. But, they said, you never hear about massacres in the hood in which one person goes on a shooting rampage, like at Tech. Those students claimed that violent crime in their neighborhood was often territorial and isolated. They even said much or most of the violence is based on gang interactions and gang affiliation.

(Being a part of a group is very essential to a teen’s existence. ET – also known as entertainment – groups have been the “in” thing this past academic school year. Students choose a gang to affiliate with, but not to be an official member. That means that student may wear beaded necklaces which are a certain color that is associated to that gang. ET groups may also attend gang parties or events without still being in the gang itself. ET groups also often give props to these gangs on their infamous MySpace page. The danger with the ET groups is that there’s that thin line that divides just hangin’ out with someone and being associated with for what he/she stands. Also, the ET groups seem like a mere stepping-stone to becoming a gang member. This whole phenomenon just proves how group affiliation is essential to a teen’s survival and existence.)

Now, moving back to the topic of the incident at Tech and my students’ reflections. With the last point the students made about violence being related to gang action, I asked how many of them felt safe in their neighborhoods. Some said yes. Some said no. So, I said, isn’t that a form of violence in itself? Violence is not just physical abuse, it can also be the feeling of being threatened as well. Do gangs and gang affiliation groups create a sense of belonging I asked? Absolutely. But, I said if it is at the expense of someone else’s sense of safety is that fair? I was trying to challenge their belief that ET groups were merely harmless and for fun. I don’t have the answer I said. I just wanted them to challenge what they think they know to find the truth for them. I asked them about their expectations for college in regards to safety. They said it should be a safe place. What does that mean? They were painting beautiful pictures of campuses filled with green grass and open lawns, romantic school buildings, a diverse student body. Sound familiar? Do you think Tech was safe? No way, they said. How can a dude enter campus like that and nobody say nothin’? So, is any place completely safe? No, they said. Was this going where I thought it was gonna go, I thought? Often it doesn’t, but you just keep at it.

I also spoke with a group of middle school students about the massacre. This lesson just reaffirmed for me the differences in their age groups. As I was introducing how our discussion would take place Mary was trying to get Leonela’s attention to ask her how her hair looked. Emily interrupted me every 3 seconds to ask another question. Marlon and Luis were silently gigglin’ about somebody lettin’ one rip in the corner, and Josh was doodling on his notebook, which I had asked him not to do at least 5 million times in April alone. Oh, boy, I thought. Where would this go? I felt myself getting very frustrated. I went to this school where this terrible tragedy took place, it’s all over the news, can’t these kids have a little decency, I thought, and just take it seriously, for once. My thoughts spiraled like that for a good ten minutes. My approach, looking back at this, was to dictate to them how I wanted them to feel and think about what happened. That’s not realistic teaching. It’s easy to look back at this and realize. Teaching is not dictating, it’s bringing the kiddies to the water to let them figure out how to drink. My emotions for what happened got the best of me.

And what emotions are those? My Dad and I ate Italian subs at a new restaurant on Main Street, just below the bar that I worked at during my junior and senior year at Tech. It was raining. It was a bit chilly. I was thinking about what Tech clothing apparel I would buy for Ma and Jazzy, and then it hit me: the in-your-face TV coverage and grotesque photos from the Post. The first of the shootings occurred at the same dormitory where I spent time hanging out and sneaking in booze my freshman year. The shooter’s dorm room was in the same building that I lived in during my sophomore year. The location of the remaining shootings was in the same building that I sat through English and Spanish classes just 5 years ago. It was still raining. Later in the day the sun came out and shined. It was muggy. I fondly remember a day during my senior year in which I went to class in the morning wearing shorts and a short sleeve shirt. It was blazing hot for April. After my class the sky became mysteriously dark and the wind began to blow. I entered another class. An hour later I returned outside to an inch of snow on the ground and pouring snowflakes from the sky. I think something like 6 inches fell. Some things you can’t explain. I feel for and pray for the victims and the victims’ families. I feel for and pray for the shooter – who is also a victim – and his family. I hope and pray that my kids and our society can find some kind of peace with our unpredictable and mysteriously beautiful world. GO HOKIES!!!!!

Your machete is no match for my bird seed!

2007-07-19T16:10:00.000-04:00

Thistles, thistles, thistles. Scientifically known as Carduus repandus: my new arch nemesis. And, if you have to cut them, they will be yours as well. They stand between 3 and 5 feet tall. They are prickly little devils. They are quite possibly indigenous weeds to Grayson County, VA, which is located in Southwestern Virginia, but they are definitely hereditarily pains in the arse.

To many, thistles are harmless: they are merely bird seed. That’s right. If you have a pet bird at your crib, you will buy it seeds to eat. Those seeds are most likely from the thistle plant. But, to cattle farmers all over the east coast thistles are bad news. Weeds can and will take over a whole entire field or pasture if you allow it. That means less grass for your cattle. Thistle weeds are biennial weeds, meaning they live only two years. One would think, well, okay I just have to cut them one time, but oh contrare. You see, once a thistle has grown throughout the summer it burgeons a beautiful purple flower. Once the flower petals dry up, however, they are easily blown with the wind through the air. And wherever they land is where you will have yourself another thistle plant for two years. This is an on-going, year-in year-out cycle unless you can cut the thistle before they bloom. (Enter: me)

For the past week or so I’ve been on the hunt for thistle: just me and my machete. My enthusiasm for cutting thistles seems to dwindle as the number of days on the hunt increases. As I cut one there’s another just laughin’ at me and tauntin’ me. Bad weed, bad weed.

Warning to all reading thistles: I will judo-chop you with my machete!!!!

Oku na uupsya...

2007-07-19T16:03:00.000-04:00

Mundjego was certain she was dead. He couldn’t see how she could’ve survived. He entered the small stick hut to find her laying atop the reed mat, not moving. Her eyes were closed. Yesterday’s sweat that had covered her forehead and face had dried. Her skin smelled of salt. She was dehydrated. Mundjego just stood in the doorway staring at Nelago. She was so young. She would’ve married in two or three years, many moons, Mundjego thought, to one of the neighboring boys – maybe Pokolo or Shigwedha or even her cousin Zulu, with the white spot, the spot of Kalunga, on the top of his head.
It had been five days since she had been outside in the open air. Her condition worsened each day. Every time Mundjego or Mndakola would take her water to drink to try to cool off her sweltering body. The other kids were not allowed to see her. Even Ongula and Kauko, who were both in their twenties were told to stay away from Nelago in the stick hut.
Mundjego saw her closed eyelid twitch. He looked closer and noticed her small chest, not yet breasts, gently and slowly rise and fall.
“Nelago. Nelago owa kotha?” are you sleeping?
No response. Either she didn’t hear her grandfather or her mind told her body not to move; his voice was the cacophony of her unconsciousness.
“Nelago. Nelago. Nelago, penduka akwetu. Owa kotha?” Nelago, wake up love. are you sleeping?
She moved her head, and his body loosened. He was relieved. In her waking her eyelids fluttered. Her eyelashes were long, so long that Mundjego wondered if she could feel the tips brush her upper cheekbone. The fluttered like the wings of butterflies.
Nelago turned her head and slowly opened her eyes. She showed no emotion. She wasn’t up for showing emotion and couldn’t. Mundjego saw this despair. His face was ice cold as always. His face was thin and his cheekbones were high and well-defined almost like a skeleton.
“Nelago.”
“Kuk.” grandfather.
“Owu li huepo?” are you better?
“Oku na uupsya Kuk.” it’s hot grandfather.
Her eyes were half shut and her voice was soft. Mundjego only stood in the doorway as before, not moving.
“Owa hala okalepe nomeya?” do you want a cloth with water?
“Eee.” yes.
“Ngiini?” what?
“Ano, Kuk.” yes, grandfather.
And he was gone. She wouldn’t remember his quiet entrance or exit. She only spoke because the rhythm of her mind had been disturbed and her response would bring back the harmony. And the harmony did return when his voice left. After a moment her eyelids shut and she went back to sleep.

Wally-locks and the 3 bears...

2007-07-09T22:32:00.000-04:00

The rains were coming soon. It hadn’t rained in about a week and a half. Mundjego wasn’t worried though. Looking at the sky and listening to the winds at night, he knew it was only a matter of time. The sun had already set, but the skies were lustfully colored. Remnants of the sun’s magnificence were visible well past daylight hours during the summer months. The bottom half of the sky was a strong, reddish orange. The top half of the sky was a dark and effervescent blue. The deepness of the blue lessened more and more and then transformed into black as the sky soared towards the North Star. A long and bloated cloud interjected the horizons. The cloud started from the north, which was to the left of Mundjego and stretched far to the south, well beyond the sight of the African bush. In many places the puffy cloud exploded and flew into the sky.
Wind began to blow from the north. Mundjego stood watching the cloud and felt the cool breeze on his hot and worn face. He closed his eyes briefly. The rusted axe that he held rested on his shoulder. A small boy passed nearby in the bush of omusati trees. Mundjego couldn’t see whom it was, but wasn’t scared.
“Oto yi peni?” where are you going?
“Kegumbo.” to home
Mundjego heard the voice of a small boy.
“Oh, Haiti! Popitha nawa mati.” oh, what! speak well boy
Pause.
“Wu hala po Kuku.” good afternoon, grandfather
“Ano.” yes, it’s good
“Nawa-nga.” that’s good
“Nawa. Ngoye olye?” fine. who are you?
“Nambala.”
“Nambala…Nambala olye?” Nambala who?
“Nambala Hamutenya.”
“Humba! Nambala Hamutenya. Eowa. Tate omwe li? oh! is your father at home?
“Eee.” yes
“Kundelapo.” greet him
“Eowa, Ku.” okay, grandfather
“Eowa, mati gwandje. Oshi li nawa.” okay, my son. it is good
The boy walked swiftly and quickly as the evening African wind. He had a chore, an errand to run and couldn’t be late. Mundjego turned to go home. His rusted axe was in one hand and the firewood in the other.

Since the 4th of July I’ve been in Charlottesville, Virginia. My sister Charlotte lives there in a beautiful home about 15 miles or so from the center of town. It’s funny though because you (i.e. I) usually equate miles with minutes in automobiles, give or take some. So, you (i.e. I) would think that the town of Charlottesville would be 15 minutes from my sister’s crib. Not so. The urban sprawl makes my mile per minute determinator bogus! It’s more like 45 minutes on a busy day due to the continuous stoplights and shopping centers. On Friday Char had to go to work. She left me her car so I could do a little exploring, but I was to pick her up from work around two. On the way I got lost, of course, so I called her for directions. She was directing me to an area of town and told me to turn near a big shopping area. Hold up, said I. All I had been doing was passing shopping centers.

Eeeeeewwwww! This is more of a shopping center urban sprawl. Do we really need a Target, a Home Depot, a Wal-mart, and a Kmart all on the same strip? Along with shopping centers I also passed several land-for-sale signs. Are big businesses merely buying out the small land owners to profit exponentially? I commend those homeowners who refuse to sell their land to the developers of the already developed America. You see their homes amidst the Tonka bulldozers and trucks, but they’re not selling. I remember as a kid growing up in Raleigh there was this plan to make one of the biggest malls on the east coast. Most of the land had been cleared, except there was a lone driveway surrounded by tall pine trees that led to a small house. The owner refused to sell his land. The plan for the huge mall was somehow disrupted and never went up, though a smaller complex was built. The house was finally destroyed, however. Under what circumstances I am not sure.

Looking at the big picture, this is all for the ease of more consumer expenditures. But, do we really need it? Perhaps, I’m a hypocrite, because I have shopped at this particular mall complex many times. And though I don’t like to admit it, I have frequented Starbucks for the ease of the Internet access and the mochas (that hurts to admit, really). Maybe, the over flux of the big businesses limits our choices, which is why I have gone to those places – or so I would like to rationalize. Maybe it’s the relatively lower prices offered by the Wally worlds and tar-geis that makes them so appealing (this excludes Starbucks however; a medium, or grande as they like to call it, Mocha costs almost 5 bones). So, that means we will buy more for our money. Okay, but do we need it? Although I can possibly rationalize buying cheaper goods there, I certainly can not rationalize with the cheaper wages they offer their employees – minimum wages while el gran jefe de Wal-mart and other execs earn millions upon millions per fiscal year. Sure, building a Wal-mart creates jobs, but is a job worth it if the salary barely assists you in a comfortable and stress-free life? If Wally world really wants to make that case why don’t they offer free daycare opportunities for its employees when working and free health care services for all family members. They could even hire their own Wally world doctors with the signature Wally world smiles and open their own Wally world hospitals so that all of its employees could have equal opportunities at health care. Why not offer a Wally world transportation service so employees could get to and from work in a stress-free and environment friendly way. I certainly am not for this Wally world utopian society, I just think that it’s clear that their supposed reasoning for more development could be more equal to all, rather than one sided to the executives who reap the benefits of the real laborers.

In short: make your own informed decisions about where you shop. It is your prerogative, but we can not, as compassionate humans, forget or neglect to acknowledge that our decisions (and dollars spent) directly affect others. And, keep Charlottesville green, at least that’s what the bears tell me!

Next stop, Grayson County, VA.

NC state fair (via Coney Island)

2007-07-03T13:51:00.000-04:00

What better way to spend a beautiful Saturday (the weekend before the fourth of July) than to experience the North Carolina State Fair…I mean Coney Island. Jasmeen and I headed down to the Brooklyn neighborhood from uptown Manhattan, a subway trek of about an hour or so.

Some of the highlights:

1) the boardwalk – there’s tons of people, tons of opportunities to people watch, lots of music and dancing. Every 100 yards, or so, there’s a different music scene. To the right of the Cyclone, which to me is the major directional reference point of Coney Island, we found a mini salsa club in the sun...

To the left of the Cyclone we found a mini disco, where we found the most interesting and entertaining performer. This dude (60 year white male, still dressed for the disco era) was on point! His moves were impeccable. He was the wooer of all the disco-dancing ladies. They couldn’t resist his suave, his charm, his, well, the picture tells all…

2) shoot the freak – there’s tons of state fair-esque dollar and two-dollar games that can’t be missed. My favorite was shoot the freak. This game is located on the boardwalk just by one of the main boardwalk entrances to the amusement park and ride area. For two dollars you too can shoot the freak, or attempt to. When you pay your two dollars you are given a paint gun, fully loaded. The freak is about 25 yards below you. He is dressed in the usual freak attire – hockey goalie uniform and pimped out gas mask. He moves left, he moves right, he does the Barry shuffle. He’s a quick freak. The game host makes it more interesting by talking trash to you, the shooter, and the freak, saying things like, “come on freak, my granny moves faster than that. Come and shoot the freak, two dollars, shoot the freak.” The crowd is hypnotized. While we were watching, the freak got his coffee break. He took off his freakish attire. He was just a kid. There were crowds of people around us. One girl behind Jazzy and I said to her friends, “he ain’t no freak, he looks Dominican.” Freaky-deaky!

3) the cyclone – you must ride the infamous cyclone if you trek to Coney island. I say infamous because, BYOSC – bring your own seat cushion – it’s a bumpy ride.

4) the food – we ate two dollar tacos from a boardwalk stand and drank $6 fruit smoothies. Wait a second, did I just say $6 fruit smoothies…it is New York. Bring your $6 fruit smoothie money with you when trekking to Coney Island.

5) the pier and the beach – on top of all the roller coaster, game, food, and music madness, there’s more. On the pier you’ll find more music lovers, but mostly fishermen throwing out tyson’s chicken in a cage as bait. Seriously. A whole uncooked chicken leg is placed in a cage and thrown into the Atlantic. We only spotted one small fish catch and one crab catch. Maybe the fishes were looking for hot sauce as well...

White People...

2007-07-02T16:30:00.000-04:00

Last Wednesday (6/27/2007) was the last day of school. Students were full of excitement and anxiousness for the carefree days of the hot, humid climate of NYC. On my block in the Heights, stickball will fill the street blocks along with the cool water being spat from the wide-open fire hydrants. Dominoes will be played by los abuelos and sounds of merengue and bachata will fill the thick air until the early hours of morning. Around 4 or 5 pm folks will head down to the Riverside park and la fiesta will expand, encompassing not only merengue and bachata, but Raggaeton, mariachi and salsa, not only stickball, but el futbol, roller skating, and basketball as well. And yes, more dominoes. Summer’s a wonderful time to be a kid!

One of my fondest and most striking memories of teaching during the last two years in the Bronx comes from last year. I taught Global History I and II to 9th graders. For those of you who don’t know, Global History is usually taught during grades 9 and 10 in the state of New York. It’s a two-year course and at the end of grade 10 students take the Global History state Regents Examination, which is a comprehensive standardized test. Students in New York must pass a certain number of Regents examinations to qualify to earn a diploma. There are two types of high school diplomas. One is the local diploma, which is based on school-wide grades. The other is the Regents diploma, which is based on Regents scores. The Regents diplomas hold more “value” in the eyes of JoCos and four-year universities and colleges.

Global History is an overwhelming subject to teach. The curriculum for Global I and II covers Paleolithic life until the Enlightenment era. That’s a span of about 10,000 years, give or take some. And that is to be covered in ten months. I was advised by teachers and teacher mentors to cover general topics and focus on units that I found most interesting and from those units connect themes to other time periods and eras. I was like, “yeah,” and ended up spending about two months on Ancient Egyptian life. I had a lot of good ideas, but the lack of teaching experience and lack of organization skills slowed my pace. We went in-depth into the lives of the pharaohs and power structures of the dynasties. The kids were able to explain, among other things, how King Akhenatan changed religion for the people of Egyptian times. However, come to find out the Regents examination for that year had one question on Ancient Egyptian life…and it was about identifying the major river of Ancient Egyptian life.

During another unit of study we were analyzing the Roman Empire. We read and studied about how the Empire changed and influenced the world. The kids were kinda into it, but as I have found with teaching (and learning for that matter) in general, it’s sometimes only as interesting and captivating as how it relates to you. This isn’t with every subject, but these are teenagers, and they have quite different motives for studying ancient Roman life than advanced academia scholars. So, I tried to bring it to them. I asked them one day if, in light of how we had defined Empire in terms of the Roman era, they thought the United States was an Empire. Hands down they responded yes.

I asked them to prove it and they brought up Iraq and said that was a clear example of how an Empire works. The majority of my kids believed Bush was in the wrong in changing the Iraqi world with false accusations of weapons of mass destruction. Their response wasn’t a surprise. Neither was their adamant disapproval of Bush. We had discussed this issue previously in class.

I wanted a little more from them, however. I asked them to explain in terms of American life how the United States is an Empire. They responded that it was even more obvious in the land of the free. At this point a few of the more out spoken students took the lead with this debate, which became more of a discussion. The students said that it was an Empire because certain people held the power, the money, the resources, while others lived in their shadow. They gave examples. They said, “look at our neighborhoods and the ones in Manhattan.” They said look at our school with hardly a class set of books and look at the schools in the suburbs. They went on to say that even people behaved differently based on their caste role in the Empire. I asked them to explain. They went on to explain how white people had it made, while blacks and latinos had to work a little harder, “to get theres.” The discussion got more heated. One student called out that white folks were racist. The class cheered and agreed. I said, hold up, I’m white. They said, “mister, you are not white.” I’m pretty white. For those of you who know me, you know how white I am. I’m German-Irish. It don’t get much whiter than that. I asked them to think about what they were saying. Yeah, yeah, they said. They thought about it. They said they didn’t like white people, often thought they were racist, didn’t think they could trust them. But, I wasn’t white, so they said.

My kids trust me. I trust them. I respect them. They are in-tune to their world and to this world. I can’t help but to agree with them on many levels. I don’t think all white folk are racist. But, I do believe they (my kids) are right. We do live in a world where the power structures that be separate the haves from the have nots. It can, in some form or fashion, be traced to race. Is it a malicious separation, not in many cases. But, there has been a conditioned mindset here that has been passed on from generations past. Slavery plagued this nation, as did Jim Crowe. There are still remnants of that past prevalent today. We have to find those and bury them for good.

So, how did it end? I ran out of time teaching. That has been my fatal flaw in the classroom – the dreaded bell. Did I convince them that all white people didn’t selfishly relish in the empirical fortunes of America and that even some were attempting to break down that empirical power structure? Not sure. I’m not a mind reader. Plus, if this white privileged mindset is a product of conditioning and hard to break, it must mean too that the “other” underprivileged, underestimated, and often times ill-respected mindset is a product of conditioning as well and just as hard to break. It is only through the open, sincere, and compassionate dialogue across races, beliefs, opinions, and ethnicities that will break the conditioned mindsets of America. Thoughts?

Numero Uno

2007-06-27T17:54:00.000-04:00

I’ve never done a blog page before. I always thought they were a bit self-gratifying, a little self-righteous, and self-glorifying. I still think they are. But, I have failed miserably at consistently keeping a journal that has ever been of more merit or depth than merely brushing over normal day-to-day occurrences. Perhaps this blog page will be a new motivation to write more productively and with more thought.

Also, when it comes to keeping in touch with people I falter and fail. Hard. Man, I’m bad. I owe apologies to just about every one of my friends at some point or another and many of my family members as well. But now, this blog page at least gives me an alibi. Sorta kinda. Perhaps this blog will be a way of keeping people informed of where I’ll be and how things are going, at least for the summer.

I haven’t had a lot of experience reading personal blogs and I’m not really an Internet surfer – unless it’s about where to travel to next. I have read travel blogs that have been really informative, insightful, and helpful. On a recent trip to the Philippines with Jasmeen we got a lot of inside tips on things to do and how to get around more easily. Travel blogs can be a very valuable travel tool. I reckon I’ve used them enough that it’s time that I add my own two cents for it may be valuable to someone else.

Oh yeah, a new gadget gift, from Jeff and Jodi – dear fam – has motivated me to 1) take pictures and to 2) share those photos. Thanks gang. With that said, blog one is over. Enjoy the summer! I’ll be traveling to Philly, to Charlottesville, to Southwest Virginia, to Raleigh, to Long Beach, to La Paz, to Oruro, among other places. Check out the page when you can and please give feedback if what I write impels you to!

And remember, the REVOLUTION will NOT BE TELEVISED!