When I arrived here at my placement site in September of last year, I watched clocks and calenders a lot. I counted the days to our first all-volunteer retreat. I counted until Christmas. I counted until July when we would travel home. I thought about that first day back and what it would be like. Especially as I was challenged in the early months, I thought about how long the year would be and what things would be like at the end... would I be SO ready to go? Would I be begging to stay? It was almost impossible for me to imagine.
I also watched clocks a lot because the pace of life seemed so different from what I was used to. Everything moved so much slower. (Little did I know that I was in one of the fastest areas of the country and some of my fellow volunteers were experiencing a MUCH more dramatic slow-down!) Getting used to "Just now" was challenging; waiting for what felt like an eternity for a taxi to fill up or having someone walk away saying "I'll be back just now" and then waiting for up to 30 or 45 minutes took a while to get used to. Coming from a culture of now means NOW and "Time is money" it was culture shock and it took me a long time to acclimate.
Slowly but surely, I have come to love this country's pace. I find myself rarely irritated by having to wait. Sometimes I have moments where I really can't believe how much I've changed. Like when I wait over 2 hours for someone to pick me up, for a taxi to leave or for someone to call me and I don't get the least bit irritated. Now, I was a bit abnormal in this respect before I even came to South Africa... I didn't mind traffic too much (especially on a beautiful day! Roll down the windows and turn up the music!) I also didn't mind lines and the grocery store or post office. It is what it is, right?
But South Africa has taught me patience to the EXTREME. Things happen when they happen. People arrive when they arrive. There's no use in freaking out about having to wait for something, because it will do no good. Better to just take out your book (always have a book with you!) and enjoy the day.
I also don't count the days so much. My family is counting for me now. =) They know exactly how many weeks and days (maybe even hours and minutes!) until I step of the plane. For me though, that day will be SO awesome and yet so sad. I'm very, VERY much looking forward to seeing family and friends who I love dearly and miss tremendously. But coming back to the states means leaving this country that has become my home and the friends here that have become my family. It means leaving a place that has taught me so much about independence and interdependence. It means leaving a life that I love and people that I love even more.
This year has not been a "trip" to Africa. This has been a year of my life in an extraordinary country. I have been challenged, I've learned, I've laughed, I've cried and I've grown so much as a person. So, I'm not counting anymore... at least I'm trying not to. I'm embracing each day as an opportunity to love this life, this place and these people. I hope you are doing the same... wherever you are, whoever you are with and whatever you are doing- love the day, love the moment. Life is too unpredictable to not.
Having July 13th on the horizon as the last day at my site is somewhat scary and foreboding because I know much is going to change when this year ends. But it's also a blessing in a way to know how precious these days here are. And I'm loving each one. Each conversation I have becomes precious. Each moment with my friends is one I enjoy and value. I am loving each day and living as though it is my last... are you?
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Monday, May 16, 2011
All while God weeps...
*Disclaimer* I’m fine everyone! Sorry for 2 depressing posts in a row, I promise everything is 100% terrific! =) Just some things I’ve been thinking about recently.
I’ve never really been a big fan of the death penalty. Maybe it was that I saw the movie “The Green Mile” a little too early in my life and the injustice of it all bothered me deeply. Or maybe it’s just because as an excessively philosophical child, I could never wrap my mind around the backwards logic of it all. “You killed someone, so we’re going to kill you to teach everyone that killing is wrong.”
My Dad probably loves me and my siblings more than any father ever loved his child. (Which was embarrassing when we got into highschool and it wasn’t cool to get along with your parents anymore… but he persisted and put up with all of our teenage-ways.) Anyway, I remember him telling my siblings and me that if anybody ever messed with us that he would have no mercy. He would seek the death penalty and if the government failed to deliver, he’d have no problem taking justice into his own hands. Now that’s love.
I recently heard it said that “Anger is the sister of love”. So, when we love someone and their rights are violated, their life is taken from them or they are otherwise damaged, the appropriate response is anger; anger at the situation, anger at the perpetrator and so on. So when my Dad says his anger would rule him if someone were to hurt those he loves, it’s not really an expression of extreme irrationality, but an expression of extreme love.
I watch a lot of Oprah here in South Africa… Not at all something I was expecting would be a part of my life this year, but it is! The other day, she was interviewing a man whose entire family was tortured and killed in their Connecticut home about 4 years ago. He woke up in the hospital as the lone survivor of the incident and had nothing left. Even the home the horrible event had occurred in had been burned. About mid-way through the interview, Oprah clumsily asked about forgiveness and whether or not the man felt the need to forgive the men who did this. The heart-broken man explained that he doesn’t believe the pure essence of evil should be forgiven and that it would be inappropriate to do so. And Oprah replied “I love that answer.”
Sorry Oprah… I don’t love that answer.
In Desmond Tutu’s book “God Has a Dream” he writes of the brutal apartheid system;
“As we listened to accounts of truly monstrous deeds of torture and cruelty, it would have been easy to dismiss the perpetrators as monsters because their deeds were truly monstrous. But we are reminded that God’s love is not cut off from anyone. However diabolical the act, it does not turn the perpetrator into a demon. When we proclaim that someone is subhuman, we not only remove for them the possibility of change and repentance, we also remove from them moral responsibility.” (Page 10-11)
Thus if we refuse to recognize perpetrators of evil as humans… as God’s children who have gone horrifically astray, we release them of their moral responsibility and we release ourselves from the experience of looking at something which is terribly unpleasant and reveals a truth about human nature that we may not want to face. We don’t want to see such evil as being part of us. We don’t want to think that we have the potential to be that.
As we stand in the glow of the Easter season and hear the message that Christ has risen. As we sing “Where is death’s sting? Where, grave, thy victory?” and hear that death has been conquered, are we not conflicted? Are we not confused when we turn on our TVs and see people celebrating death? Not celebrating life. Not celebrating the conquering power of the cross… but celebrating death.
Last week, the news of Osama Bin Laden’s death hit me like a ton of bricks. At the time, I was cut off from regular communication with the outside world. I was in a very rural area of Kwa-Zulu Natal, the Southeast province of South Africa, when a fellow American friend I was with got a call from someone in the states telling us that Bin Laden had been killed… and Americans were in the streets celebrating. From that moment on, we received a barrage of questions from South Africans about why Americans were celebrating. We didn’t know what to say.
I won’t celebrate death. Osama Bin Laden acted in ways that make my stomach turn and my heart sink. To know that one man could create such destruction and could perpetuate such evil is heart-breaking. However, our God is a God of reconciliation and of peace. A God of unity and of love. Our God loves each one of us because we are His own children. I believe that God wept when Bin Laden masterminded plots that killed thousands of innocent people. But I also believe that He wept when Bin Laden, His child, was killed. And now the cycle of hate continues and at least 80 more lives have been lost in Pakistan in an attempt to avenge the death of Bin Laden. When will it end? (http://edition.cnn.com/2011/WORLD/asiapcf/05/12/pakistan.explosions/index.html?hpt=T1)
My Dad would kill for those he loves. But if the situation was such that one of his children killed the other, would he still seek the death penalty for the perpetrating child? One child who he loves so dearly has taken the life of the other who he loved equally as much. He would weep. He would find himself horribly conflicted and in an unnaturally terrible position. This is the state that God finds Himself in. His children are killing each other. They are celebrating the death of their brother. They are dancing in the streets in victory. All while God weeps.
I’ve never really been a big fan of the death penalty. Maybe it was that I saw the movie “The Green Mile” a little too early in my life and the injustice of it all bothered me deeply. Or maybe it’s just because as an excessively philosophical child, I could never wrap my mind around the backwards logic of it all. “You killed someone, so we’re going to kill you to teach everyone that killing is wrong.”
My Dad probably loves me and my siblings more than any father ever loved his child. (Which was embarrassing when we got into highschool and it wasn’t cool to get along with your parents anymore… but he persisted and put up with all of our teenage-ways.) Anyway, I remember him telling my siblings and me that if anybody ever messed with us that he would have no mercy. He would seek the death penalty and if the government failed to deliver, he’d have no problem taking justice into his own hands. Now that’s love.
I recently heard it said that “Anger is the sister of love”. So, when we love someone and their rights are violated, their life is taken from them or they are otherwise damaged, the appropriate response is anger; anger at the situation, anger at the perpetrator and so on. So when my Dad says his anger would rule him if someone were to hurt those he loves, it’s not really an expression of extreme irrationality, but an expression of extreme love.
I watch a lot of Oprah here in South Africa… Not at all something I was expecting would be a part of my life this year, but it is! The other day, she was interviewing a man whose entire family was tortured and killed in their Connecticut home about 4 years ago. He woke up in the hospital as the lone survivor of the incident and had nothing left. Even the home the horrible event had occurred in had been burned. About mid-way through the interview, Oprah clumsily asked about forgiveness and whether or not the man felt the need to forgive the men who did this. The heart-broken man explained that he doesn’t believe the pure essence of evil should be forgiven and that it would be inappropriate to do so. And Oprah replied “I love that answer.”
Sorry Oprah… I don’t love that answer.
In Desmond Tutu’s book “God Has a Dream” he writes of the brutal apartheid system;
“As we listened to accounts of truly monstrous deeds of torture and cruelty, it would have been easy to dismiss the perpetrators as monsters because their deeds were truly monstrous. But we are reminded that God’s love is not cut off from anyone. However diabolical the act, it does not turn the perpetrator into a demon. When we proclaim that someone is subhuman, we not only remove for them the possibility of change and repentance, we also remove from them moral responsibility.” (Page 10-11)
Thus if we refuse to recognize perpetrators of evil as humans… as God’s children who have gone horrifically astray, we release them of their moral responsibility and we release ourselves from the experience of looking at something which is terribly unpleasant and reveals a truth about human nature that we may not want to face. We don’t want to see such evil as being part of us. We don’t want to think that we have the potential to be that.
As we stand in the glow of the Easter season and hear the message that Christ has risen. As we sing “Where is death’s sting? Where, grave, thy victory?” and hear that death has been conquered, are we not conflicted? Are we not confused when we turn on our TVs and see people celebrating death? Not celebrating life. Not celebrating the conquering power of the cross… but celebrating death.
Last week, the news of Osama Bin Laden’s death hit me like a ton of bricks. At the time, I was cut off from regular communication with the outside world. I was in a very rural area of Kwa-Zulu Natal, the Southeast province of South Africa, when a fellow American friend I was with got a call from someone in the states telling us that Bin Laden had been killed… and Americans were in the streets celebrating. From that moment on, we received a barrage of questions from South Africans about why Americans were celebrating. We didn’t know what to say.
I won’t celebrate death. Osama Bin Laden acted in ways that make my stomach turn and my heart sink. To know that one man could create such destruction and could perpetuate such evil is heart-breaking. However, our God is a God of reconciliation and of peace. A God of unity and of love. Our God loves each one of us because we are His own children. I believe that God wept when Bin Laden masterminded plots that killed thousands of innocent people. But I also believe that He wept when Bin Laden, His child, was killed. And now the cycle of hate continues and at least 80 more lives have been lost in Pakistan in an attempt to avenge the death of Bin Laden. When will it end? (http://edition.cnn.com/2011/WORLD/asiapcf/05/12/pakistan.explosions/index.html?hpt=T1)
My Dad would kill for those he loves. But if the situation was such that one of his children killed the other, would he still seek the death penalty for the perpetrating child? One child who he loves so dearly has taken the life of the other who he loved equally as much. He would weep. He would find himself horribly conflicted and in an unnaturally terrible position. This is the state that God finds Himself in. His children are killing each other. They are celebrating the death of their brother. They are dancing in the streets in victory. All while God weeps.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Tears and dancing
I stand in a sea of South Africans. We are singing. Men have lined up in front of us and about 10 of them have picked up shovels working their way through a pile of dirt about 6 feet high. The orange sand is slowly filling the large rectangular hole in the ground at their feet. As I stare at the pile slowly diminishing, I start to cry. It’s an eerie scene as our sea of people merges with a sea just to our left… fellow mourners, also singing and watching men from their group fill another 6 foot deep hole just 2 graves away. The men are shoveling with such force and fury that I can’t help but see the anger that they must be feeling. Some men have to be forced to relinquish their shovels so another man in the group can take his turn. In just 10 or 15 minutes, both graves are filled and the excess dirt is piled in a mound over where the coffin lays 6 feet under.
When both graves are filled, the singing is stopped. One pastor speaks to both groups in a language I can’t understand. Then, our group has a spokesman who says some final words about the deceased… again addressing both groups. The other group does the same- their spokesman also talking to the entire crowd. Finally, a pastor gives the benediction to all assembled “The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit, be with you all. Amen.” And we all depart.
I’ve never seen a graveside service like this. In my experiences in the states, it’s usually a very private time. Not everyone who went to the funeral would go to the graveside… it seems like a more private time for family and friends. The family is front and center and usually has front row seats. Also, if there is another funeral going on in the cemetery, it’s usually at least several rows away and the family is given their own personal bubble. I also know people who don’t like seeing the casket being lowered into the ground at the end of the service because it’s so physically final.
However, in this case, the first order of business was the burial. Mourners were the ones filling the grave. The family was set back from the grave and probably could see very little of what was happening. We combined with the group next to us and as we left, there was a row of open graves waiting to be filled later that day.
How have I lived here in South Africa for so long without experiencing a funeral? Perhaps I have been fortunate. Death is a significant part of life here… something that is experienced often. Additionally, I suspect that because of the anti-apartheid struggle and the HIV/Aids pandemic, the death of young people is also a rather familiar and frequent occurrence.
Perhaps it was a fortunate thing that I was able to live here for so long without attending a funeral. However, I felt I was at a huge disadvantage on Good Friday when I experienced what felt like a huge dose of culture shock as people danced and sang in celebration on a day that has always felt like the ultimate funeral to me. I have memories of Good Friday being somber, mournful, dark and quiet. However, as I went to church for the entire day on Good Friday, it was a day of celebration! People were dancing in the aisles of the church, singing, playing instruments and to me it just didn’t feel right!
After attending this funeral over the weekend, I understand a little better what was happening on Good Friday. At the funeral itself, there was a lot of dancing and singing and it was far less depressing than funerals I’ve been to in the states. The man who died was rather young and left a large family. Yet people were there to celebrate his life and rejoice in God’s promises for making us whole despite the brokenness and injustice of this world.
Why these differences? Why do we as Americans cry so much at our funerals? Why don’t we like seeing the grave being filled? Why do we like our graveside experience to be so private and closed off? Perhaps it is because death is such a significant part of life in this culture and people are less afraid of it. Perhaps it is because the entire culture is more focused on community and death is understood as being a part of our human condition.
I’m not sure what it is exactly. All I know is that as tears fell from my eyes at the grave of a man I had never met, I looked around me and saw the sea of South Africans dancing and singing… this man’s friends, family and co-workers. I saw a range of emotions; joy, anger, numbness. But above all else, I saw a community. Some were strangers, some friends, and some would never see each other again. But all were united in the understanding that death affects us all and is part of our experience as humans. And in response to that reality, we stood among the graves dancing together.
When both graves are filled, the singing is stopped. One pastor speaks to both groups in a language I can’t understand. Then, our group has a spokesman who says some final words about the deceased… again addressing both groups. The other group does the same- their spokesman also talking to the entire crowd. Finally, a pastor gives the benediction to all assembled “The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit, be with you all. Amen.” And we all depart.
I’ve never seen a graveside service like this. In my experiences in the states, it’s usually a very private time. Not everyone who went to the funeral would go to the graveside… it seems like a more private time for family and friends. The family is front and center and usually has front row seats. Also, if there is another funeral going on in the cemetery, it’s usually at least several rows away and the family is given their own personal bubble. I also know people who don’t like seeing the casket being lowered into the ground at the end of the service because it’s so physically final.
However, in this case, the first order of business was the burial. Mourners were the ones filling the grave. The family was set back from the grave and probably could see very little of what was happening. We combined with the group next to us and as we left, there was a row of open graves waiting to be filled later that day.
How have I lived here in South Africa for so long without experiencing a funeral? Perhaps I have been fortunate. Death is a significant part of life here… something that is experienced often. Additionally, I suspect that because of the anti-apartheid struggle and the HIV/Aids pandemic, the death of young people is also a rather familiar and frequent occurrence.
Perhaps it was a fortunate thing that I was able to live here for so long without attending a funeral. However, I felt I was at a huge disadvantage on Good Friday when I experienced what felt like a huge dose of culture shock as people danced and sang in celebration on a day that has always felt like the ultimate funeral to me. I have memories of Good Friday being somber, mournful, dark and quiet. However, as I went to church for the entire day on Good Friday, it was a day of celebration! People were dancing in the aisles of the church, singing, playing instruments and to me it just didn’t feel right!
After attending this funeral over the weekend, I understand a little better what was happening on Good Friday. At the funeral itself, there was a lot of dancing and singing and it was far less depressing than funerals I’ve been to in the states. The man who died was rather young and left a large family. Yet people were there to celebrate his life and rejoice in God’s promises for making us whole despite the brokenness and injustice of this world.
Why these differences? Why do we as Americans cry so much at our funerals? Why don’t we like seeing the grave being filled? Why do we like our graveside experience to be so private and closed off? Perhaps it is because death is such a significant part of life in this culture and people are less afraid of it. Perhaps it is because the entire culture is more focused on community and death is understood as being a part of our human condition.
I’m not sure what it is exactly. All I know is that as tears fell from my eyes at the grave of a man I had never met, I looked around me and saw the sea of South Africans dancing and singing… this man’s friends, family and co-workers. I saw a range of emotions; joy, anger, numbness. But above all else, I saw a community. Some were strangers, some friends, and some would never see each other again. But all were united in the understanding that death affects us all and is part of our experience as humans. And in response to that reality, we stood among the graves dancing together.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
What it means to be white
Never before coming here to South Africa did I really have to think about what it means to be white. Sure, I had a few friends in grade school who could be considered “students of color” and in college, I was constantly frustrated by the homogeneous nature of our college’s campus (rated the 7th most homogeneous school in the country, in fact). But beyond that… beyond dreaming up ways to include the minority or to celebrate diversity I never was forced to think about my race and what it meant to be white in this world.
I recently shared this observation and experience with a group of black South African youth at a parish I was visiting for the weekend. We had been talking about the differences between my experiences at home and my experiences here and I told them that never before had I been a racial minority. I had never had to think about my race so much. I had no idea what kind of reaction I was about to get. Jaws dropped and I was asked “Really?” about 10 times. It was unfathomable to these young people between 14 and 25 that I had never really thought about being white.
Here, race has the potential to be discussed nearly anywhere; with secular conferencing groups at the center where I stay, on taxis with people who are curious about who I am, and even on street corners with people who claim they have never seen an “mlungu” (white person) around here before. While this can occasionally be suffocating, most days I find it very refreshing. It’s nice to be able to talk to people openly about the issues of race in South Africa and the world.
Most people, when they find me in a place they don’t typically see white people, begin fishing for the thing that makes me different. Usually, I’m initially asked if I’m lost or if I need help getting somewhere. Then I’m asked where I live, what work I do, etc. Finally, they get to what they are looking for; I’m a foreigner. To them, they have figured it out… because according to their understanding, South African white citizens would never venture into such places; into townships, on taxis etc.
Unfortunately, I have in some ways fallen into this rhythm; this way of thinking. I expect white South Africans to cringe when I say I am taking a taxi to Kempton Park by myself. “Aren’t you afraid?” I am asked, “Have you ever had a problem?” To which I reply that I am not afraid, I’ve never had a problem and actually, I quite enjoy taking taxis. In some ways, I like defying their expectations and showing them a truth some have never seen before. I like being different.
I was beginning to feel comfortable, special and like I was breaking down barriers, when just then- I was hit squarely in the face with the reality of my own racism; my racism towards white people. Some might want to call it reverse racism... but this is a term I refuse to use. Racism is racism. The pre-judgment of another person based solely on their skin color.
At the arts school where I have been volunteering with music instruction, I went to talk to Mr. Kok, one of the few white teachers at the school who teaches vocal lessons. I knew he was a good man from several conversations we had had about the school, the students and how much he enjoyed his job there. However, I was skeptical and very curious about his past… how did such a skilled, experienced, white musician come to be teaching students from townships in Eastern Johannesburg how to sing? Our conversation started on his topic of research, music education. He wanted to know about our system of study in the states. So, I shared with him what little I knew about music education from my experiences in college and then somehow we ended up on a tangent about his education and experiences with music programs at township schools. He told me stories that nearly made me cry; about gunfire he nearly got caught in during the anti-apartheid uprising, death threats he received because of going on tour with his choir, even being held hostage with other teachers. He has been teaching primarily in black schools for more that 25 years. When I asked him bluntly to tell me what he thought made him different or what shaped his ideas about race, he replied with another story about a black domestic worker with whom he had grown up and as a child had learned to respect as his own mother. He then continued, “I’ve just always looked at people regardless of color, age, whatever as children of God.”
It was at this moment that I realized that this man was truly breaking down barriers and was shining as a true beacon of hope and truth. By living his life in a way that honored each and every person regardless of their situation and not doing it to feel special or different, Mr. Kok has bridged major gaps and his accomplishments are only possible because of great amounts of love. I’m reminded of the verses from 1 Corinthians that are always read at weddings, “Love is patient, love is kind.” But perhaps more importantly “Love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrong-doing but rejoices with the truth.”
How many times do we boast in the name of “love”? How often are we insistent on having things our way and end up acting arrogantly to pave the way for “love”? For me, feeling like I was breaking down barriers was more about my own validation that I was making a difference than it was about truly loving people. It was more about me being a “different kind of white person” than it was about building relationships with all people. Have I been loving white South Africans in the same way I have been loving black South Africans? I cannot say I have. I often feel uncomfortable with white South Africans. I feel judgmental and I feel judged. I feel like I need to be different and prove to the strangers around me that I’m different. But this is not what we are called to as Christians.
When I think about what would be the Christ-like way to handle this situation, I think of the Pharisees. People who Jesus had little desire to take after. Jesus, as a religious leader was probably grouped with them during his early ministry. (However, one would only have to stick around for a minute or two to see that he was actually, radically different!) How did Christ set himself apart and point out the flaws in their perspective while still genuinely loving them and guiding them? I believe it’s probably impossible for us to do this as successfully as Christ did, but I’m reminded of a part in the liturgy here that I have come to love (when I hear it in English of course). This line in the liturgy states that we worship, we love, we confess “not as we ought, but as we are able.”
We must do our best to love others as we are able, even if we will fall short. We must truly and genuinely love those who we disagree with and those whose perspectives we believe are flawed. We must stand for what we believe in while simultaneously loving those who stand against us. And we must not assume we know what people stand for because of how they look. We must always put unity ahead of our own desires to feel different. This doesn’t mean becoming apathetic in an effort to keep the peace, but it means making love the top priority and the number one goal in all interactions.
I’m still learning what it means to be white. But even more importantly, I’m learning what it means to be a follower of Christ.
This blog entry was written for the ELCA MUD3 blog, which can be viewed at: http://elcamud.blogspot.com/
I recently shared this observation and experience with a group of black South African youth at a parish I was visiting for the weekend. We had been talking about the differences between my experiences at home and my experiences here and I told them that never before had I been a racial minority. I had never had to think about my race so much. I had no idea what kind of reaction I was about to get. Jaws dropped and I was asked “Really?” about 10 times. It was unfathomable to these young people between 14 and 25 that I had never really thought about being white.
Here, race has the potential to be discussed nearly anywhere; with secular conferencing groups at the center where I stay, on taxis with people who are curious about who I am, and even on street corners with people who claim they have never seen an “mlungu” (white person) around here before. While this can occasionally be suffocating, most days I find it very refreshing. It’s nice to be able to talk to people openly about the issues of race in South Africa and the world.
Most people, when they find me in a place they don’t typically see white people, begin fishing for the thing that makes me different. Usually, I’m initially asked if I’m lost or if I need help getting somewhere. Then I’m asked where I live, what work I do, etc. Finally, they get to what they are looking for; I’m a foreigner. To them, they have figured it out… because according to their understanding, South African white citizens would never venture into such places; into townships, on taxis etc.
Unfortunately, I have in some ways fallen into this rhythm; this way of thinking. I expect white South Africans to cringe when I say I am taking a taxi to Kempton Park by myself. “Aren’t you afraid?” I am asked, “Have you ever had a problem?” To which I reply that I am not afraid, I’ve never had a problem and actually, I quite enjoy taking taxis. In some ways, I like defying their expectations and showing them a truth some have never seen before. I like being different.
I was beginning to feel comfortable, special and like I was breaking down barriers, when just then- I was hit squarely in the face with the reality of my own racism; my racism towards white people. Some might want to call it reverse racism... but this is a term I refuse to use. Racism is racism. The pre-judgment of another person based solely on their skin color.
At the arts school where I have been volunteering with music instruction, I went to talk to Mr. Kok, one of the few white teachers at the school who teaches vocal lessons. I knew he was a good man from several conversations we had had about the school, the students and how much he enjoyed his job there. However, I was skeptical and very curious about his past… how did such a skilled, experienced, white musician come to be teaching students from townships in Eastern Johannesburg how to sing? Our conversation started on his topic of research, music education. He wanted to know about our system of study in the states. So, I shared with him what little I knew about music education from my experiences in college and then somehow we ended up on a tangent about his education and experiences with music programs at township schools. He told me stories that nearly made me cry; about gunfire he nearly got caught in during the anti-apartheid uprising, death threats he received because of going on tour with his choir, even being held hostage with other teachers. He has been teaching primarily in black schools for more that 25 years. When I asked him bluntly to tell me what he thought made him different or what shaped his ideas about race, he replied with another story about a black domestic worker with whom he had grown up and as a child had learned to respect as his own mother. He then continued, “I’ve just always looked at people regardless of color, age, whatever as children of God.”
It was at this moment that I realized that this man was truly breaking down barriers and was shining as a true beacon of hope and truth. By living his life in a way that honored each and every person regardless of their situation and not doing it to feel special or different, Mr. Kok has bridged major gaps and his accomplishments are only possible because of great amounts of love. I’m reminded of the verses from 1 Corinthians that are always read at weddings, “Love is patient, love is kind.” But perhaps more importantly “Love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrong-doing but rejoices with the truth.”
How many times do we boast in the name of “love”? How often are we insistent on having things our way and end up acting arrogantly to pave the way for “love”? For me, feeling like I was breaking down barriers was more about my own validation that I was making a difference than it was about truly loving people. It was more about me being a “different kind of white person” than it was about building relationships with all people. Have I been loving white South Africans in the same way I have been loving black South Africans? I cannot say I have. I often feel uncomfortable with white South Africans. I feel judgmental and I feel judged. I feel like I need to be different and prove to the strangers around me that I’m different. But this is not what we are called to as Christians.
When I think about what would be the Christ-like way to handle this situation, I think of the Pharisees. People who Jesus had little desire to take after. Jesus, as a religious leader was probably grouped with them during his early ministry. (However, one would only have to stick around for a minute or two to see that he was actually, radically different!) How did Christ set himself apart and point out the flaws in their perspective while still genuinely loving them and guiding them? I believe it’s probably impossible for us to do this as successfully as Christ did, but I’m reminded of a part in the liturgy here that I have come to love (when I hear it in English of course). This line in the liturgy states that we worship, we love, we confess “not as we ought, but as we are able.”
We must do our best to love others as we are able, even if we will fall short. We must truly and genuinely love those who we disagree with and those whose perspectives we believe are flawed. We must stand for what we believe in while simultaneously loving those who stand against us. And we must not assume we know what people stand for because of how they look. We must always put unity ahead of our own desires to feel different. This doesn’t mean becoming apathetic in an effort to keep the peace, but it means making love the top priority and the number one goal in all interactions.
I’m still learning what it means to be white. But even more importantly, I’m learning what it means to be a follower of Christ.
This blog entry was written for the ELCA MUD3 blog, which can be viewed at: http://elcamud.blogspot.com/
Monday, April 4, 2011
A discovered prayer
There is so much in church I do not understand. Much of the liturgy is in either Isizulu or Sesotho, depending on the congregation I am visiting that week and often the sermon is a mix between English and the parish's language. However, yesterday, as I sat in church enjoying the harmonies and sang along with the parts of the service I knew, I was suddenly handed a booklet I had never seen before. An order of service! With the liturgy written out! In English!
I knew we were at the confession and forgiveness which the gogo (granny) who had handed it to me had the book opened to. So I followed along with the English as the congregation sang in Sesotho "Lord have mercy on us."
Then we came to a prayer. A prayer that I have probably heard prayed tons of times here. But this was the first time I was exposed to its meaning in English. I was so moved by it that I copied it down. Part of it read:
"Grant this congregation all that is needed for its spiritual welfare;
Strengthen and increase the faithful;
visit and relieve the sick;
rouse the careless;
restore the fallen and penitent;
remove all hindrances to the advancement of the truth;
and bring all to be of one heart and mind within the fold of thy holy church."
What a beautiful prayer! For strength, restoration, truth, healing, unity and rousing from apathy. This is what OUR Church is praying for.
More and more, I find my ideas changing here. My ideas about faith, what it means to be a follower of Christ and a lover of justice and what our vision as Christians should be. To love across all borders and barriers; to strive for truth, justice and unity in our world; to hate apathy and carelessness and to put an end to all division... this should be our vision. And this prayer gives me hope in our ability to align our will with the will of God and bring this vision to pass.
I knew we were at the confession and forgiveness which the gogo (granny) who had handed it to me had the book opened to. So I followed along with the English as the congregation sang in Sesotho "Lord have mercy on us."
Then we came to a prayer. A prayer that I have probably heard prayed tons of times here. But this was the first time I was exposed to its meaning in English. I was so moved by it that I copied it down. Part of it read:
"Grant this congregation all that is needed for its spiritual welfare;
Strengthen and increase the faithful;
visit and relieve the sick;
rouse the careless;
restore the fallen and penitent;
remove all hindrances to the advancement of the truth;
and bring all to be of one heart and mind within the fold of thy holy church."
What a beautiful prayer! For strength, restoration, truth, healing, unity and rousing from apathy. This is what OUR Church is praying for.
More and more, I find my ideas changing here. My ideas about faith, what it means to be a follower of Christ and a lover of justice and what our vision as Christians should be. To love across all borders and barriers; to strive for truth, justice and unity in our world; to hate apathy and carelessness and to put an end to all division... this should be our vision. And this prayer gives me hope in our ability to align our will with the will of God and bring this vision to pass.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Brothers and Sisters
I can’t tell you how many times I have been called “Auntie Amanda” this year. It is beyond my ability to count. I also can’t tell you how many times I have been confused about how people are related because they refer to everyone as their relatives.
“This is my Aunt Eunice” said the Dean of my circuit a few months ago when introducing me to a woman in his former congregation. Only after some further conversations did I realize they weren’t ACTUALLY related.
“My sister passed away” said my friend here … Only after some more questions did I find out that they were ACTUALLY only cousins.
“Mother!” Thando and Kerah exclaim when they see Susan… only after some more observations and questions do I realize she’s not ACTUALLY their mother.
Even to strangers, it is common to say “Dumela, mae” to an older woman you pass… meaning “Hello mother” or “Siyabonga, Baba” (Thank you, father) to an older man who has helped you out in some way. Sisi and Buti are also common names to call strangers (meaning sister and brother). And of course, there are the “Gogo’s”- literally meaning granny, any old lady can be your granny and let me tell you, you’d best be respectful. Those gogos WILL put you in your place… just like your own grandmother might.
At first, this reality was confusing and strange to me. I mean, I’ve never experienced anything quite like this. I had a friend growing up who was raised to call female family friends Aunt _______... for example, Aunt Kathy or Aunt Beth. I always found it a little strange but as we got older I thought it was sort of interesting. Here, I find it fascinating. People will often introduce me to their children as an “Auntie” and immediately the child knows that I am not really a stranger anymore and they can feel comfortable with me. It is a fast way of breaking down barriers between people. It seems that in many ways, this relational way of thinking permeates the culture beyond just what people call each other.
The other day, I was on a taxi in which the people in the front were having some trouble making change for the other passengers. The woman behind me asked me “Ntombizan (my girl), did Gogo get her change?” referring to the elderly lady next to me who was not really paying attention to the situation. I replied that “Yes” she had. As brief and simple as it was, this moment struck me because I felt as though we were all looking out for each other, making sure everyone was taken care of in the process. It may seem like a small example, but it is a glimpse into a significant facet of the culture here.
I have experienced generosity beyond all my expectations in every part of life here. Whenever I have asked for directions in downtown Johannesburg or elsewhere, people have led me for blocks to where I needed to go or they have taken me by the arm and dragged me through busy city streets to the taxi I need to be on. Of course, a large part of this generosity is that people feel they need to help me because I’m white and if they don’t, I might be scared or feel unwelcome. The fact however remains that regardless of skin color or background, people look out for each other and treat each other as brothers and sisters.
In the Christian tradition, we have the tendency to use the phrase “my brothers and sisters in Christ”. But how sincerely do we mean that? How often do we actually treat others as though they are our brothers and sisters? How often do we treat our blood brothers and sisters with the love, generosity and compassion that we should… let alone strangers? I have come to love the relaxed nature of relationships here. It is usually very easy to joke with someone you’ve just met and it’s comforting to know that no matter where you are, most people are looking out for you.
Many times throughout this experience, I have been reminded of a time in highschool when I was working at CVS Pharmacy as a cashier. It may seem like an arbitrary thing to think about here but let me explain. During the year that I worked there, I was totally miserable. Customers rarely gave a genuine greeting to me or my co-workers. I often left my shift feeling like not one person had even noticed me that day… even though I would be ringing up their items patiently and happily. The day I quit was liberating and I was happy to be done with the mundane job. However, the experience stuck with me because after working there, I have never treated another clerk, cashier, waitress or receptionist the same. It’s my firm belief that everyone should work some kind of job like this to truly understand the life of a minimum-wage person who is at an under-appreciated, boring job.
Here, it’s true that there are people who are over-looked and under-appreciated. However, there is relief from that situation in the way that the culture unfolds in a relational, intentional way that encourages “Ubuntu”- the concept that “I am because we are”. Even the IsiZulu greeting, “Saubona” literally translated means “I see you”. I see you as a legitimate, worthwhile human being and I recognize you as a member of my community.
It is my hope that we will someday come to realize that we cannot de-humanize others by treating them in a way that perpetuates their loneliness or feelings of isolation. We must see others as God has seen us- as His children- and treat our siblings as members of our family. All people deserve to feel the love and compassion of God and this love and compassion will not drop out of the sky for them. We must be agents of love, peace, understanding, reconciliation, compassion and kindness in the world. We must be representatives of our loving God and show others the love God feels for them. Brothers and sisters, this is my hope for us. This is my hope for our family.
This blog entry was written for the ELCA MUD3 blog, which can be viewed at: http://elcamud.blogspot.com/
“This is my Aunt Eunice” said the Dean of my circuit a few months ago when introducing me to a woman in his former congregation. Only after some further conversations did I realize they weren’t ACTUALLY related.
“My sister passed away” said my friend here … Only after some more questions did I find out that they were ACTUALLY only cousins.
“Mother!” Thando and Kerah exclaim when they see Susan… only after some more observations and questions do I realize she’s not ACTUALLY their mother.
Even to strangers, it is common to say “Dumela, mae” to an older woman you pass… meaning “Hello mother” or “Siyabonga, Baba” (Thank you, father) to an older man who has helped you out in some way. Sisi and Buti are also common names to call strangers (meaning sister and brother). And of course, there are the “Gogo’s”- literally meaning granny, any old lady can be your granny and let me tell you, you’d best be respectful. Those gogos WILL put you in your place… just like your own grandmother might.
At first, this reality was confusing and strange to me. I mean, I’ve never experienced anything quite like this. I had a friend growing up who was raised to call female family friends Aunt _______... for example, Aunt Kathy or Aunt Beth. I always found it a little strange but as we got older I thought it was sort of interesting. Here, I find it fascinating. People will often introduce me to their children as an “Auntie” and immediately the child knows that I am not really a stranger anymore and they can feel comfortable with me. It is a fast way of breaking down barriers between people. It seems that in many ways, this relational way of thinking permeates the culture beyond just what people call each other.
The other day, I was on a taxi in which the people in the front were having some trouble making change for the other passengers. The woman behind me asked me “Ntombizan (my girl), did Gogo get her change?” referring to the elderly lady next to me who was not really paying attention to the situation. I replied that “Yes” she had. As brief and simple as it was, this moment struck me because I felt as though we were all looking out for each other, making sure everyone was taken care of in the process. It may seem like a small example, but it is a glimpse into a significant facet of the culture here.
I have experienced generosity beyond all my expectations in every part of life here. Whenever I have asked for directions in downtown Johannesburg or elsewhere, people have led me for blocks to where I needed to go or they have taken me by the arm and dragged me through busy city streets to the taxi I need to be on. Of course, a large part of this generosity is that people feel they need to help me because I’m white and if they don’t, I might be scared or feel unwelcome. The fact however remains that regardless of skin color or background, people look out for each other and treat each other as brothers and sisters.
In the Christian tradition, we have the tendency to use the phrase “my brothers and sisters in Christ”. But how sincerely do we mean that? How often do we actually treat others as though they are our brothers and sisters? How often do we treat our blood brothers and sisters with the love, generosity and compassion that we should… let alone strangers? I have come to love the relaxed nature of relationships here. It is usually very easy to joke with someone you’ve just met and it’s comforting to know that no matter where you are, most people are looking out for you.
Many times throughout this experience, I have been reminded of a time in highschool when I was working at CVS Pharmacy as a cashier. It may seem like an arbitrary thing to think about here but let me explain. During the year that I worked there, I was totally miserable. Customers rarely gave a genuine greeting to me or my co-workers. I often left my shift feeling like not one person had even noticed me that day… even though I would be ringing up their items patiently and happily. The day I quit was liberating and I was happy to be done with the mundane job. However, the experience stuck with me because after working there, I have never treated another clerk, cashier, waitress or receptionist the same. It’s my firm belief that everyone should work some kind of job like this to truly understand the life of a minimum-wage person who is at an under-appreciated, boring job.
Here, it’s true that there are people who are over-looked and under-appreciated. However, there is relief from that situation in the way that the culture unfolds in a relational, intentional way that encourages “Ubuntu”- the concept that “I am because we are”. Even the IsiZulu greeting, “Saubona” literally translated means “I see you”. I see you as a legitimate, worthwhile human being and I recognize you as a member of my community.
It is my hope that we will someday come to realize that we cannot de-humanize others by treating them in a way that perpetuates their loneliness or feelings of isolation. We must see others as God has seen us- as His children- and treat our siblings as members of our family. All people deserve to feel the love and compassion of God and this love and compassion will not drop out of the sky for them. We must be agents of love, peace, understanding, reconciliation, compassion and kindness in the world. We must be representatives of our loving God and show others the love God feels for them. Brothers and sisters, this is my hope for us. This is my hope for our family.
This blog entry was written for the ELCA MUD3 blog, which can be viewed at: http://elcamud.blogspot.com/
Monday, February 14, 2011
Take the long way home
After a long day in Soweto, I am headed home to Bonaero Park. I had been visiting another YAGM volunteer, Joy and her visiting family. At around 4:15, I walk through the busy township which has become one of my favorite places in the country. I have three taxis ahead of me and the sun here has been going down around 7pm so I want to be back by 6:30 at the latest. As I approach the main street in Joy’s neighborhood I hold one finger in the air pointing sky-ward. A taxi goes by and the driver holds up 4 fingers. Darn… Orlando. About 5 seconds later another taxi, another 4 fingers. What the heck is happening in Orlando today? Finally, the third taxi, about 10 seconds later acknowledges my index finger with his own and gives a happy beep as he pulls over. I slide the door of the taxi open to find about 8 people already there. “Sanbonani, taxi!” I greet as I climb in with my clumsy backpack behind me. And we are Joburg-bound. As we drive through the busy streets, the driver beeps to get people’s attention. Slowly, but surely, stop after stop, we fill the taxi.
As the last of the 15 passengers climbs in and we set off on the highway, we surrender forth our 7 Rands and 50 cents… or 8 rands and 50 cents depending on where we boarded. Each row passes their change forward to the individual in the front seat next to the driver. I try to avoid that seat at all costs. The potential stress of having multiple sets of money coming to me with people saying “one, 8.50. two, 7:50” Ah, I’m not sure I would do well! Finally, all the change is worked out and we are whizzing through the outer layers of Jozi. We pass Orlando Stadium and the security outside means the Pirates must be playing. Oh! I remember now what’s happening in Orlando- the Pirates play the Sundowns tonight. How could I forget? I’ll be cheering the Sundowns later. We pass the world cup stadium, Soccer City. I think about the last game I went to there. Just about 2 weeks ago with my mom- Kaizer Chiefs facing Maritzburg United… Chiefs won, of course.
Finally we come into downtown and I quickly recognize where I am. Newtown, Bree street, Ah- here’s my stop! “Short left!” I exclaim with a bit of a South-African slur so the driver actually knows what I’m saying. I slide the door open and step onto the street knowing exactly where I’m headed. Ooh, bananas… I need some of those! 3 rands. Oh, and I need airtime. Luckily the street vendor I just passed yelling about airtime is selling some vouchers so I can recharge my cell phone. 12 rands. I keep walking down the street I know so well. Fruit, t-shirts, soccer jerseys, shoes, hot mealies (corn), house music bumping from a cd stand, pan-handlers. Ahead there is a crowd gathered around about 10 young people in traditional dress. They are singing and clapping. Two girls come forward and begin kicking high in the air… Zulu dancing. I continue walking. Finally I get to the BP station where I cross the street and make my way to a parking lot behind a church where my taxi to Kempton Park is waiting. There are people all around and about 20 or 30 taxis are parked and waiting to fill before they leave the city. The Kempton Park taxi is not where it usually is so I ask a driver nearby “Kempton Park?” to which he replies “That red one.” And points to a taxi about 3 away.
Terrific… as I approach the red taxi I wonder if it will be different from most other red taxis I have taken… For some reason, the red taxis, I have found are the worst. Many taxis, regardless of color, have been in operation far longer than they should be. The doors sometimes get stuck… the seats bend when you lean back on them… I’ve even seen people hold the sliding door on it’s runners as the taxi travels. This taxi was not quite as bad as I was expecting. However, some assembly was still required to make the seat and door functional. Here we go!
As we come out of the city I can’t help but look around at my surroundings and wonder how I ended up here in this vibrant city thousands of miles from what I have always known. After being here for several months, it’s amazing to me that these moments still occur for me. I am struck by the beauty of a sunset, a deep conversation with a stranger or music in the streets. At times, I still cannot believe I’m here and this is my life. It is a privilege and a blessing to have this opportunity. Seeing life here and learning from the people I meet has been the most unique, extraordinary experience of my short life. So this is what I contemplate on the taxi. =)
Our bright red taxi arrives in Kempton park. This busy suburb area still feels like a mini-Joburg. People everywhere and lots of bars, clubs and shops line the streets. I step off the taxi after a minor struggle with the taxi door and seats. I cross the street quickly to get to the final taxi rank. Although this rank can be rather hectic at times, it is a place where I feel pretty comfortable. Men throw coins down on gambling tables in a way I don’t really understand. People sit on crates playing cards and there is all kinds of food, candy and sodas for sale. I have taken taxis from this rank all over the area. I find the Bonaero Park taxi in its usual place and sit next to a very pregnant woman in the first row. A moment later, a woman with a small child comes and sits in the front row, as well. A few minutes pass as we wait for the taxi to fill. A robust woman approaches with her boy friend and a loud exchange takes place at the taxi door as she pulls herself into the seat. As soon as she sits in her seat and releases a loud sigh, she glances around and sees me “Ah! Amonda!” she exclaims. “Hello, Dinah!” I reply. This woman works at the conference center where I live! She has become like a surrogate mother to me, actually. We talk about where we have been during the day and say how surprised we are to see each other on this taxi!
Finally, we zoom off to our final destination. 7 rands collected from each passenger and Dinah and I disembark after a short trip up the road. We walk several minutes to the conference center where we both live. I am happy to be back at just 6:20pm with plenty of daylight left. It has been an adventurous day and as exciting as it has been, I’m happy to be back here at home in Bonaero Park: just another day in the beautiful country I have come to love so much. And I love to take the long way home.
As the last of the 15 passengers climbs in and we set off on the highway, we surrender forth our 7 Rands and 50 cents… or 8 rands and 50 cents depending on where we boarded. Each row passes their change forward to the individual in the front seat next to the driver. I try to avoid that seat at all costs. The potential stress of having multiple sets of money coming to me with people saying “one, 8.50. two, 7:50” Ah, I’m not sure I would do well! Finally, all the change is worked out and we are whizzing through the outer layers of Jozi. We pass Orlando Stadium and the security outside means the Pirates must be playing. Oh! I remember now what’s happening in Orlando- the Pirates play the Sundowns tonight. How could I forget? I’ll be cheering the Sundowns later. We pass the world cup stadium, Soccer City. I think about the last game I went to there. Just about 2 weeks ago with my mom- Kaizer Chiefs facing Maritzburg United… Chiefs won, of course.
Finally we come into downtown and I quickly recognize where I am. Newtown, Bree street, Ah- here’s my stop! “Short left!” I exclaim with a bit of a South-African slur so the driver actually knows what I’m saying. I slide the door open and step onto the street knowing exactly where I’m headed. Ooh, bananas… I need some of those! 3 rands. Oh, and I need airtime. Luckily the street vendor I just passed yelling about airtime is selling some vouchers so I can recharge my cell phone. 12 rands. I keep walking down the street I know so well. Fruit, t-shirts, soccer jerseys, shoes, hot mealies (corn), house music bumping from a cd stand, pan-handlers. Ahead there is a crowd gathered around about 10 young people in traditional dress. They are singing and clapping. Two girls come forward and begin kicking high in the air… Zulu dancing. I continue walking. Finally I get to the BP station where I cross the street and make my way to a parking lot behind a church where my taxi to Kempton Park is waiting. There are people all around and about 20 or 30 taxis are parked and waiting to fill before they leave the city. The Kempton Park taxi is not where it usually is so I ask a driver nearby “Kempton Park?” to which he replies “That red one.” And points to a taxi about 3 away.
Terrific… as I approach the red taxi I wonder if it will be different from most other red taxis I have taken… For some reason, the red taxis, I have found are the worst. Many taxis, regardless of color, have been in operation far longer than they should be. The doors sometimes get stuck… the seats bend when you lean back on them… I’ve even seen people hold the sliding door on it’s runners as the taxi travels. This taxi was not quite as bad as I was expecting. However, some assembly was still required to make the seat and door functional. Here we go!
As we come out of the city I can’t help but look around at my surroundings and wonder how I ended up here in this vibrant city thousands of miles from what I have always known. After being here for several months, it’s amazing to me that these moments still occur for me. I am struck by the beauty of a sunset, a deep conversation with a stranger or music in the streets. At times, I still cannot believe I’m here and this is my life. It is a privilege and a blessing to have this opportunity. Seeing life here and learning from the people I meet has been the most unique, extraordinary experience of my short life. So this is what I contemplate on the taxi. =)
Our bright red taxi arrives in Kempton park. This busy suburb area still feels like a mini-Joburg. People everywhere and lots of bars, clubs and shops line the streets. I step off the taxi after a minor struggle with the taxi door and seats. I cross the street quickly to get to the final taxi rank. Although this rank can be rather hectic at times, it is a place where I feel pretty comfortable. Men throw coins down on gambling tables in a way I don’t really understand. People sit on crates playing cards and there is all kinds of food, candy and sodas for sale. I have taken taxis from this rank all over the area. I find the Bonaero Park taxi in its usual place and sit next to a very pregnant woman in the first row. A moment later, a woman with a small child comes and sits in the front row, as well. A few minutes pass as we wait for the taxi to fill. A robust woman approaches with her boy friend and a loud exchange takes place at the taxi door as she pulls herself into the seat. As soon as she sits in her seat and releases a loud sigh, she glances around and sees me “Ah! Amonda!” she exclaims. “Hello, Dinah!” I reply. This woman works at the conference center where I live! She has become like a surrogate mother to me, actually. We talk about where we have been during the day and say how surprised we are to see each other on this taxi!
Finally, we zoom off to our final destination. 7 rands collected from each passenger and Dinah and I disembark after a short trip up the road. We walk several minutes to the conference center where we both live. I am happy to be back at just 6:20pm with plenty of daylight left. It has been an adventurous day and as exciting as it has been, I’m happy to be back here at home in Bonaero Park: just another day in the beautiful country I have come to love so much. And I love to take the long way home.
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