Heavy

There’s been a weight sitting on my chest since Wednesday night. It started when I had to turn my laptop off and go to bed when I read an article by the BBC claiming that there was no evidence that a shooting at a predominantly, historically black church was a hate crime. It continued through the day yesterday as more details emerged about the shooting in Charleston. And, it remains this morning as I process the outpouring of grief on my social media. This is not religious persecution. This is not just another example of gun violence. This is racism and bigotry in their ugliest and most violent forms. This is terrorism, a term that needs to be reclaimed from the North American news outlets that reserve it for Arab or black Muslims. Because if the primary weapon of terrorism is fear and terror, then the Charleston shooter is quite simply a terrorist. 

So first, do some research. Start with Twitter. It is, surprisingly, the least political and most human place to be in a time like this. Read @austinchanning’s tweets, and follow the threads of the conversation that was happening yesterday and today. Read her blog response http://austinchanning.com/blog/logical-conclusion. Read about the lives of the 9 people who were killed, and offer a prayer on their behalf (http://mic.com/articles/120967/the-9-people-you-should-be-talking-about-instead-of-dylann-roof). Hear the righteous anger of a college professor (http://www.aljazeera.com/indepth/opinion/2015/06/black-lives-churches-matter-charleston-150618060102973.html) and a political satirist (http://www.ew.com/article/2015/06/19/jon-stewart-charleston-daily-show?hootPostID=42ac6908c1e4432eb8487bac728567f4). 

Here’s my two cents, a confession of sins of omission and some strongly worded advice. I have a complicated history with race. I grew up, a white child, in Mozambique and Kenya. Over the years as a missionary kid, I have appropriated race and culture to fill the gaps and holes of my own long lost cultural identity. As I have grown up and learned, I have started to realize the problems with my acts of cultural appropriation. As I returned to North America and saw bigotry and racism in blatant action, I have realized the privileges and the oppression that is written in the colour of my skin. But, what frustrates me the most is that bigotry and racism are not an inevitable part of the human condition. I went to high school with teenagers from a variety of races and cultures and religions, and we just disliked each other for normal high school reasons, not because of the colour of their skin or the country on their passport or their religion. There is no universal law that says that we have to treat people who are different than us with disdain or distrust, based on sweeping generalizations. And yet, here we are, people. Here we are. 

So, here’s where my confession gets personal. I was having dinner last week with some white, Christian friends. Over the course of dinner, the conversation moved towards Islam, with my friends making some largely benign, if rather ignorant remarks about the treatment of Christianity by Muslims. I made a choice in that moment to stay silent, to do the Canadian thing of keeping the peace. See, the truth is my Muslim friends always understood my faith better than my agnostic or atheist friends. There was a respect and curiosity from those who shared a common commitment to religion, an unpopular institution in our modern age. My parents have worked in two Arab, Muslim countries, and have found their local students and colleagues open and respectful about their faith. Beyond just my faith, I have Muslim friends who blow me away with their commitment to fasting for an entire month (Best wishes for Ramadan, by the way!) and Arab friends who amaze me with their commitment to generosity. Western culture and the western church could learn much from Islamic traditions and Arab culture. And so, every time I don’t speak up in defence of these much loved friends of mine, I don’t keep the peace. Instead, I allow ignorance to reign. 

The problem with bigotry and racism in all its forms is we rarely let the party in question speak for themselves. We make generalizations because we refuse to make human connections. So, here’s my advice. Before you make a comment about Islam or black people or Hispanic people or First Nations people or the LGBT community, take a few days or weeks or months, as long as it takes, to see the world through their eyes. Sure, we aren’t all the anomalies, the ones who pick up the guns or the bombs and kill. But when we use that defence, we risk forgetting that not too long ago, it was our white ancestors who held public lynchings and denied black people the right to vote and placed Japanese immigrants in concentration camps and kicked First Nations people off their land. So, even the ‘harmless’, throwaway comments that have been spoken in our families for generations are part of the problem. 

And, the most important word of advice I can give you? If you can’t take the time to learn human empathy and slowly work on your own ignorance, then just stop. Stop talking. Stop rolling your eyes. Stop making comments under your breath. Stop posting ignorant comments on your social media or your friends’ social media. Because people can see and hear you. Often those people are the young ones, the true innocents, who have yet to see the world through the lens of privilege that you do. You are responsible for the way that you influence the innocents. Jesus was pretty clear on that front with his millstones and such. 

Bigotry and racism are founded on bullshit. There is no way that you can condense the complexity of the human experience into a sweeping indictment of a people group. So, stop allowing bullshit to destroy the soul of your country, your culture and your communities. Just stop. 

So, listen well and speak truth. Peace and healing are empty words until we are ready to “beat our swords into plowshares and our spears into pruning hooks” and engage in the hard, ongoing work of confession and reconciliation. 

And for those of you who follow Jesus, treat your brothers and sisters, your friends and your enemies with the dignity that he demands. Love is the primary commandment, not your moral or political or social opinions. 

A Story

The sun is shining brightly as it slowly sinks toward the horizon. A cold wind blows my hair into my face, a remnant of an unforgiving winter and a fickle spring. Wolfville has finally come back to life. The skateboard park is back in use. Friends and couples wander the dyke trails, with dogs or children in tow. The barista chats away while I wait for my order. My peers make last minute NSLC runs. Turns out, our special talent for spontaneity and procrastination isn’t restricted to our academic endeavours. As always, I fail at doing the right 20-something thing on a Saturday night. All that awaits me at home is this blog post and some fantastic loose leaf tea I picked up last weekend in Mahone Bay. 

Once the fog of essay writing faded, I returned to one of my favourite pastimes, reading for pleasure with no reading list insisting on my progress. Today, I finished An Abundance of Katherines by John Green. This novel annoyed me and then charmed me, much like that boy in seventh grade that you always rolled your eyes at. I also recently finished Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. It’s one of those books that just sits in the pit of your stomach, in the crevices of your brain, and the centre of your heart, burning through your misconceptions and illuminating the questions you wrestle with silently. 

These are all stories: a story of my walk through town, a story of a whiny, heartbroken ex-prodigy, and a story about a woman who is an immigrant, a blogger, and a lover (and much more, this is the brief synopsis). Tonight, it feels like these stories, along with the music of James Bay, Taylor Swift and Walk the Moon blaring through my headphones, help me approach my big questions. Like whether or not I should write an English honours thesis, and how I can beat my apathy regarding frustratingly slow re-entry into math-research mode. Like what I should do with my life next year, and where I should go to grad school. How I will stay connected to my widespread network of kindred spirits and heart family as my financial and temporal reality starts to bulldoze my long list of people and places to visit. If I can seek adventure and further intellectual depth post-university and still pick up my cross and follow Jesus. The easy questions… 

It doesn’t take too many Saturday night walks or John Green novels to remind me that I’m actually rather dreadful at being 20. Or maybe my fellow 20 year olds also spend their Saturday knee deep in written existential crises. As John Green and my friend Bri might say, this is my shout into the void. Not really a request for your answers or advice, although I will listen to those as well as I can. But just a few minutes to express my simultaneous frustration and deep love for my surroundings, the people that populate them, and the ambiguity that so often reigns. 

Why did I love Americanah so much? I’m so glad you asked. This book is funny and intelligent and so insightful. Its bare bones analysis of life, love, sex, culture, race, privilege, postcolonial spaces, politics, wealth (I could go on…) is startling, probably offensive to some, and profound. It’s also a love story about companionship and friendship and, dare I say it, soulmates. This love story is messy and broken by silence and shame, but it’s real love, somehow worth the mess and the baggage. 

I finished Adichie’s novel while I was at MarkEast, starting a 7 day study of the first eleven chapters of Genesis. Genesis is also startling, offensive, messy and profound. Shockingly, it does not explicitly endorse patriarchal power or a scientific account of our world’s origin. Instead, it presents the LORD God as a Creator who creates good things, makes humankind in His image, and provides again and again for his creation who are prone to being fickle, stubborn and self-serving. Yahweh Elohim is trustworthy even in a world governed by fatalism, fear and violence. 

I love literature because its stories illuminate my life by broadening the horizons of the world I see, promoting empathy, compassion and self-reflexive analysis. In the case of Genesis and Adichie’s novel, the ripples will continue to wash over my heart and head in the years to come. And my plan is to continue reading and searching, trying to unravel the mysteries of love and grace, why love drives us and breaks us and heals us, why grace puzzles us and delights us and offends us. And as I go, I hope that truth in all of its forms, from sun beams to manuscript studies to long chats with professors to chance encounters with golden retrievers to copwin strategies to a belly laugh with best friends to art, will continue to set us free.

“And the world will turn and we’ll grow, we’ll learn how to be incomplete. This here now it’s where we touch down. You and me let’s be incomplete.”

Incoherent

Last Saturday night, I sat on my bed in my parent’s apartment, cuddled up with Gandalf and Pippin, my two golden retrievers. I had to leave to catch my flight back to Canada from Dubai in about half an hour, and all I could do was sit and cuddle and cry. Eventually, my mom came in and I leaned in for a long, long hug. I say goodbye all the time, and I think I’m getting worse at it. 

When I’m in Dubai or with my parents, I always feel wrapped in this bubble, a love bubble perhaps. Even as I get more immersed in the heady exploits of academia and learn to see the world in different ways than they do, they keep me grounded and love me unflinchingly. My two dogs follow me around the apartment, ready to lick me, hop into my lap (a challenging feat for a good-sized dog), stare at me adoringly, and snuggle up next to me. 

It’s funny because my reality at school could not be more different. My roommates and I all live busy and often separate lives. Sometimes I’ll go through an entire day without much human contact beyond class, work, and the occasional “Hello, how are you?” in the hall. I think that there’s an innate loneliness about the process of leaving home and starting to take on the responsibilities of adulthood. 

I think we make a mistake, though, when we assume that this loneliness is a negative part of the process. Sure, a social life, friendships and human contact are all important things… I will not deny that I need others’ words and perspectives to get me out of my head. However, what I think is quite interesting and should end up being the point of this meandering blog post is that I have learned the most about love away from my bubble. 

I’m taking a course in gender/sexuality theory, which I’ve found to be a simultaneously frustrating and enlightening experience. Frustrating because theory can be dense and dry and sometimes the class discussion gets out of hand. But enlightening because the realm of gender and sexuality is one that I have been partially sheltered from, and in some ways, kept away from by the prejudices and so-called “morality” inherent in the evangelical church. 

Now, before you lose your heads in a fit of righteous indignation, this is not a manifesto on the topic of sex and gender in the Bible, because I’m neither qualified to provide you with a detailed theological argument for or against the issue or interested enough to pursue such an argument. I was talking to my friend Kim a few weeks ago about the preoccupation with moral truth that exists in the church, in specific reference to the issue of gay marriage. She mentioned a conversation she had had with an older church leader in the Mennonite church who had made the point that given the choice between the truth and love, we should always choose love, not just because love is the greatest commandment, but because we are subject to human fallibility and always run the risk of being wrong. Love is less risky, but significantly harder. Henri Nouwen, in his book In the Name of Jesus, notes that the Christian leader often chooses power as an alternative to the hard task of loving, of entering into vulnerable, messy relationships. Is that not what is really at the root of the church’s rule book? A sense of moral power? 

Now, before you have another fit, I’m not suggesting we scrap all morality. I do believe that certain lifestyle choices contribute to a healthier, more balanced life, which can lead to some super fun conversations regarding my stance on abstinence or substance abuse. Just ask my roommate, who called me a classic “good girl” the other day, a rule follower. But what I do know is that there’s not a lot of room in the gospel of Jesus for having your shit together. Because, that is, at best, an elaborate facade and at worst, a lie. I have found it to be true that I am most distant from the grace and love and acceptance of Jesus when I see myself as successful at running my own life. And subsequently, not able to extend grace to myself and harder on myself when I fall into less productive or less successful times. 

In this class of mine, we spend a lot of time talking about people's need or desire for a coherent identity, and the struggle of certain individuals to find coherence when faced with gender binaries or one normative sexuality. Now, I don’t want to reduce or presume to understand that struggle, but as someone who struggles to define herself both within and without her passport country, I get the struggle for coherence and the resistance against a prescriptive understanding of coherence. I have been learning to sit in my conflicting cultural/national identity, to live out of it with courage and vulnerability and grace. The least I can do for those who have different struggles with identity is allow them the same dignity and opportunity. 

And that, my friends, is why we need love bubbles. We need dysfunctional, imperfect people to surround us with love and hugs and unsought advice and dumb jokes because we recognize their humanity and our own by loving and being loved. So, I am thankful for my Dubai love bubble and for the Wolfville love bubble that is still under construction, for the many people in this town from all walks of life who continue to speak love and grace and challenge into my life. And I’m thankful for the lonely spaces too. For the space to think and observe and process. 

At best, my thoughts are fragmented; my answers are incomplete. But, my heart is softening to the inconsistencies and injustices of the world. I’m learning to recognize my own privilege, the sins of the past and present that I have taken part in by choice or by association. I’m doing my best to choose love, for myself, for the people around me. And when I fail, I’m sitting at the feet of Jesus, unqualified and broken, learning to see the world again through the eyes of the love that is even purer than a golden retriever’s. 

“What makes the temptation of power so seemingly irresistible? Maybe it is that power offers an easy substitute for the hard task of love. It seems easier to be God than to love God, easier to control people than to love people, easier to own life than to love life.” - Henri Nouwen

In Crisis

When people ask me how my semester has been, there is one phrase that jumps out almost immediately: a semester of crises. From a family death to an old friend’s suicide to a month of pneumonia to supporting friends through their own crises to family conflict to the most demanding reading list I’ve ever had as a university student, the list is ongoing and overwhelming. My friend Andrea has a habit of asking me questions I don't anticipate, and she asked me a few weeks ago what I felt like I had learned/God has been teaching me through this semester of crisis. So, here goes… 

When I moved back to Canada, I struggled with a strained, awkward relationship with all my extended family. After years of not knowing what it meant to be a part of this family and now feeling like a stranger, I was uncertain of how to proceed and more often than not, avoided contact with them. So, what I’ve learned is that sometimes being family means nothing more than showing up. Overcoming my anxiety about strained relationships and showing up, enduring the awkwardness. My grandmother had been quite ill for months before she passed away a couple weeks ago. I visited her at the end of the summer, when we thought she didn’t have much longer. It was brutal, as she grew emotional at the thought of not seeing my dad/her son one last time (my parents were flying out the following morning). I was inadequate, unqualified in that moment, but I could hang onto her hand, share a smile with her one final time, and let her hug me as long as she needed to. 

I also learned about grief this semester. The Rosslyn community, of which I was a part for 5 years, was brought to its knees by the loss of one of its young and beloved previous students. My friends, my classmates, my teachers and I all knew him by name or by personal friendship, and we mourned. Across the globe, in the midst of separate lives and separate worlds. We grappled with the impossible questions of life and its ugly hurts. Later, I lost my grandmother, and attended my first funeral. I was reminded on that day of the flatbed trucks that used to drive by our house in Mozambique, crammed full of mourners, singing to remember their friends and loved ones. We are more structured in our grief, here in the West. We gather in a church, place the family at the front, surrounded by other mourners. I found myself crying that day out of a deeper well of sadness than I had felt in the days after her passing. Crying in front of strangers, crying for memories and loss of physical presence, and crying for who the hell knows what, in the end. I kind of wish we could have filled the streets of Truro with that overflowing well of grief. I was uncomfortable with others’ grief, even with my own, but realized that these deep, dark things need to be expressed. 

I learned about my limits. Pneumonia has a way of teaching that lesson pretty well. Turns out, I didn’t learn the lesson well enough. A ear/throat infection and cold later, I’m still terrible at prioritizing my own self-care over other concerns/responsibilities. Oh well, I’ll go get my flu shot and work on that one. 

Speaking of which, I learned about priorities. Always prioritize the things that make you feel alive. I flew to Dubai the last week of October to visit my parents in their new home. After a week of jet lag, I ended my stay with a violent throat/ear infection, but I would take the sleepless nights and sickness over not travelling, any day. Keep in mind that I had basically 24 hour access to cuddles with my two beautiful golden retrievers, I’m a creature of travel and adventure. You buy me a plane ticket; you invite me to come visit? I’m on that plane. On a Tuesday night, we took a taxi down to the marina, and I pulled the classic rom-com heroine in New York move, sticking my head out of the taxi window to stare up at the skyscrapers. On Thursday, I watched this insane, extravagant fountain show set to Thriller by Michael Jackson, reflecting off the gravity-defying magnificence of the Burj Khalifa. It was a fairy tale, and I was in love. With the city, its elegant eye for design and sparkle. It was a delight to see my parents so happy and settled in the shadow of this crazy city, finding a vocation and job that match their abilities and gifts. It is, of course, no secret that I’m so proud of all they have done and continue  to do, and they continually inspire me with their passion and humour. Worth the infection? Every painful swallow, in fact. I’m excited to make many more visits, and find my place in this new home of theirs. I’m excited to see and do more things in this city that set my imagination on fire. 

Speaking of passion (high fives for on point segues), I am learning to not shy away from mine. For the last year and a half, I’ve been co-hosting a radio show with my friend Zach in which we explore topics of personal interest, but of global/local relevance. I initially let my cohost do the ranting and raving, but so far this year I have made impassioned statements on global citizenship, oppressive and unhelpful societal practices regarding women (i.e. beauty pageants), "terrorism” rhetoric in Western media, and most recently, made strong statements re: the use of military drones (shoutout to the American government, I’m harmless I promise, just opinionated). Overburdened by the events of the Ferguson grand jury trial, I completely re-vamped a chapel service I led earlier this semester. Apathy, disinterest or perennial optimism is the disease of the generation of youth of which I am a part, and sometimes, you get sucked into the mentality. But, the world is broken, friends. And we can play no part in making it less broken until we get angry and passionate about it. I am not a loud, or eloquent social activist or advocate, but I want to learn to care deeply about the fates of my brothers and sisters around the world and I refuse to be silent about my concern.

But passion and activism bring me to a consideration of how to channel this energy into a productive and useful career or vocation. So, what did I decide about my future this year? Well, in the midst of my many personal crises, I concocted a ten year plan for my life… She says with a giant smirk on her face. I live in an alternate universe to those with ten year plans. It’s called the universe of the “I think I have this next month/week/day figured out” people. This semester, I realized what I don’t want to do. I’m too young, too free spirited, to do what is convenient and sensible right away. I’m sure I’ll eventually get there. But, maybe I’ll go learn a second language first, or be a professional world wanderer, or do a Masters in literature or move in with my best friend, Beka, and be the coolest best friends to ever co-habitate. Lord knows, really. All that I require for my future at this point is: A. A place that is warmer than Canada and B. Proximity to old, historic libraries that I can get lost in and spend hours reading undisturbed. I’ll fill in the details as I go. My pragmatic friends and family members are shaking their heads as I wax eloquently of my ideals of post-undergraduate life. We’ll see. It’ll be an adventure!

In the midst of crisis, though, you must dance. And so, I bring you the paragraph where I tell you about Taylor Swift and her relevance to my life. My iTunes Library indicates that I have listened to Shake It Off 69 times since I downloaded it… While it’s a catchy pop tune, it’s actually pretty sage advice from America’s awkward, multi-billionaire sweetheart. People will always be petty. They will always draw conclusions about you and your words/actions that do not actually reflect your heart or intentions. You can’t let the illegitimate children get you down (as my friend Rihanna says, loosely paraphrased for my more sensitive readers). People will drag you down for perverse, selfish reasons. Shake it off. Keep moving. Keep loving. Keep making intelligent, compassionate choices. And let the haters hate. 

At the end of September, in the midst of one of these crises, I went to a Deep Roots concert and fell in love with the magic of the festival and its featured artists, but I was profoundly moved by a story and song that Rose Cousins shared. She reflected on an experience at some sort of musician gathering and the feeling of community that is inspired by a group of professional nomads. So, she ultimately wrote a song about these people, called Stray Birds (at a play count of 38 in my library, which is impressive considering I bought her EP at the end of September). There’s something about the tradition and stagnancy of this part of the world that makes my wandering feet feel like a bit of a flight risk. People don’t get my comfort with constantly moving between places and worlds. But, much like my passion, I'm learning not to apologize for this part of who I am. My tribe, my people, are out there, living in Portugal, in Kenya, in Texas, in Virginia, in Georgia, in Illinois, or on adventures in far flung regions of the world. 

“to the road I’m bound

to the road I’m bound

but love will travel all around

of nothing are we ever sure

cause you and I are stray birds

may my heart be forever stirred

and music be the holy word

and you and I be stray birds”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M7r_yQ_GQx0

The Road goes ever on and on, my friends. In seasons of crisis, in season of joy, it goes on. And whither then? I cannot say. 

Valuable

I was listening to my professor this morning with an engaged intellectual interest as he talked about how women were commodified in the 18th century as wives who fit a profile of beautiful, graceful helpmate for their husbands. How marriage was a market place where your physical, intangible qualities and economic standing were your main selling points. When he started talking about how we do the same thing with a university education in relation to its relevance and usefulness in the job market, a switch flipped in my brain. Illumination, my friends. Revelation. An epiphany.

And for fans or at least loyal readers of this blog, you know what happens when I have an epiphany. A many-paragraphed rant, with a liberal sprinkling of sass, undying optimism for the resilience of the human state, and references to irrelevant pop culture figures. So, here we go…

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had a conversation with my friends where I or they have said, “I don’t get it. I’m so ______ (fill in blank with appropriate positive quality). Why does no one find me desirable/beautiful/worthy of their affection?” Yes, friends. In my reasoned wisdom, I know that this is a foolish argument to make. Life, love and attraction is much more complex than that. But, I realized the even larger flaw with this argument. We are commodifying our value as a romantic/sexual being. Yes, it isn’t in reference to skills like needle point or raising an 18th century brood of 10 children, but it’s still commodifying! I am incredibly proud of my abilities and successes, developed through hard work and natural aptitudes, in the academic realm. However, if I see my smarts as a commodity (i.e. if I’m smart, people, for romantic or relational reasons, will flock to me), does that not impact how I understand my intelligence? If I succeed in my academics, should I not be succeeding (whatever that means) socially? If I turn in a crappy paper, does this then mean that I lose value in the eyes of the people around me? 

This is a somewhat facetious example, friends, but I will own the fact that I have allowed my sense of self to be shaped by the somewhat arbitrary assignment of value known as educational assessment. And this applies to so many other skills/talents that I posses or don’t possess but others do. In reference to my 18th century peers, I have far more opportunities and privilege afforded me as a woman, but has the root of the problem disappeared with superficial reforms? If your experience is anything like mine as a young woman, then my guess is hell to the no, to quote Mercedes Jones. 

Also, I know that the Christian community spends a lot of time railing against the overly-sexualized culture in which we live, how it turns people into objects of lust and nothing more. Yes, my friends, yes it does! Our modern world commodifies sexuality like there’s no tomorrow. But, here’s where things get tricky. You know that exercise young women are encouraged to do in faith settings where they compile a list of traits they want their future mate to have?…. COMMODIFICATION, my friends! It is EVERYWHERE. Now, hang on. I’m not saying to do away with all standards. But really, if I think back to my own list, how much of that list was actually influenced by Godly reflection and how much of it was informed by my childhood crushes on Mr. Darcy and Gilbert Blythe? Because in our rebellion from over-sexual culture, we swing hard the other way and demand perfection before we enter into a romantic relationship. 

This ultimately fails, though, because we have crushes on and we like imperfect people. So, do we then use our lists as justification for stringing them along but never emotionally committing or do we just end up wracked with guilt because we failed our list? 

Yikes, my dear readers, yikes! If you’re angry with me for being unkind to this tradition amongst our faith community, keep in mind that I just deconstructed my own happy ending too… 

So, where does this leave us? Why do we allow our sexuality to determine our value anyway? Or at least allow our other facets to inform our value in our sexuality? Where does this crazy commodification bullshit even come from? 

If you’ve ever read Song of Songs (and giggled, high five to you), sexuality is born out of deep, passionate love, as represented through that poetry. Now, I must temper that by saying that this is a Biblical ideal of sexuality and love, so it may not be your frame of mind and thought (if so, please let me know, I’d love to hear what you have to say). In my frame of mind, though, this means that sexuality is born out of a connection to the love that is personified in God. God is love. Yadda yadda. If we’re going to take this whole “created in his image” thing seriously, this is the logical progression. Hmm… Is the love of God based on our market value?… Does God only love you if you’re having a good hair day? Does God only love you when you get an A on your test? 

All together now, rapt audience! NO SIRREE. So, why do we understand love in those terms? Why do we turn love into a list of desirable qualities? Why do I turn my passion for education and learning into a reason that I should be desired? Why do I turn what I see in the mirror into a value judgment on how many people will notice me and show interest in me today? 

Now, I’ve focused on the romantic/relational aspect of this, but my professor also talked about how we view ourselves in relation to the job market. For better or for worse, we are numbers, mere statistics in a system. I take that back, none of those things are for better. None of these numbers represent the soul and heart of the human being they are intended to represent. Okay, calm down, Davita. The job market is a soulless machine that chews up college graduates and turns them into uninspired, paradigm-perpetuating clones. We must conform, or we will fall victim to natural selection (shout out to my friend Darwin). No, no, no, no, no, I reply, emphatically. The issue is not with the practicalities of the job market. It’s that we confuse our job with our vocation. Our vocation is the personal stuff. The stuff that makes us tick. So, we then, by proxy, confuse our job market desirability with our vocational value. Have you ever met someone who’s found their vocation? In recent years, I’ve watched my parents find their vocation. Yes, they are working a job that is sometimes frustrating and always lots of hard work.  They only partially teach, though, for the pay check, because when they teach, they parent and they inspire. I know this because I’ve heard the affirmation of their students. They model love. They model learning and intellectual curiosity. I could give you so many examples of people who have found their vocation, and I hope that you can think of some, because, my friends, that is what we should be striving for. Not for high-paying, prestigious positions (although those may come along as well), but vocational fulfillment. Okay, so yes, flaw in my argument, some people only care for money and power (insert examples of heartless politicians or leaders in other large corporations here). 

Yes, well, as Britney Spears said, that’s their prerogative (an out of context reference that I absolutely do not apologize for). And it’s your prerogative, should you so choose. But, if you’re stuck in a spiral of letting numbers, superficial facets of your character and accomplishments define you and this is unsettling for you, then screw that. Cultural norms and pressures are powerful things, but you also have power and privilege, my friends. If you are educated, with relative financial independence and stability, you are not forced to comply with anybody’s wishes or pressures, especially when those are damaging to your sense of self and self-worth. 

So, friends, deconstruct, criticize and analyze away. In my mind, walking out of this institution in two-ish years with a diploma is not half as worthwhile as walking out of it with an intelligent, informed and critical mind with a sense of responsibility to address and change the negative culture surrounding us (also, grab your diploma on your way out, you paid a lot of money for that piece of paper). 

For my deconstructive lunatics, this one’s for you: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aoyAg75PsTA

I’m out. *drops mic, kicks soap box, and most likely stubs toe*

(Re)Dignified

Humans spend a lot of time complaining. Myself included. Just ask my parents about the car rides home after a frustrating day in high school. Not all of this is bad. We all have problems. With the way things are ordered in this world, we all encounter issues from minor inconveniences to really deep hurt and pain. To vent and express our frustration, anger or sadness can be therapeutic, especially if it helps us not to dwell too deeply. 

In the last few days, I’ve come down with a nasty case of pneumonia. It’s left me tired and achy and cough-y, during the first week of classes. Joy upon joy. Yesterday, I was sitting in a clinic for yet another doctor’s appointment, and while waiting I happened to overhear the conversation of the woman sitting across from me. She was explaining to the man sitting next to her about the chronic illness that keeps her in bed most of the time, telling a tale of medications that have stopped working, doctors who wouldn’t take her on, etc. Then another woman’s name was called and she got up, walking towards the doctor with a bowed head and a pronounced limp. 

In that moment, I was transported to the stories of Jesus’ healing, especially the stories in Mark I studied at the beginning of this summer at MarkEast. The stories of people whose lives have been defined by being rejected and ostracized for their pain and crippling diseases. The stories of identities intertwined with disease. And finally, the hand extended or word spoken by God walking amongst us to restore health, and begin the process of restoring dignity and value. 

Even with the wonders of modern medicine, we still have people living in our developed societies who are marginalized because of the state of their health, not to mention their economic status, race, religion… The list goes on. 

See, the issue with complaining and venting is that so often it ends there. We spend an hour unloading on a friend and don’t ask them about the events of their day. Quite simply, we forget to listen and cultivate the skill of empathy. We cannot have experienced the exact pain or anger as all of our fellow humans, but drawing from our own experience, we can understand the emotional root of their distress. By remembering the ways that certain events have knocked our legs out from underneath us, we can reach out in humility and often silence, not with trite turns of phrase, to acknowledge the difficulty of life. 

One of my favourite things about the way that Jesus heals in the gospels is that he rarely just addresses the physical illness. He addresses the deep soul decay that happens when your life is controlled by your pain or your loved one’s pain. He is in the business of restoring dignity to His children. In Grade 11, I travelled with some of my parents’ colleagues to meet a woman living with AIDS and some of the leaders of a organization that supported women and children with AIDS at a local level. Sitting in that smoky, chilly house out in the tea hills, I saw a woman with dignity, thanks to the drugs, resources and community support coming her way via a local church. 

The more I hear stories of people like that or from people who work in the business of restoring dignity, the more I’m amazed at both the resilience of the human spirit and the transformative power of sometimes simple and sometimes great acts of love. And, the more I’m convinced of the value of listening, listening for the needs of your friends, your family, strangers even as expressed in their complaints. 

These last few days, different members of my Wolfville family have jumped in to take care of me in different ways, picking up responsibilities I had to drop, feeding me, driving me, giving me a place to sleep and recover. Each reminding me of the love and value this community has given me, even while sick and unable to muster coherent thoughts or perform some basic tasks. They couldn’t make the pneumonia in my lungs disappear, but they could do everything within their power to make me more comfortable and speed my recovery. 

See, just as we need to be channels of Jesus’ mission of restoring dignity, we also need to be on the receiving end every once in a while. If we spend too long only on the giving end, we can become tired, disillusioned and grouchy about serving. We need many, sometimes daily reminders, big and small, of the transformation Jesus has worked in us through His Spirit and his followers, to keep us grateful, empathetic and dignified. 

Now, for those of you wrapped up in semantics, when I say dignity, I do not of course mean social dignity or decorum. For those of you have witnessed me at a dance party, I think it’s safe to say propriety is not high on my list of priorities. What I do mean is your value, your sense of confidence and purpose. Please continue to laugh loudly and dance badly. 

If you want to see a great example of human dignity, resilience and the importance of projects that tell the stories of all, take the time to read and laugh/weep along with the stories of Humans of New York, especially those from his recent international tour with the UN in conflict torn regions. I never cease to be moved and humbled by this revolutionary project. 

Friends, thank you for reading. Blessings on your day and on your head (and your shoulders, knees and toes, just for good measure). What, you thought you get out of this blog post without one of my cheesy jokes? HAH. Thank you for the dignity you have brought to my life and the dignity you bring to those around you. Keep fighting the good fight.

Side note: I’m going to resist quoting a certain Taylor Swift song right now, especially after my reference to bad dancing. But now, it’s probably stuck in your head and I win.

“And then you will see that I love you; you’ll rest with me all our nights; You say I know a place where your heart can be safe; and you’ve said your last goodbye” 

Pricey

I woke up with an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach this morning. Another headline of militant attacks on the coast of Kenya. More reports of unrest and corruption and oppression in Brazil in the midst of the World Cup Tournament. I, like the rest of the world, have been enjoying the World Cup thus far. It’s been dramatic, tense, heartbreaking. All of the things that good football should be. But, at what price? 

I also read about power rationing and the government purchasing extra power so that Ghanaians across the country could watch the US Ghana match last night. The article’s writer chalked it up to a move by the government to appease the people for all of its other failings. So here’s my question to myself today, and a question more of us should be asking. What am I willing to let slide to be entertained? What am I willing to let slide to be caught up in a rush of national pride (vicariously, of course, since none of the countries I have lived in long term are in the tournament)? 

To say that I am spoiled is an understatement. I get to live in a town where the biggest danger I face is walking home with my groceries through the rain or dodging the one car who doesn’t understand Wolfville’s unique pedestrian rules. I get to sit on my couch, well fed and dry and warm, watching the World Cup matches live streamed on the CBC for free. I am employed and able to support myself, even as a young student. In a few days, I get to see my family again for the second time this year. Read this man’s letter to the Kenyan president in case you also need a reality check for how spoiled you are: http://www.jambonewspot.com/kenyan-writes-president-uhuru-following-mpeketoni-attacks/

Yes, I am angry. But before you get defensive or think that I’m sitting here judging you, let me just remind you that I am perhaps most angry with myself. Only topped by how angry I am with systems worldwide that leave the average man oppressed by inescapable poverty. Only topped by how angry I am with cowards worldwide that leave the average man oppressed by fear to live out his daily routine. 

By no means, am I suggesting to boycott the World Cup and deny yourself of the security and tranquility of a privileged life. Those are extreme reactions, that may or may not be actually useful in the long run. I’m just asking myself (and you, if you should choose to) to sit with the price for a few minutes. If you’re anything like me, it’s going to be uncomfortable and probably very hard to come to terms with. 

Even in my anger, I don’t presume to know how to lower this cost. How to turn a money-making machine like the World Cup into something that celebrates human dignity and spirit in all quarters. All I’m asking is that as fans and global citizens that we pay attention to the voices that aren’t wearing jerseys and scoring goals in this next month. That we let them roar as loudly as a stadium full of passionate football fans. That we mourn with them as deeply as we mourn with our favourites who suffer defeat or humiliation on the pitch. If there’s anything we can learn from this tournament, it’s the power of a common cause to unite millions of people. I mean, Team USA even got Americans excited about football yesterday (okay, obligatory American jab taken care of, sorry, American friends). 

In conclusion, let’s not be the brainwashed, ignorant people the media hopes for us to be. Let’s pay attention over the next month, keep careful stock of the price, and be aware of our own issues with privilege and entitlement. Enjoy the games, cheer your hearts out, but don’t forget the rest of the story.

Here's a photo essay regarding Rio that makes me incredibly uncomfortable. It's worth your time. http://animalnewyork.com/2014/picture-rio-many-brazilians-hate-world-cup/