Privilege confuses me.

Privilege confuses me. So does “counting my blessings.” Be happy with all that you’ve got, there are so many less fortunate. What does that mean, so many less fortunate?

We recently had our mid-term/end-term retreat for our two years as JVIs. For one of our sessions we read an article called Becoming a Development Category by Nanda Shrestha of Nepal. He speaks, from personal experience, about the psychological and cultural effect of “Westerners” (whatever that means) in Nepal – how, as colonial powers, they “manage to disrupt in spectacular fashion the cultural life of a conquered people.”*

In the course of the piece he says, “To my innocent mind, poverty looked natural…it never seemed threatening and dehumanizing.” He goes on to talk about bikas, and the bikasis (the developed), who had acquired some knowledge of so-called modern science and technology in contrast to the abikasis or pakhe who were uncivilized, underdeveloped, backward. In the eyes of the bikasis, “whatever human capital, productive forces or knowledge our parents [as pakhe] had accumulated over the years did not count for much.” With the arrival of Missionaries with medicine whites, who were once mocked and treated as the lowest in the societal pyramid, were placed at its apex. This “accentuated whites’ pre-existing feeling of superiority and, in their own minds, justified their treatment of us as uncivilized and inferior or as needing salvation.” Thus, Peace Corps Volunteers (as an example) “saw themselves as advisors and exhibited an aura of superiority” and the “bikas solidified the colonial notion that we were incapable of doing things for ourselves and by ourselves.”

Essentially, in Nepal’s attempt to become “Westernized” Shrestha says, “we have created a monster out of developmentism, lost touch with our social consciousness and humanity, and surrendered our national dignity and culture.” All in the name of fighting that horrendous evil that is poverty.

But what is poverty? For one thing, with what criteria are we measuring poverty? Wealth? For another, why is poverty so looked down upon, so despised, so feared, so stigmatized??

This is where it gets confusing for me. All my life I’ve been brought up to understand my privilege, to be aware of how lucky I am to have the opportunities I’ve had and have, and to be responsible and outward looking with such privilege. What am I going to do with my privilege, I’ve been asked time and time again. Help those less privileged? Or simply pursue my privilege to a greater height? It always seemed honourable, righteous, even humble to acknowledge how lucky I was, how “blessed,” and then to challenge myself about what I was going to do then with my life. But of late, I’ve been really uncomfortable with the thinking about myself as “privileged” at all.

After all, who is measuring this privilege? Who decides what privilege is at all? Power? Money? Wealth? Choices? Material possessions? And yet Jesus says “Blessed are the poor, the meek” and “the first shall be last, the last shall be first.” Buddha encourages detachment from material and worldly things, and we all know the expressions “money doesn’t buy happiness,” “power corrupts,” and “keep it simple stupid.” Why do we then equate privilege, or progress, development, with these things that we’ve acknowledged miss the point?

It is generally accepted that in life we all desire to avoid suffering and to be happy. So why don’t we seek out people who seem to be happier, and call them the privileged and try to learn from them? Why don’t we seek out the simpler lives, and call them privileged, and learn from them? Why not put that pursuit – the pursuit of happiness – above all others, rather than the distractions that are money, power, wealth? Why aren’t the happier nations, rather then the “richer” nations, the ones “leading the world?”

And yet it gets more confusing because I know that there is some reality in this privilege I’ve been told I possess. I have opportunities that are inaccessible to many in Micronesia, and yet desired. I have access to health care, and have had a significant education. I have a greater freedom to follow my will. The list goes on, but despite it all I remain suspricious, uncomfortable and unconvinced that this privilege is little more than a superficial social structure.

Privilege confuses me. I wonder if instead of looking down to see how we can help the “poor” we ought instead to be looking up to ask for help ourselves?

* This was actually a quote he used to begin his article, taken from someone named Fanon.

International Football

Nine young men. Five nationalities. One spectacular day.

It was Saturday, May 26, 2007. Xavier High School, of Chuuk, Micronesia, had just completed its 52^nd commencement ceremonies. With the end of the ceremony came a torrential downpour, adding volumes of water to an already soaked field in the centre of the school’s campus. Nine young men decided there could be nothing better to do then go sporting in the muck.

Greg, Tim, AJ and Chris from the United States, Nick and Paul from Australia, Nan from Japan, Marcos from Mexico and yours truly from Canada all decided that, given the lack of a frisbee (obviously the first choice of sport to be played in the wet mud), American football would be the sport of the day. Tackle, of course.

The field was probably 40 yards long, with a halfway marker that, if passed, gave you a first down. We played three downs before a turn-over, and disallowed quarterback rushes except once per set of downs you could do a blitz. Otherwise, you had to wait through ten Mississippis. All other rules were as normal. Only one on-side kick was attempted.

There was everything. There were running plays, throwing plays, interceptions, hard tackles, missed tackles, diving catches, diving misses, sprinting, jogging, walking. We only lost one player to injury (he was fine the next day) while we had an assortment of other small mishaps. Paul got a rock stuck in his heel, put he pulled it out. Marcos played with a wrapped up hand. My face got planted into the ground by Chris, who is a foot taller than myself (people keep asking “what happened to your face?” So I tell them). In short, all very manly.

But seriously, it was awesome. Rain, mud, slipping and sliding and just so, so much fun. I can safely say that I’ve never had more fun playing a game of football in my life. I hope that we all remember that when it is raining it is then that we should go outside, and run around in the mud! Yippee!

Naïvité

We read “I Heard The Owl Call My Name” in my literature class last quarter. It is the story of a priest who is stationed in a remote Native American village on the coast of British Columbia, Canada. At this village was a teacher, a man there to make good money so he could then travel to Greece to study a culture he was actually interested in.

The priest and the teacher bumped in to each other at one point, and had a brief interaction. The teacher bluntly told the priest that he had no respect for religion, that it was misguided and that “all religious people were naïve.” The priest agreed and responded saying, “there were two kinds of naïvité, he said, quoting Schweitzer; one not even aware of the problems, and another which has knocked on all the doors of knowledge and knows man can explain little, and is still willing to follow his convictions into the unknown.” I think this is a brilliant response, but not the point.

The point is that we had group discussions about this particular chapter and one group, in response to the question “Why does the teacher call all religious people naïve?” said “Because they believe something that he doesn’t believe.” Perfectly put, and it made me realize something. The non-religious like to put the “burden of proof” on the shoulders of the religious, to prove that what they say is true and not tomfoolery. But often it is forgotten that the acceptance of a reality of God is as much a question of what a non-believer or atheist does not believe as it is a question of what a religious person believes. Christians believe that Jesus was the son of God. Non-Christians disagree. Perhaps Christians, or other “religious people” can’t “prove” that God exists, but neither can the non-religious prove that she does not. To even make the claim, in fact, seems as far-fetched, if not more, than the former.

And I can’t say much, but I can say that being here, I have seen people accept and see the reality of God day to day and it is a humbly experience. It makes me sad to think of how quickly “Christianity” gets disregarded as antiqued, simple-minded, and especially arrogantly exclusive in North America (at least the two most Northern countries). For some, perhaps this is what Christianity means. But to so many, it is so beautiful, so rich, so full of truth and so incredibly inclusive that I often wonder how it could have found itself so misrepresented. It makes one begin, just begin, to understand and relate to why so many Muslims are so frustrated with the misrepresentation of their own religion across the globe. As Nietzsche says, the less you know about something the easier it is to have a strong, clear opinion about it. I just hope all the truth and beauty in the profoundly rich traditions of the world could start to get a greater amount of the attention and focus in these increasingly secular days. That's all I got.

In Other Words...

We just received the May 2007 JVI In the Field newsletter. In it was a quote from Thich Nhat Hanh which I thought was really beautiful. It says exactly what I wanted to say in the post below, and a whole lot more, but would never have been able to say so perfectly or poetically ever in my life. It goes like this:

When you see only waves, you might miss the water. But if you are mindful, you will be able to touch the water within the waves as well. Once you are capable of touching the water, you will not mind the coming and going of the waves. You are no longer concerned about the birth and death of the wave. You are no longer afraid. You are no longer upset about the beginning or the end of the wave, or that the wave is higher or lower, more or less beautiful. You are capable of letting these ideas go because you have already touched the water.

Beautiful.

Don't Judge - Award Iggies!

Really. I feel like we all get caught up in the fight to be “successful,” whether we measure that success in money, in love, in friends, in mountains climbed, whatever. This can lead us, or at least me, to unconsciously rate people as more or less, or, in short, to judge others and myself. Am I failing? I lose courage, energy, I shrink from the world. I forget myself. Am I successful? I become arrogant, “all that,” the world is mine for the taking. I forget others. I feel more or less valuable to the world, or society, depending on my successes or failures. I forget that our value is not something we, or anyone, earns. Rev. William Sloane Coffin, one of my religious figures, wrote that “Our value is a gift, not an achievement.”

My older brother Dylan’s response to an exercise in college hits the nail on the head. The problem was how to determine who would be saved if some catastrophe were imminent and only say, 1 million of 300 million people could survive. Who should be saved? How many doctors? Pilots? Engineers? Obviously ignore the criminals… But Dylan said that it should be 100% random, through and through, for you could never make the call that one person was, or would be more or less valuable than any other. No one ever agreed with him, but I think I do. We should never count ourselves, or others, as more or less valuable. We should never judge.

The reason I’m writing about it is because it hit home with me, in a real sense, just last week. We had our end-of-the-year staff retreat, which was an informal and loose affair. After a year full of many frustrations, more frustrations, miscommunications, misunderstandings, even bitterness and anger, it was a stress free reminder of our common humanity. What? As pretentious sounding as it is, there’s no better way to put it. We’re all humans, we all have our own stories, experiences, and lives to share. This year, although it had its shares of joys, there were times when I was ready to strangle people, I thought them near-sighted, blinded by pride, and failing there fellow humans. I thought them less than what they ought to be. But the retreat was a beautiful reminder of how absurd this was for me to say. How little I really knew of them, who they were, are – their stories. Sure, we’ll continue to evaluate, or judge the other’s priorities, ideas, and decisions (their actions) but I hope we remember never to judge them themselves.

Instead of judging, we should lighten our hearts and award Iggies...

The Iggies, named after Ignatius Loyola, was an idea that was dreamed up about two months ago. It came about when someone commented to Lilly (who works at Xavier) that if there was an award in life for style she would win it (she consistently dresses with more style than anyone on the island). From that, a conversation developed that begged the question “Why aren’t there awards for life?” And so the concept of The Iggies was born – a full-fledged, all-out awards ceremony where every award would honour one person of the Xavier work community (plus Marcos and I, honourary Xavier community mates). Perhaps a very western idea, but, again, a brilliant one.

Everyone agreed and so awards were created, such as “Best Achievement in Cooking” in honour of our off-the-hook chef Ellen Derby, or “Best Musical Score” in honour of Marcos’ guitar and singing talents, or “The Sharp Wit Award” in honour of the quiet, but sharply witty Xavier principal Anne. Then, nominations, then votes, so that come awards night no one but the organizer (AJ) knew who had won what.

The night itself was spectacular. In our way, we decked out the dining hall, Ellen and company made some awesome pizza (there was cheese on island!!!), and the lighting was appropriately adjusted. AJ created an amazing power-point presentation that was projected on a white screen behind a temporary platform (our stage) that gave everything a very professional feel (the nominees are…). And everyone came dressed to the nines – island style (ie. wraps and lavalavas etc.). And we had our awards ceremony. And it was amazing. Fun, entertaining, and quietly affirming of everyone. A beautiful night, a celebration of our differences, our individuality, what makes us unique. It was, in its way, an acknowledgement of mutual respect.

Not much could have been better. Except one thing. I won the Iggie for “Best Subject of the Queen.” Totally sweet. Long live the Queen!

Habitionism

Spring break of my sophomore year was spent hanging out with my British roommate Sacha Rattle in San Francisco. While there, as we were both avid swing dancers, we did a lot of dancing, and met a lot of fellow dancers and had many an opportunity to hang out, chill out and discuss import, non-swing related ideas and theories.

On one Sunday afternoon the topic of inhibitions came up. For any non-social dancers out there, it can be intimidating as hell to ask someone you know is a better dancer than you to dance with you in a partner dance - especially as a lead. Our inhibitions take control, and 98% of the time soundly defeat us. We dance with others, but are often left unsatisfied and regretful at the end of the night because of our own cowardice. And why? For what? Dancing with people who are "not as good" as us makes no difference to us, and yet we think "they" care. In the moments of decision, we forget that the point is just to have a good time dancing to the music you love. Instead, our inhibitions hold us back.

And so the idea of "habitionism" was born - the idea that our own inhibitions should never stop us from doing something we would love to do. A banner to rally behind, a word of inspiration, confidence and courage. As simple as, "Should I? Yes - I should be a habitionist!" et voila - you're dancing with Frida.

And so, we come to blogging. Did I want a blog? No. I was afraid that it was self-indulgent and presumptuous. Who am I to say that my life is worth writing a blog about? Or my thoughts worth writing anywhere else besides my journal, a small black books that is, in a default situation, off limits to all but myself? Who am I to say that others will be interested in my experiences of life?

But then recently I realized how much I appreciate the stories and thoughts of others, in all their forms, at any time. And I think this is the one amazing thing about us all. We all have stories to tell, and thoughts to speak, and one advantage of globalization is the greater ability we have to share these stories, and in so doing learn so much more about ourselves and our condition as humans. Ok, that was presumptuous. The point is this - there have been times in the past when I've been frustrated looking at a freeway. I see so many cars, and I know they're filled with so many people, and I know that every single person in each care has a story, a set of life experiences completely different from anyone else, and yet I can't fathom it. My mind can't do it. I can't comprehend it. I want to hear their stories.

But who am I to want to hear the stories of others while being to afraid to share my own? Who am I to read the blogs of others, with great joy, and be unwilling to step up to the task myself?

And so here it is. A blog. Some stories and thoughts, to those whom it concerns, for what they're worth.