Reflections on Being a Volunteer

NOTE: The following actually has very little to do with my current level of happiness, which you'll be happy know is very high.
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I’ve never felt completely at ease here. I have never been %100 without reservation about my role here.

For starters, I work at a private school. This is against my most basic principals and belief in public education. This is significant.

Saramen Chuuk Academy exists as a response to a failing public education system. This seems like a fair and justified response. With the public schools failing, the Church does the society a service by providing quality education for the most promising youth. The problem is, all the churches do this, and you end up with 8 schools for a population of a few thousand, and resources being split up and wasted. Why not use all that power, influence and money to get the public system back on its feet? And instead of bringing JVIs to Saramen Chuuk Academy, why not send them to the public school? Put all the volunteers together? This would truly, more purely satisfy the needs of the people, especially of the poor, which ought to matter to a Christian. So, I’m not convinced that SCA’s very existences was, or is the best response to a failing public high school, and I’m not convinced that I couldn’t be of more use at Chuuk High School.

Secondly, I’m working in Chuuk which, while it got screwed over by the U.S., feels like a place that needs to take control of itself and take its destiny back into its own hands. There are Chuukese who could teach, but do not for a various number of reasons. Most predominantly it is because they never came back from their education and experiences abroad. It is not clear to me that we, as volunteers, are what is needed at this point. At least, not as North American, western volunteers.

Chuuk needs self confidence, optimism and hope in its own abilities. I do not want someone to attribute a Saramen Chuuk Academy student’s abilities to the presence of Jesuit Volunteers. I want them to attribute it to the school itself, a Chuukese school, run by Chuukese, for Chuukese. And to attribute it to the abilities and strengths of the student him or herself. In short, I want to be invisible. If we are going to be here, then I want to be as silent and unnoticeable as possible. I want Chuukese to see the inherent potential of Chuukese, despite the discrimination, direct and indirect, that comes from the other states and countries. If we cause a deflating “oh, it’s because they have Jesuit Volunteers” sentiment then I want to leave.

For these two reasons I do not think I will ever be fully at ease here. Not that I don’t love it. I love the people, the students, the school, the teachers. The islands are beautiful, and I’m happy on a day to day basis. Wonderfully happy. It is just that I am not convinced that everything is as it ought to be, that I really want to be supporting, full fledged, that which I am supporting, full fledged, simply by being here.

All that said, I find comfort in knowing that while it may not feel perfect, it is far from feeling wrong. I am happy, and I take comfort in doing what I can for a state that, like so many, has been marginalized and bullied and has had a massive uphill battle towards equality placed before it.

This I Believe

Last Christmas my mom sent out a book, among others, called "This I Believe." It is a collection of the personal beliefs, or personal credo, of many American men and woman, of all ages and types, put together by NPR (as it is based off of a radio program). The book combines essays from the first series in the 1950s, which was mostly comprised of celebrities, and the more recent series which has more no-names.

A great book, Monica and I read them all while she was here (her idea) and decided it would be wortwhile to try writing ones ourselves. So, we got our whole community here in Chuuk to write them, and then one Monday night shared them all. Caitlin, earlier today, said she sent hers to a friend and I realized it would be a great thing to put on this here blog. So, I went to my office, found what I wrote, and here it is:

The Equality of Experience

I believe in equality. Not a political, social, and/or economic equality, but a deep, thorough and utter equality of our human experiences. I believe that no one’s experience can set that person above or below anybody else in the world. I believe it can set them apart, yes, for I believe in diversity – I believe in infinite diversity. I do not believe in a hierarchy in the value of given human experiences, given human lives.

My two best friends that I have had the longest in life thus far are Dan and Alex. I have known Dan since before I can remember, and Alex since 7th grade. Both are more intelligent than I, and yet for different reasons were less “academically” inclined in elementary and then especially high school. They learned, and understood, but weren’t as bothered with all the “shoulds” of being a “high school student.” For my part, I did well enough “academically” and was accepted into a good school that my parents could afford. Dan went to a family school on the East coast and Alex went to none, preferring to explore and learn about life through his own means.

Because of my family and my college I have been able to spend time in many countries on many continents. I’m now teaching on a Pacific island with palm trees, coconuts and the ocean literally all around. I could write for pages about seemingly exotic sights and experiences, even though they are simply normal here. And yet, I know that when I return home the same beautiful thing will happen that happens every time we three have a reunion.

Dan and Alex have traveled less than I, and have had fewer “amazing experiences,” by our culture's ignorant and faulty idea and definition. Nonetheless, when we see each other, I will feel wonderfully humble. When I am with them, I know that they have as much to say, and will always have as much to say about being human as I will. For they, like myself, live it everyday.

It is this equality that I believe in. That the “human experience” is inherently made up of the equal sum of our individual lives, our individual realities, our individual experiences. That we each have as much sharing and listening to do as the next person. This I believe.

Hallowe'en Night

Wow. Cancelled last year at the last minute, this November 1^st, 2007, Saramen Chuuk Academy once again hosted its famed “Hallowe’en Night.” The fame is well deserved.

Saramen Chuuk Academy, if you have yet to see any pictures (check out the link to the right), is a three story, “L” shaped building that has hallways which are open like balconies to an inner courtyard. The students took the desks out of one of the freshman classes (1^st floor), the two sophomore classes and one junior classroom (3^rd floor), and one senior classroom (3^rd floor). These they transformed into a restaurant, a scary movie theatre, a game room (think “carnival”), a haunted house and a dance room, respectively. They also created a snack bar out of the conference room.

At around 6:00 pm people started showing up. Many, many people. Thank God there was power, although we did have an intricate system of wires and lights connected to the church’s generator, just in case. You paid 50¢ at the stairwell for entrance to the 2^nd and 3^rd floors. You then could buy tickets, for 25¢ each. These got you into the different booths. Three for the haunted house, one for each game you played in the game room (complete with prizes), etc. It was run on an extremely low budget, but people were more than willing to pay – and they pay again!

And there were so many people! It reminded me of dances in high school. No uniforms, so everyone was either in crazy costumes or dressed up to look good. Everyone was young, except a few parents (who spent most of their time trying to win prizes in the game room or eating at the restaurant). And everyone was having a good time.

The restaurant was an all you can eat buffet, with breaded chicken, taro, drinks, sashimi (delicious raw fish), and, of course, spam, among other things. The senior girls were in charge of that one, so it was well decorated and had classy tables and chairs (where they got so many identical sets is beyond me).

The movie theatre had two movies going on at once, so you had your choice. They just put some TVs up high and you made yourself comfortable. The game room had dart throwing, ping-pong ball tossing, card games, and a number of other activities. You had a chance of winning a prize with every game you plated. There were always a myriad of people in and out of that room.

The haunted house is the prized room, and went to the senior boys. Marcos, Jessie and I waited in line together, getting nervous together (there were loud screams coming out of there!) for a while before finally getting our chance. They set it up so that we had to crawl our way around the room in darkness, while they slammed onto the walls on either side and above us and used amplifiers and their voices to generally freak us out. Unlike what you see in North America, once we finished, they turned on the lights and smiled and asked how we liked it. We talked, laughed, then went out so the next set could go in. Nothing compared to a Jonathan production, but worth the 75¢.

After eating a delicious meal at the restaurant we trekked up to the dance room, paid our three tickets, walked into the room and BAM – we were hit with the wall of hot air that was being produced by this oven of a room. In a split second we were sweating, before we had even started dancing. There were so many people, and everyone dancing! Someone had a keyboard, and a couple guys were singing, and everyone was grooving. Near the end, they busted out some solid hip hop, a circle formed, and people streamed in and out pop-and-locking and break dancing. Unfortunately, our star student dancer, Franky, didn’t make it in before the music stopped. We wanted to see him dance, so after we kicked everyone out at the end we closed the door so we could do some “cleaning” – and then proceeded to seriously rock out with the loud music and the now spacious and cool room. Sick dancing. Not a bad way to end a night.

And so, by about 9:15 everyone was clearing out. People streaming out to cars (I’ve never seen so many!), lounging around with friends, pushing the envelope for how late they could stay, smiling, laughing, and saying goodnight to their friends and classmates. Rooms got locked up, lights turned off, and SCA was slowly put to sleep. We had heard that it was a good night, but this “Hallowe’en Night” exceeded all expectations. What can be said, but simply “wow?” Maybe the equally informative exclamation of “awesome.”

Congratulations to the students of Saramen Chuuk Academy on an amazing night.

The Angry Panda?

Every now and again I wonder about the name of this blog and how many people know the story behind it. I think to myself, I should post the story, just in case. And then my train continues on to other stations and countrysides (apparently “countrysides,” plural, is not actually a word, but I’m going to just ignore that and use it anyway).

Well, tonight I’m going to tell the story of the “Angry Panda.”

The Angry Panda was born around Christmas time last year (2006), in the middle of an intense and loud badminton game. Greg Watson and I, “G-Dubs” and “L-Train,” were on one side, Chris Dwyer and AJ Cabrera were on the other. This was up at Xavier High School, where Chris and AJ had been playing badminton for months. That didn’t intimidate us, however, because what we lacked in any skill we more than made up for in our trash talking and testosterone levels. We were in the height of one of our energetic self inspirational moments, after having just dropped 3 points in a row, when out of nowhere – and I mean nowhere – Greg says, “Be an angry Panda! ANGRY PANDA!”

I just stopped in my tracks, I simply froze. I looked at him for a moment, and said “An angry panda? An angry Panda would look like this” and then just gave him the blankest, most expressionless face for about 5 deadpan seconds. Whether you find this funny now, as you read it, doesn’t really matter. It was hysterical at the moment, and so thus the “Angry Panda” was born.

The Angry Panda would then pop up from time to time throughout the rest of the Christmas vacation. As he evolved he diversified in his emotions. There was the “Hungry Panda” which was the 5 second Angry Panda with a subtle, longing munch on the 3^rd second. The “Thirsty Panda” which had a licking of the lips at the 3^rd second. The “Sad Panda,” which was the Angry Panda with eyes downcast, except for one glance up on the 3^rd second. And so on.

And it is no coincidence that the Angry Panda was in the height of his popularity when I created this blog. I was gmailing with Greg about site names, and he mentioned the Angry Panda, and so it was. It seemed only natural, only right. And there’s been no looking back!

Monica Was Here!

Monica came August 15th, and left September 17th, and it was absolutely amazing to have her here. Any doubt, any fear, any uncertainty there may have been with who we were and what we meant to each other was completely destroyed by that month together. To simply be together was happiness.

While Monica was here she had a chance to see this life in its day to day reality. She saw the students, had a chance to get to know them, to hear them sing, and even to teach them a little (she taught my Economics class, and then we also taught swing dancing together after school). She also saw our community lives, how we eat dinner, how we spend time during and after school, how we take out the trash. She was able to see the school, the other teachers, and the local neighbourhood. She had a chance to see everything that was “normal,” which was the idea exactly.

Monica and I also had a chance to visit a couple of places on weekends as well. One weekend we spent on Pisar with Marcos, Jessie and Caitlin (fellow community mates), which is nothing short of a tropical paradise. Pisar is a white sandy island, away from everything. It has incredible, colourful snorkeling in crystal clear waters, palm trees, coconuts, and an alright view of the sunset. Besides the fact that Monica at one point in the night thought that the island was going to sink because of the rain, it was nothing but peaceful and beautiful. We took pictures!

We also had a chance to visit my host family on their home island of Siis, my favourite island I’ve seen in Chuuk yet. It is not Weno and so has a true Chuukese feel. It is small with no noise, no raods, few stores and a quietness and peace that exists on many of the islands that are not Weno, the most “developed” island (the capital). People walk leisurely from place to place and visit each other without pretense or reason other than just to visit. We swam with my host sisters at my favourite beach, went to mass (Monica wore a Mumu, a Chuukese cultural dress!), went to a funeral (paid our respects), ate, slept, relaxed. As a bonus, we had beautiful boat rides there and back which took us between and beside other islands of the lagoon.

On top of these island visits, we saw Xavier and that JVI community up there “on the hill,” and Monica got a chance to see the international band of which I have found myself a part. It recently formed here on Chuuk, and I’ve joined them on the harmonica. Not necessarily the highest in quality, we have fun doin’ the mess around and playing songs of every imaginable style and genre that we like. Monica and I also made it to Truk Stop a couple of times, a nearby hotel with a dock that shoots way out into the water, for refreshing smoothies. A tranquil place to swim, read, watch the sunset and relax. Sadly, and inexplicably, the hotel makes fruit smoothies with ingredients like bananas, coconuts, mangos and pineapples (all of which grow in abundance here in Chuuk) with pre-made, sugary powders. What??

Anyways, besides these visits and outings Monica and I had a chance to simply see each other, talk to each other, catch up. In the end though, we could talk about intense things, mundane things, or nothing at all and it wouldn’t have mattered. What mattered was being together, and that’s what we had a chance to be, for a few weeks. It was recharging, and the departure, although sad, lacked the fear and apprehension of a similar departure a year earlier. That was probably the best thing of it all. I may have cried watching her walk across a tarmac onto a plane under floodlights and a beautiful starry sky, but my heart was at peace. I’ve found myself completely in love.

Anecdotes of a Summer

I've been meaning to do this for some time now. Here are a bunch of short anecdotes about my time in Pohnpei. It was a beautiful summer!

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HAP: The Higher Achievement Program, run by the Jesuits in the region, is a summer program for high achieving 7th going on 8th graders. A couple of students are taken from each elementary school all over the state, and they come together for a summer of advanced teaching and relationship building. At the beginning, everyone is terrified to speak. At the end, we had a whole day picnic/party on the beach! And, as a bonus, I got to teach alongside Colleen (JV from Xavier) and under Tim (a JV from Pohnpei) as a director, which made my summer complete.

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HAP II: Teaching a bunch of great students, for a half a day in the summer, was great fun. Everyone wanted to be there, wanted to participate, wanted to learn. This allowed for hilarious moments to be hilarious and not awkward. For example, I told one of the better students to change seats. He got up, and I pulled the chair away as I looked around the class for where he should go. He didn’t want to wait standing up, so he sat back down – only there was no longer any chair. A crash, a moment of me looking down at what I had done, and then histaria. Good times.class.

We also did swing dancing, and I have to mention two students - Jerome and Jocelyn. We were preparing a dance for a performance at our graduation, and these two went to town. They were awesome at it, and they led and inspired the other kids. Sadly, on the day of our performance, Jocelyn’s over-demanding father took her away when she didn’t receive any special awards at the graduation ceremony. She didn’t have a chance to tell anyone, and so we all waited, delayed as long as we could, before finally performning because we could not wait. We danced, but without our usual joy and spirit. Jerome said “Me and Jocelyn will dance tomorrow, at the picnic.” But they did not, as she wasn’t allowed to attend that either. I didn’t find out why she hadn’t come until only a couple of weeks ago. Sad and frustrating.

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Buses: We took our HAP kids to Nan Madol for a field trip one Friday. Nan Madol is akin to the pyramids in it’s majestic mystery – absolutely massive basalt pillars and beams shape and frame the place, and no one has any idea how they got to where they are. So that was cool to see.

And cool to get there alive, see them alive. We were late leaving due to a miscommunication, and perhaps someone felt bad for this because all three bus drivers drove us to Nan Madol like they were being chased by Jehu’s Chariot – and they went the long way. The roads in Pohnpei are small, and given it’s island nature, absolutely not straight, and so we were literally careening around the island. I haven’t been as scared since driving in India. Students throwing up, people yelling, it was a bad sight.

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Kids in the rain: Sean is a Peace Corps guy in Pohnpei who started a youth soccer program. We became good friends, as he is a great guy. As for the program, we got to help out a little while we were there and it was amazing. Such dedication, enthusiasm, and natural talent! I will never forget one Wednesday practice that I was doing on my own. We were just playing a game, and it started pouring – and I mean pouring. Windy, muddy, soaking, swampy wetness. The field was getting flooded, all shirts were getting muddy, and no one cared. They were so happy playing, so excited about playing that they didn’t even blink an eye. Even the adult players, who usually came every night at around 7:00pm (they have field lights!), didn’t show up that night. But the kids, man, the kids were amazing. They said it all in their smiles.

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Soccer: One of the greatest joys this summer was being able to play soccer at least twice a week. Ex-pats and Pohnpeins would gather around 7:00 pm, under the lights, and we’d usually play until 8:30, 9:00pm. We’d use small goals (which, frustratingly, often people just stood in to block shots. Lame.), cones and pinneys. It was fast, energetic, and challenging enough to be satisfying. And so awesome to play under lights! We only got one full field game in over the summer, but that game was great. It made me excited to see organized sports again.

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Bikini Island: One day Dali, our awesome Pohnpein teaching colleague at HAP, took us out to a small, man-made family island they had made just inside the reef. Due to its size, it was named “Bikini Island.” Swimming at “Bikini” was beautiful – there was coral, a bamboo raft, salt water, and the most spectacular benjo (outhouse) you’ve ever seen. Check out pictures for that one. Swimming there, with the younger kids and my fellow JVs, it just felt like home. So comfortable, so peaceful, and nowhere else to go but in and out of the beautiful water.

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Thorphin: The Thorphin is an old Norwegian whaler that has been converted into a lagoon live aboard diving ship. It is captained by someone from Canada, and is a staple in Chuuk. It has a diesel engine, and single handedly consumes the waste oil produced by the generators in the four F.S.M. states. At the beginning of the summer it inexplicably ran into the reef while leaving Pohnpei after refueling. It remained stuck there for the whole summer, mostly for legal rather than logistic reasons. The Pohnpein Port Authority (PPA) wanted to fine the Thorphin for not using a pilot (it hasn’t in decades). The Thorphin, represented by a great guy we played soccer with (Steve), said they would simply sue for the innumerable negligent actions of the PPA, including placing none of the marking buoys required by their own laws.

Can we look at this for a second? An example of ineffective bureaucratical functioning. We have a ship, sinking on a reef, which has thousands of gallons of oil on board from refueling. Even without the environmental danger, if the ship sinks in the pass, supply ships won’t be able to make it into the harbour until it is salvaged. There is no salvaging equipment in the country. Lastly, the ship in question single-handedly deals with all of the waste oil produced by the entire country. And the PPA is trying to nail them on breaking a transportation law, before they’re trying to get them off the reef. A rethinking of priorities may have been, I think, in order. It’s ok now though, the Thorphin made it to the Philippines where it is being repaired on a dry dock.

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Airports: People traveling in F.S.M., especially those who fly, not only carry themselves but also act as the mail service for their friends and families. Friends of ours, a Shri-Lankan family with one sister in Pohnpei and another in Chuuk, approached me at the airport with a giant case of Soy milk and asked if I could take it to the other sister and husband and their son, who all love Soy milk but can’t get it in Chuuk. I was only checking one bag, so sure. I checked two. And I was met by Jonathan, our friend and the son of the sister, at the airport in Chuuk. It worked seamlessly.

But the best thing is, there’s no restrictions on who takes what. While waiting to get cleared at the customs place, one of the guys inside the booth saw the lady behind me, recognized her as a relative, and excitedly asked her if she was going to Yap. Yes, she said, and so he gave her a letter to deliver there. As it exchanged hands in front of me, I saw that is was from the Attorney General’s office and was addressed to a government official in Yap. Like I said, it works.


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Rise up singing: One of the best nights of summer, if not the best night, was the night a music professor from North Carolina inspired a round table of old Jesuits and young Jesuit volunteers to sing songs for hours after dinner. We had just finished eating when he pulled out the guitar, and asked if he might play one song. He did, everyone loved it, and we never stopped. I especially loved it because it was a lot of old folk songs I really like, so I was right in there with the Fathers. There was a little harmonica playing as well. It felt like Christmas in July in Pohnpei!

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Bittersweet: Leaving was. I was longing to get back to Chuuk, but Pohnpei was amazing. Living at the Jesuit residence, playing soccer any night of the week, having power, having great company, it was all a beautiful thing. But it wasn’t home. It was a vacation. And I was ready to get back home, to get back to Saram and the Saramen Chuuk Academy family.

A Happy Household

Fr. McGarry is one of those "old guys" who says things under his breath and in a sort of mumbling way that, when you hear them, make you spit out your milk and start rolling on the floor laughing. Unfortunately I can't really give examples, because about 80% of the humour is of the "you had to be there" variety, but I'll hope you trust me on this one. Naturally, then, while all of the priests we are living with are exceptional in there own right (Fr. Fran is an encyclopedia, Fr. Cav is jolly as can be, and Fr. Dave has an ease and sensitivity about him that makes you instantly comfortable and at home), Fr. McGarry naturally became the one that we laugh with the most.

And so, naturally, the one we decided to play a prank on (don't worry, playing pranks on priests is kosher :) when you live with them).

The idea started developing the days before, as we listened to Fr. McGarry gripe and groan about this massive jar of three-berry jam that had been opened, and consequently needed to be finished before a new jar of jam - of a different flavoured jam - could be opened. He hated three-berry, but loved all other sorts. So he would eat as much as he could at any given sitting, and would do his best to get others to join him in his efforts (with little success I think).

Finally, a couple of days ago, the jar was almost empty. It would be done within the day or two. It was at lunch when we started asking what would happen if one of us finished it and decided we liked three-berry jam and opened another jar of it. Immediately, simply, and straightforwardly he said "I'd kill you." Never mind consequences.

The idea thus presented itself in our minds - what if Fr. McGarry did think another jar of three berry jam had been opened? What would he do?

That night, the three-berry jam was finished. Triumphantly, gloriously, and very vocally Fr. McGarry opened a new jar of STRAWBERRY jam. Giant, like the last one, but strawberry this time. He happily ate some toast and jam and went to bed. We - Colleen, Tim and myself, the JVs of the house - started brainstorming. The jars were the same size, same brand, everything, and eventually we thought we'd see if we couldn't switch labels. We tried pulling the three-berry jam label off and --- voila! It worked! Thank God for the humidity of the islands! We peeled it off, slowly and carefully, and equally slowly and carefully put it on the strawberry jam jar - and it was beautiful. Looked exactly like a jar of three-berry jam. Perfect! We put it back in the fridge, giggled, and went to bed.

The next day at lunch Fr. McGarry decided to have jam. We were all sitting around the circular dining room table, in great anticipation. Fr. Dave had also been alerted to the game, and played his party very well. Fr. McGarry went to the fridge, got the jam, a plate, his toast, sat down. Fr. Cav also got his pancakes from the microwave and BBQ sauce to smother them in, and sat down. Fr. McGarry looked at the jam and said "Does anyone realize what a terrible mistake has been made? Apparently I opened another bottle of three-berry jam... This is terrible..." In resignation to another long effort he opened the jar, stuck in his knife, and got himself some jam.

A lot of jam.

It was at this point that Fr. Cav realized he had BBQ sauce, not syrup, and got up again to switch them and put his coffee in the microwave.

It got better. Fr. McGarry started talking about how it wasn't so bad, it just wasn't great. Fr. Dave then said, quietly, "It's all in the mind father, it's all in the mind." Fr. Cav then got up because he realized he had put his coffee in for not 1 minute and 17 seconds but 1 hr. and 17 minutes. Fr. McGarry then, holding the jar up to the light, said he was trying to get the strawberry bits in the jam because they tasted the best. We all were cracking up (even Fr. Dave was enjoying himself), Fr. Cav told us to stop laughing at him (he didn't know about the jam) and Fr. McGarry was in a general state of distress and disappointment.

It was then that Colleen spun the GIANT lazy Susan around and quietly scratched off the "Three-Berry" part of the label, leaving the "Strawberry" underneath, and inconspicuously spun it again so the jam stopped in front of Fr. McGarry. Eventually, he noticed it, and rather sheepishly admitted to his craziness, thinking that he had opened a three-berry jam. He hadn't, he had opened strawberry, and so he made his confessions to all for his mistake.

We couldn't stop smiling!

After this we explained what we did. Fr. Dave was smiling, Fr. Cav was laughing, Fr. Fran was in the Marshalls, and Fr. McGarry wasn't sure what to do anymore - looking more than a little lost. Lost, but happy. After all, he had his strawberry jam.

A happy household!

Pohnpein Perspective

Perspective is a crazy thing. When I was training at Oberlin for soccer, as a goalie, our coach had us (my counterpart Clayton and I) do this exercise that exploited this fact. We were made to try and stop shots taken on larger and larger nets, until we were standing between two full-size nets doing our best to stop any shots being fired at us. After doing this for a while, we went back to a smaller sized net and it felt tiny - like the posts were right beside us. We felt infinitely more confident and able. Like many, many exercises and activities of the sort, it exploited our use of perspective in our game - what was doable, what was not. What was close/far.

Whatever. The point is that the experience was no less dramatic for Colleen and I, returning to the state of Pohnpei for a second time after ten months in Chuuk. We stopped by Pohnpei on our flight to Chuuk back in August, and spent a few days here, before heading to our final destination and future home. During that time, we didn't think much of the place, although our second year JVs from Chuuk praised it and seemed to glorify the mundane in it. Silly things like "the roads are SO nice here" and "enjoy the 24hr power." Now, after 10 months in Chuuk, our return to Pohnpei has been full of similar exlamations.

The first day here we went to visit the house of Tim and Greg, the Pohnpein JVs, where we can't stay because they have to build a new wall in preparation for a new JV next year, and I almost died on the way back. In Chuuk, if a car is coming up behind you, you have about 5 minutes from when you hear until when it will eventually get to you. Even then, it's usually a better idea to look behind you as it gets really close to see whether you moving to the right or to the left would be a better idea, given the location of whatever holes and/or ruts are in the vicinity. In Pohnpei, however, cars will just go straight and you have about 5 seconds between when you hear a car and when it gets directly behind you. My reactions are not used to this, so I almost didn't make it out of the way. When finally my brain registered that I need to get out of the way quickly I jumped off the road as the car flew past. A bit of a wake up call.

And there does indeed seem to be power on 24hrs a day, 7 days a week. I do wonder how much this fact alone accounts for the development discrepancies between Chuuk, specifically the island of Weno, and Pohnpei.

Not only is Pohnpei "hooked up" as it were, we also are fortunate - and extremely thankful - to be staying at the Jesuit house here in Kolonia town. A beautiful, relatively new residence it provides us spacious and comfortable rooms, with our own desks, fans, and sinks, a place to eat with great company (the Jesuits themselves) and food made by a talented and joyful cook (Nini) as well as access to this place, the Micronesia Seminar (a treasury of history and information on the islands), and a truck (from time to time). How was that for a sentence? Nothing, compared to this place as a place. Kolonia itself is overflowing with luxuries. There's even a movie theatre - with three screens! It costs money, so we'll probably go once, maybe twice, but the idea alone is exciting. And of course, like Chuuk, it has its own natural luxuries. Beautiful hikes, places, and people.

Tim, Colleen and I are going to be running a summer school program here for high achievers, so there will be some work to be done, but the principal of the school we'll be using commanded that we not work too hard. He said, "two bits work, three bits play at least." Ok. :)

The summer is shaping up to be a good one! *knock on wood*

A Response to "Privilege Confuses Me..."

Abby Browne, a great friend from Vermont, wrote an email to me after reading my post about privilege. She had some good things to say, at least things that I needed to hear, so I asked if I could post them. Here are highlights:

Privilege. What does it mean? Unfortunately it seems as though it's another one of those abstractions that we all take for granted, and that people like you and me, are labeled as having it. Though I don't entirely disagree. Sure, it's socially constructed, what commonly used abstraction isn't? To me, I see privilege more as opportunity than just economic stability, though they do relate. You and I never questioned where our next meal would come from growing up. We never hoped that we would be fortunate (there's another one of those words, fortunate) enough to have shelter in a storm, because we never doubted having a home. We have families that love and support us, and due to our circumstances, we were able to go to college (even if we're paying for it twenty years later), and able to support ourselves effectively. Of course it wasn't necessarily a simple process, but we do not have the limitations that so many people have across the world, and that is what makes us privileged.

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When I think of poverty, I think of those without homes, without jobs, without food, without any sort of shelter, without the economic means of supporting their families. Poverty to me is a much more physical, concrete, thing than privilege. Yes, I think we should fight poverty. When half of the world overconsumes, is overweight, and wastes enough food to feed those impoverish countries, then something should be done to make sure that no one is left out.

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We are lucky that we have choices that don't sacrifice our personal nourishment. We are lucky that we can sit here and discuss our privilege. Would we be talking about this if we were too busy hunting for food, whether in a trash can in the park, or across the savannah? It's not just money, it's not just choices, I certainly don't think it's material possessions or power. It takes an amazing person with something much more than the physical world to see life like the Zionist woman did [a South African Zionist woman, of grandmotherly age, who had to walk several miles to work every morning, and lived illegally with her son and his family in government housing, during Apartheid, and would joyfully sing praise to God. She was happy.]. It seems to me that it's much easier for us as humans to fall into material self-doubt, hatred and greed than find the good in every situation. Is that our culture, or our human nature? Or is that our next discussion topic?

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Poverty is real, privilege is real, and a greater equality - a greater global, social equality should be sought. We just need to fight the battle with as much self-awareness as possible. We need to be able to identify our human needs and our cultural needs, distinguish the two, and do our best to act in the best interests of both. It feels daunting, but necessary. Poverty and privilege are ideas, but they are also very real, and that while discussions are good, they must never lose sight of nor distract from this reality. It's a little clearer now... :)

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.