Friday, August 22, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Music Theory
Music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life - Berthold Auerbach.
After hearing that there are seven of us who had never met each other living in the same house in a city we had never been to, many of my friends said, "oh my gosh! You guys are like The Real World: Bethel, AK!". I must admit that there are seven strong and diverse (in a good way) personalities living in the house. And even though we've only been in Alaska for about a week and a half, we have already managed to cling to a "house song". If we did make Real World: Bethel, then our theme song would undoubtedly be "Wagon Wheel" by Old Crow Medicine Show. Other than Michael who introduced us to the song, none of us had really heard this song before, and now we listen to it all the time, everyday, and sometimes at every meal. In that regard, it reminds me of saying grace, a unifying verse that we let run through us to arrive at out own understanding.
When I was thinking today about this first week of being here finally with our jobs, I couldn't help but to hear that folk melody ride me lazily along my memory. Specifically, I've been thinking about Tuesday the 19th which was Fran's 22nd birthday. She's adventurous, vivacious, and just so full of life. Thus keeping in character, she asked us if we would all jump in the cold Kuskokwim River with her to celebrate. I think that even if we weren't daring before, we all will be when we leave here because it's just the way life is. So of course, we all say yes and head out to the river.
Now I do have to record here that on the way to the river through the tundra, things got a little messy. I don't know how many of you have ever been on tundra before, but it's like this spongy, mossy, ground that reminds us of Mother Nature's moon bounce. Anyways, if it gets wet, it can be very deceiving as to how deep it actually is. Well we were walking on the boardwalk until we got to a part of it that was flooded. Why I thought it was a good idea to walk off the boardwalk so that my feet wouldn't get wet (on my way to jump in a river mind you), I'm not really sure. But when I stepped off of that written wet road, I plunged a good three feet deep in a mud hole that had looked like a shallow puddle. My foot got tangled in a root and bing, bam, boom I fell backwards into more sludge and mud. All onomatopoeia aside, it was pretty funny. Then poor Jon in his valiant attempt to help pull me out (because I kept sinking) lost, found, and broke his shoe... or should I say Maura's shoe... and had to walk to the river and back partially barefoot.
In any case, we make it to the infamous Kuskokwim River where we have all caught, beheaded, gutted, filleted, and eaten fish from. (I really need to put up pictures up of that, trust me.) Michael, who now has a fitting Native name that essentially means "big daddy", was the first to jump into water. As I saw how cold and out of breath he was when he swam up, I began to feel a little more hesitant. But the desire to change grabbed and yanked me off the ledge into that sustaining river. Submerged in the biting water of the far north, I pushed off the mired bottom to regain sight of the scenery of my new tundra life. Then as Maura swam with me to shore, I couldn't help but to think about how much farther away that shore really was first of all, and how different I felt. For fear of stating the obvious cliche of our first "event" all together and sounding too banal, I held this realization in my unrestrained beating heart, tired from the shock and swim.
Even now, I have that grace-filled hymn Wagon Wheel playing as I write about our Alaskan baptism. Within this recollection of the physical and spiritual cleansing, its harmony continues to wash away the remaining misconceptions and inhibitions that I came here with. I'm surprised at myself, though, that it will need to be a daily cleansing because it is more difficult (though necessary) to start fresh within my own self than I thought. People always say that it is a weakness to run away from something; yet when you're running toward something greater, it sheds a new light on that direction. I don't think it's possible to have nothing left behind, and we all are coming from parts or whole pieces of a past that we must run from. But as long as we stay focused on what or whom we're running to, I think we might just make it there. And as the song goes...
After hearing that there are seven of us who had never met each other living in the same house in a city we had never been to, many of my friends said, "oh my gosh! You guys are like The Real World: Bethel, AK!". I must admit that there are seven strong and diverse (in a good way) personalities living in the house. And even though we've only been in Alaska for about a week and a half, we have already managed to cling to a "house song". If we did make Real World: Bethel, then our theme song would undoubtedly be "Wagon Wheel" by Old Crow Medicine Show. Other than Michael who introduced us to the song, none of us had really heard this song before, and now we listen to it all the time, everyday, and sometimes at every meal. In that regard, it reminds me of saying grace, a unifying verse that we let run through us to arrive at out own understanding.
When I was thinking today about this first week of being here finally with our jobs, I couldn't help but to hear that folk melody ride me lazily along my memory. Specifically, I've been thinking about Tuesday the 19th which was Fran's 22nd birthday. She's adventurous, vivacious, and just so full of life. Thus keeping in character, she asked us if we would all jump in the cold Kuskokwim River with her to celebrate. I think that even if we weren't daring before, we all will be when we leave here because it's just the way life is. So of course, we all say yes and head out to the river.
Now I do have to record here that on the way to the river through the tundra, things got a little messy. I don't know how many of you have ever been on tundra before, but it's like this spongy, mossy, ground that reminds us of Mother Nature's moon bounce. Anyways, if it gets wet, it can be very deceiving as to how deep it actually is. Well we were walking on the boardwalk until we got to a part of it that was flooded. Why I thought it was a good idea to walk off the boardwalk so that my feet wouldn't get wet (on my way to jump in a river mind you), I'm not really sure. But when I stepped off of that written wet road, I plunged a good three feet deep in a mud hole that had looked like a shallow puddle. My foot got tangled in a root and bing, bam, boom I fell backwards into more sludge and mud. All onomatopoeia aside, it was pretty funny. Then poor Jon in his valiant attempt to help pull me out (because I kept sinking) lost, found, and broke his shoe... or should I say Maura's shoe... and had to walk to the river and back partially barefoot.
In any case, we make it to the infamous Kuskokwim River where we have all caught, beheaded, gutted, filleted, and eaten fish from. (I really need to put up pictures up of that, trust me.) Michael, who now has a fitting Native name that essentially means "big daddy", was the first to jump into water. As I saw how cold and out of breath he was when he swam up, I began to feel a little more hesitant. But the desire to change grabbed and yanked me off the ledge into that sustaining river. Submerged in the biting water of the far north, I pushed off the mired bottom to regain sight of the scenery of my new tundra life. Then as Maura swam with me to shore, I couldn't help but to think about how much farther away that shore really was first of all, and how different I felt. For fear of stating the obvious cliche of our first "event" all together and sounding too banal, I held this realization in my unrestrained beating heart, tired from the shock and swim.
Even now, I have that grace-filled hymn Wagon Wheel playing as I write about our Alaskan baptism. Within this recollection of the physical and spiritual cleansing, its harmony continues to wash away the remaining misconceptions and inhibitions that I came here with. I'm surprised at myself, though, that it will need to be a daily cleansing because it is more difficult (though necessary) to start fresh within my own self than I thought. People always say that it is a weakness to run away from something; yet when you're running toward something greater, it sheds a new light on that direction. I don't think it's possible to have nothing left behind, and we all are coming from parts or whole pieces of a past that we must run from. But as long as we stay focused on what or whom we're running to, I think we might just make it there. And as the song goes...
Oh, the North country winters keep a gettin' me now
Lost my money playin' poker so I had to up and leave
But I ain't a turnin' back
To livin' that old life no more
So rock me mama like a wagon wheel
Rock me mama anyway you feel
Hey mama rock me
Rock me mama like the wind and the rain
Rock me mama like a south-bound train
Hey mama rock me
Monday, August 18, 2008
Social Stratification 101
Sorry about the delay in posting anything or being in contact with you all. Now that I have started work, which is complete with my own office and computer, communication will be much easier.
Anyways, I wanted to reflect here firstly on my orientation, or rather how I got to orientation and then got to my placement here in Bethel. Unbeknownst to me, I was holding a first class ticket to my flight to Portland, OR. We had gone to AAA to buy it and since the agent never asked us what class ticket we wanted, I had assumed she would have given me an economy class (especially for the price that we got it for). Now, everyone has probably heard about how the airlines are charging for everything, particularly for extra baggage and extra weight for baggage. Knowing this my parents gave me money to accommodate. However when I was checking my bags and getting out this money, the woman politely said, "You don't have to pay for anything, miss, because you hold a first class ticket. We'll take care of everything, just go over to your gate when you're ready. Do you want to sign up for our frequent flyers program?" Relieved though confused, I was like, "Hey! Works for me!".
When it came time to board the plane I got to go on first, despite the fact that there was an extensive line already formed and that I was sitting comfortably in my seat far out of line. I walked down the long pathway, breathed in that recycled airplane air, and set my first foot into what I like to call the magical mystical world of first class. The seats were only two to a row, leather, padded, and oh so comfortable. I had all of the leg space in the world, not to mention the window seat and a very amiable gentleman to sit next to. Life was good, even at 6am with practically no sleep. Deep down I knew that this was all too ironic, but I spent most of the flight talking to the man next to me and didn't elaborate this thought at the time.
Then when I was waiting to board my next flight from Atlanta to Portland, I got to talking to a very friendly and chatty woman also going to Portland who also came from Pittsburgh. After I had told her where I came from with her response being, "Oh I didn't see you on the plane", I didn't really know what to say. One of my initial thoughts while on the flight to Atlanta, half kidding and half serious, was why more people don't do this. And then as I was looking at this woman next to me I realized that not everyone can do this. And I do not just mean, not everyone can afford it. I mean that I also noticed how small the first class cabin was. There really are only so many seats, and somehow I had one of them. Me, a Jesuit Volunteer, a person signing up to live simply and in solidarity (on her way to orientation mind you), was flying with the elite.
Then somewhere in between this woman telling me about her grandchildren and birthday parties, I began to feel ashamed. It was a feeling that I have not had much time with in the past, and it is a feeling that I predict I will see more of in the near future. Making it all more intensified, the flight attendant called the first class passengers. The woman hearing the announcement, which interrupted her story, said with a comical sneer, "Oh don't worry about that. That's just the first class being called". Even though I've heard that we have over 50 muscles in the human face, I couldn't get any of them to move upwards into a smile because I knew that her sarcasm for the first class now included me. Inside of myself I was shouting, "I didn't know it was first class! I'm never in first class! I didn't even know where it was on the plane! Don't judge me!". But outwardly I simply thanked her for speaking with me, wished her luck, and got up to go back to that new world I was initially so fond of.
What ate me up inside was that though I wanted to allow her or anyone else board before me, I couldn't. I mean I could have waited in line with the rest of the passengers, but what would that do in the end? What about the family with three young kids and a stroller struggling to hold everything and everyone together in that frozen line? Anywhere else I could have held the door for them or let them go first, but here I felt powerless because of a ticket that was paid for with money that our society deems so powerful.
When I boarded the plane this time, it looked quite different. I remember just staring at the divider between the two classes and thinking, "How did I get here?" and further, "How did I feel when I flew on the other side?" Feeling ashamed of my privilege never occurred to me any time that I flew. There are some privileges that we have that we need to acknowledge and be truly grateful for and use them for the greater good to the best of our abilities. And I'm not saying that I'm not thankful for my parents buying this ticket for me, but I couldn't help but to think about how incentive of the poor I can be riding in any class.
For me, I guess it had been one thing to go volunteer at a soup kitchen or make blankets or fast and apparently an undiscovered mentality for buying material things (even sparingly) to be quite another. What is enough? Is it enough to feel good about choosing to go to or work with a lower class, to know that you're choosing less? What surreptitious arrogance can be found in such a thing if we're not careful, feeling proud of the act of humbling or even being ok with sacrificing when it was convenient for me. Before that flight to Portland I may have seen it as choosing less, but now I see it as choosing more. Choosing to get more out of life. And yet, there lies the other major issue I am having: choice. How should I view this choice that I have made to volunteer? I think all of this far to long reflection can be summed up in the Aborigine proverb that my roommate Erin reminded me of:
Anyways, I wanted to reflect here firstly on my orientation, or rather how I got to orientation and then got to my placement here in Bethel. Unbeknownst to me, I was holding a first class ticket to my flight to Portland, OR. We had gone to AAA to buy it and since the agent never asked us what class ticket we wanted, I had assumed she would have given me an economy class (especially for the price that we got it for). Now, everyone has probably heard about how the airlines are charging for everything, particularly for extra baggage and extra weight for baggage. Knowing this my parents gave me money to accommodate. However when I was checking my bags and getting out this money, the woman politely said, "You don't have to pay for anything, miss, because you hold a first class ticket. We'll take care of everything, just go over to your gate when you're ready. Do you want to sign up for our frequent flyers program?" Relieved though confused, I was like, "Hey! Works for me!".
When it came time to board the plane I got to go on first, despite the fact that there was an extensive line already formed and that I was sitting comfortably in my seat far out of line. I walked down the long pathway, breathed in that recycled airplane air, and set my first foot into what I like to call the magical mystical world of first class. The seats were only two to a row, leather, padded, and oh so comfortable. I had all of the leg space in the world, not to mention the window seat and a very amiable gentleman to sit next to. Life was good, even at 6am with practically no sleep. Deep down I knew that this was all too ironic, but I spent most of the flight talking to the man next to me and didn't elaborate this thought at the time.
Then when I was waiting to board my next flight from Atlanta to Portland, I got to talking to a very friendly and chatty woman also going to Portland who also came from Pittsburgh. After I had told her where I came from with her response being, "Oh I didn't see you on the plane", I didn't really know what to say. One of my initial thoughts while on the flight to Atlanta, half kidding and half serious, was why more people don't do this. And then as I was looking at this woman next to me I realized that not everyone can do this. And I do not just mean, not everyone can afford it. I mean that I also noticed how small the first class cabin was. There really are only so many seats, and somehow I had one of them. Me, a Jesuit Volunteer, a person signing up to live simply and in solidarity (on her way to orientation mind you), was flying with the elite.
Then somewhere in between this woman telling me about her grandchildren and birthday parties, I began to feel ashamed. It was a feeling that I have not had much time with in the past, and it is a feeling that I predict I will see more of in the near future. Making it all more intensified, the flight attendant called the first class passengers. The woman hearing the announcement, which interrupted her story, said with a comical sneer, "Oh don't worry about that. That's just the first class being called". Even though I've heard that we have over 50 muscles in the human face, I couldn't get any of them to move upwards into a smile because I knew that her sarcasm for the first class now included me. Inside of myself I was shouting, "I didn't know it was first class! I'm never in first class! I didn't even know where it was on the plane! Don't judge me!". But outwardly I simply thanked her for speaking with me, wished her luck, and got up to go back to that new world I was initially so fond of.
What ate me up inside was that though I wanted to allow her or anyone else board before me, I couldn't. I mean I could have waited in line with the rest of the passengers, but what would that do in the end? What about the family with three young kids and a stroller struggling to hold everything and everyone together in that frozen line? Anywhere else I could have held the door for them or let them go first, but here I felt powerless because of a ticket that was paid for with money that our society deems so powerful.
When I boarded the plane this time, it looked quite different. I remember just staring at the divider between the two classes and thinking, "How did I get here?" and further, "How did I feel when I flew on the other side?" Feeling ashamed of my privilege never occurred to me any time that I flew. There are some privileges that we have that we need to acknowledge and be truly grateful for and use them for the greater good to the best of our abilities. And I'm not saying that I'm not thankful for my parents buying this ticket for me, but I couldn't help but to think about how incentive of the poor I can be riding in any class.
For me, I guess it had been one thing to go volunteer at a soup kitchen or make blankets or fast and apparently an undiscovered mentality for buying material things (even sparingly) to be quite another. What is enough? Is it enough to feel good about choosing to go to or work with a lower class, to know that you're choosing less? What surreptitious arrogance can be found in such a thing if we're not careful, feeling proud of the act of humbling or even being ok with sacrificing when it was convenient for me. Before that flight to Portland I may have seen it as choosing less, but now I see it as choosing more. Choosing to get more out of life. And yet, there lies the other major issue I am having: choice. How should I view this choice that I have made to volunteer? I think all of this far to long reflection can be summed up in the Aborigine proverb that my roommate Erin reminded me of:
"If you've come to help me you're wasting your time. But if you've come because you believe your liberation is somehow bound up in mine, stay and let us walk together."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
