Click on these brand new images to enlarge them!
Archive for August, 2004
My fiancee and I had a fun weekend in the Bay Area, attending the wedding of some good friends and visiting my family’s little ranch in the hills above Fremont. With classes to start next Monday, this was my last break for a while.
While up in Northern California, we did watch Olympics coverage. And on Sunday, I was anguished by what happened to Paula Radcliffe in the marathon. (I was delighted by the strong showing of local gal Deena Drossin Kastor; I’ve run in 10Ks with her, and spent the first twenty or thirty feet of the race alongside her. From then on, it was just a matter of watching her backside fade from sight).
My fellow Cliopatriarch Jonathan Dresner points me towards a discussion of “Running Madness” at Butterflies and Wheels. It’s a good post, and there’s some good discussion in the comments section as well. Here’s an excerpt:
…the interesting thing from a philosophical, sociological point of view is that somehow moral judgements seem to infect how we view sporting feats. It isn’t a character flaw to stop when you’re about to collapse from heat exhuastion, it’s sensible. When I was fairly serious about this running lark, I would train with people who were very serious. In their world, my comparative lack of seriousness was considered to be a moral flaw. They’d continually harp on about the fact that “I wasn’t fulfilling my potential”, etc. Well, newsflash guys, there isn’t a moral requirement that we should fulfill our potentials; if people are happy with mediocrity, as I am, then let them be…
Bold emphasis is mine.
Coming from a runner, that’s terribly refreshing. Lord knows, I have struggled with this very thing. In early April, I struggled through a mountain 50K, only to collapse at the end. I needed an IV to get back on my feet.
I’ve often finished races or long training runs while feeling ill. I’ve only once dropped out of a marathon, down in Long Beach in 2001. I walked off the course at mile 22, but I hadn’t been feeling myself since mile 10. At the time, friends, family, and fellow runners assured me that I had done the sensible thing by not pushing myself through. A part of me, of course, believed them. But another part of me felt very much like a failure. That feeling of failure after the Long Beach marathon lasted longer than the feeling of elation I have had after successful marathons (like my 3:13 PR in Pittsburgh in 1999). It was the desire to avoid that sense of failure that led me to finish the San Gabriel Mountains 50K despite feeling absolutely wretched for the final three hours of the grueling race.
Runners do tend to be a moralistic lot. It’s no accident that the only sports metaphor regularly employed in Scripture is that of “running the race”! For St. Paul, to not finish “the race” has fairly serious consequences! In Hebrews 12:1, the Apostle says:
Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.
In other words, to fail to finish the race is to succumb to sin. Surely no other athletes experience such theological pressure as do distance runners! (Nowhere in Old or New Testaments do I find references to beach volleyball, artistic gymnastics, or the 100m butterfly).
As running (or for many folks like Oprah, run-walking) marathons becomes increasingly popular, the marathon becomes increasingly imbued with both mythic and moral qualities that are not found in other sports. When I did my first marathon in 1998, I did it because (like most folks) “I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it.” I hear that same phrase from virtually every first-time marathoner. Folks don’t say things like that about tennis, golf, or badminton. Only endurance sports (marathoning chief among them) become tests of one’s spirit, resolve, and yes, willingness to endure pain and hardship.
When a gymnast falls off a balance beam, we say “ooh, bad luck.” When a marathoner fails to finish a race, we ask “why didn’t she keep going?” Ask any runner who has done at least five marathons or ultras: we’ve all had days where everything started perfectly, we were well-trained and rested, and things inexplicably fell apart. But not being able to finish a race isn’t seen as bad luck — it’s seen as succumbing to weakness. No wonder so many of us, professional and amateur alike, often push ourselves through despite the risk of serious injury. We all have within us (and for a Paula Radcliffe, outside of us) a “great cloud of witnesses”, reminding us of the consequences of failing to finish!
Sometimes, though, it isn’t mediocrity that leads us to “fail to live up to our potential”. Sometimes, not living up to our potential is an act of love:
You see, I weigh twenty pounds more today than I did in 1999 or 2000, when I was at my fastest. I don’t run the way I once did, with a single-minded obsessiveness. I don’t know if I’ll ever do a sub-3:15 marathon again, or another sub-40 10K (those were my benchmarks of success). My resting heart rate is unlikely to be 44 again, as it was during those years. Today, I do other things with the time I spent running: I volunteer. I blog. I lift weights. I spend time with my fiancee and my chinchilla. (I was always in the best shape when I was single, not surprisingly). I still work out five or six days a week, but I don’t run the mileage (or do the track work) I once did. I am happier with a more balanced life — but I am still haunted by that voice that tells me, as the friends of the blogger above put it, that I’m not “fulfilling my potential.”
I’ve got places on my body that are softer than they were five years ago. (I was regularly hovering around 4.5% body fat in those days, and believe me, I was tested monthly!) Some of that softness is a result of aging. Some of it is a result of my incurable sweet tooth. (I am a lover of Cadbury Cream Eggs.) But some of it is a result of choosing to give more to others and spend less time sculpting my figure for my own gratification. I long to be a father, as any reader of this blog knows. I expect that I will become one (to someone other than Matilde) in the next couple of years. And I know my future son or daughter would rather have a father who is present, available, and possessed of a roll around the middle than a preoccupied and distant father who has nary an ounce of fat upon his frame and a resting heart rate lower than his age.
For me, and I can’t be alone in this, being willing to have an “average” body is a sacrifice of love. Being willing to not continue in order to preserve my health for the sake of those who need me is a similar sacrifice. Sometimes, the “cloud of witnesses” want you to stop running, take a shower, and “love on them” for a while. And though I expect and hope that there are plenty of marathons and ultras in my future, I am trying to remember to keep this most theologically and spiritually significant of athletic pursuits in its proper perspective.
I’m afraid this will be my last post until next Tuesday. I’m off later this morning for Northern California, where my gal and I shall visit my ma and also spend an extended weekend at the wedding of some dear friends.
But I shouldn’t leave without the Thursday Short Poem. Yesterday, Annika posted a very fine poem by a former Cal grad student named Archibald Ammons. Today, I’ll post one of my favorite shorter poems by former Cal prof (and Nobel laureate) Czeslaw Milosz, who died last week at 93. In 1998, I heard him read at a poetry festival in Claremont; he was magnificent.
Veni Creator
Come, Holy Spirit,
bending or not bending the grasses,
appearing or not above our heads in a tongue of flame,
at hay harvest or when they plough in the orchards,
or when snow covers crippled firs in the Sierra Nevada.
I am only a human being: I need visible signs.
I tire easily, building the stairway of abstraction.
Many a time I asked, you know it well,
that the statue in church lift its hand, only once, just once, for me.
But I understand that signs must be human,
therefore, call one person, anywhere on earth,
not me-after all I have some decency-
and allow me, when I look at that person,
to marvel at you.
Here’s a small rant on a minor topic that may not be of great concern to those outside of academia. I’m not exactly sure it will matter to those in academia, either, but it is on Hugo’s mind this morning. Forgive me, but it is more self-indulgent than usual:
Classes at Pasadena City College start in twelve days. Though I can scarcely believe it, I’ve been a full-time faculty member at PCC since 1994 (I was an adjunct lecturer for a year before that). I’ve had tenure since 1998. But my official title is still “instructor”, and if I have my way, it will continue to be.
Academic ranks mean different things at different institutions. At most four-year American institutions, “instructor” (or “lecturer”) denotes someone who isn’t tenure-track and who lacks job security. “Assistant professor” is for those who are tenure-track but not yet tenured; “associate professor” for those who are tenured but not yet senior faculty; “professor” is used only for senior faculty. There are variations on this pattern, but it holds true across most colleges and universities.
At PCC, none of this applies. Here is a link to a PDF-file of our Academic Senate’s guide to rank. At PCC, “instructor” is the title given to newly hired full-time faculty members. (”Adjunct” is used for part-timers). An “assistant professor” is one with four years of experience and tenure. An “associate professor” is a faculty member with seven years of experience who has “given evidence of professional growth”. A “professor” is someone with twelve years of full-time experience who has “given evidence of additional professional growth since becoming an associate professor.”
Here’s the kicker: none of this has any bearing on salary or seniority. As the linked document states in section 6 (under “Additional Considerations”:
Professional rank shall not become a factor in determining salary.
All faculty members holding one of the professional ranks will be addressed uniformly as “professor.”
Promotion from instructor to assistant professor, and all subsequent promotions , does not take place automatically. Nor is it based on real merit. The only way to advance up this ridiculous cursus honorum is to apply to the Academic Senate’s committee on rank, and demonstrate completion of “professional growth”. (I hate that phrase, it makes academics sound like realtors.) I have asked many folks on campus where we got this practice, and no one seems to know.
All I know is that I aspire to become the most senior “instructor” on campus. A number of faculty who were hired after I was have applied to be assistant and associate profs; their titles have been changed in our catalog listing of faculty. Though there may be others, I don’t know of any other profs who have been teaching full-time as long as I have who have not “upgraded” from instructor to one of the loftier titles. I know that I am much higher on the salary scale than a number of folks who have higher titles than my own.
Why won’t I apply? The easy answer is that I’ve always loathed titles. (Odd for someone with a doctorate in medieval history, I suppose). Perhaps it’s my inner socialist. As I wrote a couple of months ago, I do prefer to be called “Hugo” in the classroom. I also won’t apply because in the absence of any impact on my salary or my seniority, it’s hard to see any pressing reason to do so.
But if I look deeply into my own motives here, I have to acknowledge that pride plays a part too. God’s honest truth be told, Hugo is a bit of a reverse snob! (Not a surprise, I know). Though I am not ready to go off on this tangent, I wonder if I would feel differently about this if I weren’t a white male who grew up the son of academics. I wonder if disdain for titles isn’t, in some ways, evidence of privilege. But regardless, I like the idea of staying an instructor forever, because I like the idea of flouting a system I see as archaic and petty. At some point — perhaps at my retirement dinner, by which time I will have “maxed out” on the salary scale — I hope the fact that I haven’t applied for a rank change embarasses those at PCC who care so much about titles. That’s the candid reality.
I am simultaneously inspired by a principled objection to titles, by pride, and by what, frankly, is puerile rebelliousness. In this instance, those three very different motivations work towards the same end.
Pride, principle, and puerility. It could almost be a good subtitle for this blog.
I’m moving from blogging about South America, Hugo Chavez and race to write about princesses.
The LA Times has an interesting piece today on the popularity of “princess” culture. Here’s some of it:
In Los Angeles, Disney Princess teas held in conjunction with the release of “Princess Diaries 2” on Wednesday at the El Capitan Theater sold out their Saturday and Sunday spots weeks before the movie premiered. Those teas and other princess-themed events have become popular permanent additions to Walt Disney World attractions. In Japan, princess classes, which began in Tokyo three years ago as an attempt to introduce the new princess brand, have spread to five cities — last year, more than 15,000 girls paid $150 a pop to learn from Snow White how to love animals or from Ariel how to sing.
Recent movies like “Ella Enchanted,” “The Prince & Me,” “A Cinderella Story” and now “Princess Diaries 2″ have hauled out all the time-honored symbols of the mythology — the jewels, the dresses, the handsome boyfriend and, of course, all that dancing.
The films, like the books many are based on, all have slight post-feminist twists, but they still adhere to the basic princess ethos: You may think for the moment that you are a normal, powerless girl plagued by mean friends and nagging parents/stepparents, but really you are a princess, with liberation and a truly excellent wardrobe just a few plot points away.
“Whether feminists like it or not,” says Gary Foster, spokesman for Disney consumer products, “at some point in their lives, most girls want to be a princess.”
I haven’t seen the Princess Diaries 2 yet. I saw the first one back in 2001, and thought — seriously — that it was one of the best films of the year. I’ve rented it twice since.
As a pro-feminist concerned about young women, I’m not particularly troubled by the resurgent popularity of “princess-ness”. The Times article explains my reasons why:
Wish-fulfillment story lines fuel many of the books and films aimed at tween and teen girls, which gives princess culture the staying power it needs to transcend the fairy tale reading years. In the preadolescent and adolescent years, many girls are beset by self-doubt, and they look to transformative narratives to give them hope and confidence.
The “rags-to-riches story is everywhere these days,” says Rachel Simmons, author of “Odd Girl Out: The Hidden Culture of Aggression in Girls.” “All the teen and tween movies are about girls who go from being unloved and uncool to being incredibly popular. Which is what happens to princesses.”
Simmons, who works with the Empower Project, a Washington, D.C., group devoted to improving the lives of girls, says she has been surprised by the number of princess T-shirts and paraphernalia she has seen on the streets of New York and wonders if it isn’t a response to the tough skate-board girl mentality that has also fueled fashion and attitudes among teens. “The princess is the last frontier of acceptable girliness,” she says. She applauds any arena that allows girls to access playfulness and protects them from sexualizing themselves before they are ready. “It points to how crazy our times have become that I, as a feminist, am promoting princess culture because, hey, at least you don’t have a 12-year-old wearing a thong.”
Rae Dubow, a Los Angeles drama teacher, tried to show her 5-year-old daughter the other side of the fairy tale myth by reading her “Cinder Edna,” a retelling of the famous tale by Cinderella’s sensibly shod, eco-friendly neighbor. Cinderella, by contrast, is made to seem vain and silly. “My daughter was not at all interested in Edna,” says Dubow. “All she wanted to know was why Cinderella didn’t have a bigger part because she is so pretty.”
Parent Erika Schickel has mixed feelings about her role in providing the items necessary for a modern princess. “As a feminist, I think, ‘Of course they’re obsessed with princesses because princesses are being crammed down their throat and not just from Disney, but from all these tweener movies.’ But then I remember as a little girl just craving really pretty things too.”
The bold emphases are mine.
Schickel is quite right when she implies that the story of the princess is deeply imbedded in our culture, and perhaps, in the psyches of a great many young girls. It would be absurdly ahistorical to give 20th-century Hollywood the credit or the blame for creating the popularity of the princess archetype; even a casual student of folk culture knows that “princess stories” (often with a rags-to-riches theme) go back many centuries in European culture.
But what I really appreciate about princess culture is that it offers young girls (and not-so-young ones) the opportunity to celebrate the feminine without having to cope with dangerous, exploitative, premature sexualization. Princesses, at least as portrayed in the first “Princess Diaries” film, aren’t merely pretty girls with nice clothes (though the clothes are important). Princesses are also expected to be brave, kind, thoughtful, and, yes, independent. (The “queen” in both films, played by the incomparable Julie Andrews, is a widow; clever, witty, and very strong.) If the popular “princess classes” mentioned above are teaching young girls how to love animals (though most young girls don’t need to be taught that) and how to enjoy a proper tea, than I say “hallelujah.”
The culture of the thong (which I’ve written about in other contexts here and here) revolves around the sexualization of young girls. “Thong culture” teaches girls that the attention and the validation that they crave can be had easily, both by displaying flesh and by being sexually accessible to young (and sometimes not so young) boys.
For all of its silliness, “tiara culture” seems far less bound up with the urgent pursuit of male attention. Look, when and if I have a daughter, my first choice would be to have her in track spikes and soccer cleats from the time she can walk. But if faced with the choice between having her walk around with a tiara on her head or in a thong that rides up out of her low-cut jeans, I’m pretty clear on the fact that I’d pick the former.
Perhaps I’ll go to Target and buy a whole bunch of plastic tiaras for the girls in my youth group at All Saints.
It now seems clear that Hugo Chavez has, by a substantial and legitimated margin, defeated the referendum that sought to remove him from his post as president of Venezuala. Former President and Nobel Laureate Jimmy Carter is quoted as saying that
his team of observers had concluded there was a “clear difference in favour” of Mr Chavez.
UPDATE: Check out analysis here, and the story of the opposition’s phony exit polls here.
When I was in Colombia, the press there was gripped by the Chavez referendum. Colombia and Venezuela have had frayed relations in recent years. The popular current Colombian president, Alvaro Uribe, is the most pro-U.S. head of state in South America. Alone among South American nations, Colombia has expressed unreserved support for America’s “war on terror.” (The Colombians surely know more about living with terrorism than the citizens of any other country in the Western Hemisphere).
On more than one occasion, the Uribe government has accused the neighboring Chavez regime of giving aid and comfort to the revolutionary guerrilla groups that seek to establish a Marxist state in Colombia. Judging on what I read in the Colombian press (my fiancee helped translate some stuff, but my comprehension of written Spanish is getting better and better), most Colombians do worry about the possibility of potential armed conflict with Venezuala if Chavez remains in power. (To have the most pro-American and most anti-American states in South America sharing a long border is worrisome to some.) Some on the Colombian left have said that they fear that Uribe may be urged by his American allies (Colombia receives more in military aid from Washington than all the other Latin countries put together) to invade Venezuala at the Bush Administration’s behest. An English-language article that expresses that same concern can be found here.
I have to say, I liked Chavez from the start because of his splendid first name. I also liked him for another reason: he’s black. Light-skinned, yes, but still negro by the standards of his region. As many folks know, South America is a continent dominated by light-skinned political elites. South America is also a continent with huge numbers of descendants of African slaves, particularly in northern countries like Brazil, Venezuala, and Colombia. If you look at pictures of the presidents of countries like Argentina, Colombia, Chile, Paraguay, and even Brazil, you see very European-looking fellows indeed. Most look as if they have nary a drop of non-European blood in their veins. Chavez, on the other hand, is darker with what to a Colombian or Venezualan eye are clear African origins. In South America, that is immensely meaningful.
In the Colombian north, where my fiancee’s family lives, a very high percentage of the poor have at least some African origins (my fiancee’s family very much included). To an untrained Yankee eye, many Colombians in what is called the costeno region appear more “black” than “Hispanic”. On the other hand, the wealthy in cities like Bogota have very European faces, some with skin and eyes and hair as light as my own. The racism in Colombia is blatant and ominipresent. When I first met my fiancee’s aunt, she asked plaintively “Is he (meaning me) upset that we’re so black?” (I obviously did everything I could to assure her that skin color was not an issue for me). But a question like that one can only be asked in a deeply bigoted society where those with dark skin have been marginalized, abused, and mistreated for generations. The idea that Colombia could be led by a negro is unthinkable. But next-door Venezuala now is.
I am convinced that at least some of the antipathy directed towards Chavez by the elites in his own country and elsewhere in Latin America is based on his appearance. (Here’s a Common Dreams article that touches on that). My fellow Hugo may be bombastic; he may have an unpleasantly authoritarian streak, but he has done more for the mostly dark, mostly poor masses of Venezuala than any other leader in that country’s history. Latin America has never had a more successful “dark” leader; even Castro himself is quite “white” by the standards of mixed-race Cuba! Thus today I rejoice in Chavez’s clear and convincing referendum victory; I celebrate both for the obvious political reasons, but also for the less-obvious cultural reasons revolving around color and class.
I’ve been slowly but steadily making my way through various blogs and other corners of the internet today. Lots of things to read, and though I’ve been away for a while, surprisingly little enthusiasm about writing.
Having only been home for 36 hours, I still have Colombia very much on my mind.
I’ve been thinking (in particular) about poverty, compassion, and privilege. When we were in Bogota, we stayed in one of the nicest hotels in the most elegant neighborhood of the city. (It was not the sort of place we could have afforded easily many other places, but the currency exchange rate between the dollar and the Colombian peso is still quite good). During our days and nights in the capital, we would walk through the affluent “Zona Rosa” neighborhood, strolling past trendy nightclubs and hip restaurants. We saw wealthy, chic, light-skinned Colombians ignoring the darker-skinner beggars who could be found every few feet. Invariably, we were approached by many of the latter (I was obviously an American in a city with few of them), and overwhelmed. We simply had to ignore countless needy and desperate people in order to move down the street.
The troubling thing for me (and for my fiancee) was the dogs. As in other Third World countries, homeless dogs are everywhere. Skinny, limping, filthy, sore-covered mongrels wandered the streets of rich and poor neighborhoods alike. I teared up time and again watching them (we fed a few, and contrary to all sound medical advice, petted some as well). On one occasion, my fiancee and I clutched each other in anguish as we watched a three-legged Lab-Shepherd mix hop across a busy Bogota avenue, miraculously not being hit by oncoming traffic. Once the dog was safely across, I noticed a group of teenagers across the street laughing at us for our obvious concern. Though we did see a few pampered canines in the Zona Rosa (and many bomb-sniffing and guard dogs, mostly labs and Rottweilers, respectively), we saw far many more hungry, cold and sick beasts without any apparent guardian to care for them. Being unable to help these animals was, perhaps, the single most painful aspect of our trip for me.
It’s embarrassing to confess what is in the previous sentence. Mind you, I don’t think there’s anything wrong, theologically or politically, with being compassionate towards animals. But I do think there is something wrong with finding it easier to cry over a lame puppy than over a homeless family struggling to survive on the streets. Why is it that I (and I’m surely not alone) can weep for dogs and not for humans? How is it that I, who claim to be a Christian, find love in my heart so much more rapidly for four-legged beasts than for my human brothers and sisters? Of course, dogs (and other animals) are “innocent” and do not deserve to suffer, but it would be bad theology and execrable politics to say that the mass of poor and despairing Colombians are any less innocent than the dogs with whom they share the streets!
Part of the answer lies within my own guilt, I think. When I encounter a beggar on the street, I know I am encountering another human being who, in my theology, has some moral claim upon me. I know when I look into the eyes of the poor, I am seeing the face of Christ. To walk the streets with a warm sweater and money in my pocket while my brothers and sisters are shivering and hungry shames me. But if I had given my sweater away to one cold person, a dozen more would have appeared within seconds. If I had emptied my wallet into the first hands I saw, I would have been mobbed by far more folks than I ever could have helped. (On the occasions when we did give away money, we were quickly identified as “soft targets”, and approached all the more.) The faces of the poor haunted me as I ate my dinners in elegant Zona Rosa restaurants, spending enough on appetizers alone to feed an entire poor Colombian family for a day or two. Their faces lingered in my mind as I climbed into bed at the Charleston, knowing that one night’s lodging in our suite was two months’s rent in the grittier neighborhoods of Bogota.
Dogs don’t have the same moral claim that people do. I’m not going to get into the “do animals have souls” debate, but I know that my human family ought to matter more to me than the canines (and rodents) whom I also love and cherish. A homeless dog can move my heart, but I don’t ask myself why it is that I should have so much while this mongrel has so little. Feeling sympathy for a pet doesn’t make me question my own life and my own values in the same way. By the time we left Colombia, I had to fight my own shame-filled anger at the poor around me. Absurdly, I was angry at the poor because they made me feel so damned guilty for my comparatively luxurious lifestyle, and I was angry at them because they made me feel so powerless to help them. When there is only one beggar on the street, if I buy him a meal, I feel proud of myself; when there are thousands, I cannot have that same blind pride.
I ran around the Rose Bowl this morning. It was good to breathe reasonably clean air again (that’s saying something in Southern California in the summer). But it was also good to be surrounded by folks who asked nothing of me. I saw others running and cycling and walking; none of them seemed hungry or cold or frightened. None of them needed anything I had. Even the dogs were on leashes, and after what we had seen in Colombia, all of them looked wonderfully, blessedly plump. I felt so much relief at not being approached, and of course, the concomitant guilt with that relief.
I know I use my blog to agonize publicly. But this isn’t just self-flagellation (at least I hope not). I am trying, seriously, to figure out how it is I am to live in the face of such overwhelming poverty and need in the world.
Yes, I give generously to charity. But I can call it “generous” only because I give more, as a percentage of my income, than most Americans do. (I hear anecdotally the national average is about 2% of gross, but given that many folks who give don’t itemize their tax returns, it’s hard to be precise. Any links to more exact figures are appreciated!) But in the larger scheme of things, I don’t give so much that I am forced to change my lifestyle in any dramatic way! Indeed, I find that in marvelously American fashion, I sometimes simply borrow more to make up the difference. As much as I’d like to believe it, I don’t — unlike some of my more conservative friends — for a second imagine that all of the “consumer spending” Hugo does is helping to make the lives of the poor better than they would be if I instead gave the money to charity.
Lots to think about. But for now, I’ll take a break to catch up on Olympic coverage. Nothing really grips me except for the distance running events (my heroes are Haile Gebreselassie and Paula Radcliffe) , but I’m happy to check out other things as well.
We had a marvelous visit to Colombia.
The highlight of our nine day trip was surely our visit to my fiancee’s family’s finca (a ranch) in a remote corner of the Cesar department. From the start, the Colombian agent who handled our travel plans urged us not to go to the finca, saying that the roads we would have to take were very unsafe due to rebel and paramilitary activity, not to mention plain old crime. Nonetheless, we were anxious to make the trip. It was a calculated risk. We are not yet parents, my fiancee and I. If we had a small child, or others (besides Matilde the chinchilla, who weathered our absence well) to depend upon us, we might not have chosen to make this journey. As it was, we weighed the dangers and the rewards, and chose the rewards.
On Sunday the 8th, we flew from Bogota to Bucaramanga, a large and relatively prosperous city in the northeast. Upon arriving at the airport, we were met by a driver who had been hired to take on the four hour drive north to the city nearest to the finca, Aguachica. Despite our efforts to change his mind, he had insisted that driving to the finca itself would be too dangerous. We piled into a beat-up Mazda 323 and headed up the road.
We didn’t see rebels. We didn’t see paramilitary death squads. We did encounter danger, however, around every turn — Colombian drivers are reckless and determined, to say the least. My fiancee and I simply chose to close our eyes a lot. I prayed constantly. Somehow, we avoided all collisions. We didn’t avoid three military checkpoints on the drive up. At the last of these, I was asked to step out of the car, put my hands on the roof, and submit to a pat-down search. The soldiers who were searching me looked barely out of their teens, and from the looks on their faces, mine may have been the first American passport they had seen. (They had no idea, for instance, where the pertinent entry stamps might be found.) Honestly, I was trying hard not to laugh at them. As I got back into my car, I left them with a cheerful “ciao, gracias” that had the other occupants of the Mazda in near-hysterics. (The informal “ciao” is apparently not to be used when speaking with soldiers of the Colombian army. Who knew?)
Our four days on the finca were marvelous. The heat and the humidity (we were near the Magdalena river in sub-tropical conditions) was oppressive, but we soldiered on (though I spent most of my time in shorts, tennis shoes, sunscreen, bug spray, and not much else). I met dozens of members of my fiancee’s extended family; one aunt had had 22 children and another had had 15. There was much laughter, talking, horse-back riding, and so forth. There was little sleep.
It’s tempting for folks like me who’ve come back from trips like this to wax eloquent about the joys of the “simpler life.” (I’ve taken some church youth groups to Mexico before on a couple of occasions; the American kids always come back rhapsodizing about the experience — even while they usually complained throughout!) Though my fiancee’s family was wealthy by local standards, their living conditions were very poor compared to those of affluent Americans. The small hardships we endured (no washing machines, no air conditioning, showering beneath a spigot) were brief. We could go along with these cheerfully because we knew how limited our time was. I’m under no illusion that we really experienced what life is like for the poor in rural Colombia. We didn’t deal with being sick or injured; we didn’t deal with any significant danger. We simply got a snapshot, albeit a colorful, exciting, and joyous one.
And though it is often said, I need to reiterate the truth about the importance of family ties in rural communities. I grew up seeing my cousins and extended family on holidays (brief times of great excitement). The dozens (literally) of children we met on the finca grow up surrounded by extended family. They have no shortage of playmates and helpers and friends. Most of them will live their lives surrounded by kin, rarely (unless they choose to move to Bogota to make money) traveling more than two dozen miles away from the land on which they were born. How can those of us who live wealthy and peripatetic lives in America and Europe not envy that? Both my near and extended families are stretched across a half-dozen states and two continents; I see my beloved brother and sisters once a year if not more infrequently due to these distances.
So many of us in the blogosphere write about community: how we have or don’t have it, how we can find it, how we can strengthen it. But unlike those in rural Colombia (and countless traditional elsewheres) ours are usually communities of choice. Our churches are often not those of our parents — they are places we have come to after years of searching and sifting for something that “feels right”. Our networks of friends are often formed through accidents of geography or through shared activities (like my dear fellow runners). Few, if any of us, have all of our extended family of origin within five miles of us. Most of us, even if we love our families, wouldn’t WANT to have them so close!
Look, I’m glad my parents didn’t have 22 children. I’m glad I have the wealth and the freedom to make the choices that I do make. But I also recognize that with that wealth and that freedom come nearly invisible costs, the chief of which is the fracturing of family ties and the loss of stability that is found more fully elsewhere. I would not now choose to live on a finca. But if I had grown up on one as my fiancee’s cousins have, I doubt I could ever move away to the big city to pursue my dreams without having an acute sense of loss.
Much to think about. For now, I’m going to catch up on more blogs!
We arrived at LAX just before midnight last night, after a long trip home from Colombia. Not surprisingly, I had an upset stomach the whole way home, but am feeling much better today. (Despite seven trips to the lavatory on the leg of the flight from Costa Rica to Los Angeles…)
There is much about which to blog in terms of Colombia and other things (like Venezuala, the death of Czeslaw Milosz, gay governors, and so forth); I have many blogs I need to read as well. But all of that can wait for tomorrow and the rest of the week. For now, just the quick notice that we are home safe and sound and well.
Well, we’re packed and ready to go. Our flight leaves at the ungodly hour of 1:40AM tomorrow, but I don’t suspect I will post before then. I will be back and blogging on August 16; in the meantime, visit some of my links, please!
So, before we go off to Colombia, let me share my favorite poem about my favorite pastime by my favorite 20th century poet of all. When I shuffle off (many years from now, thank you), this is the poem I want read at my funeral. (Does that sound morbid? Don’t worry, I am planning on coming back quite safe and sound).
The Runner, by W.H. Auden:
All visible visibly
Moving things
Spin or swing,
One of the two,
Move, as the limbs
Of a runner do,
To and fro,
Forward and back,
Or, as they swiftly
Carry him
In orbit go
Round an endless track:
So, everywhere, every
Creature disporting
Itself according
To the law of its making
In the rivals’ dance
Of a balanced pair
Or the ring-dance
Round a common centre,
Delights the eye
By its symmetry
As it changes place
Blessing the unchangeable
Absolute rest
Of the space all share
The camera’s eye
Does not lie
But it cannot show
The life within,
The life of a runner,
Of yours or mine,
That race which is neither
Fast nor slow,
For nothing can ever
Happen twice,
That story which moves
Like music when
Begotten notes
New notes beget
Making the flowing
Of time a growing
Till what it could be
At last it is,
Where Fate is Freedom,
Grace, and Surprise.
I’ve got that last section of 20 short lines memorized; I sometimes recite it to myself during particularly difficult long runs.
Well, folks, this is the penultimate post before heading off to South America. (I’ve got the Thursday Short Poem still to come tomorrow, naturally. It’ll be an Auden favorite.) We leave late tomorrow night for Colombia, and will be in Bogota by Friday afternoon. We’ll be back on Sunday the 15th.
This will be our second trip to Colombia. We went exactly a year ago, visiting Bogota, Santa Marta, and Bucaramanga. This time we will be visiting spectacular Bogota again, and also traveling to my fiancee’s family’s remote ranch in a river valley in Cesar province (northeastern Colombia). Though I doubt that anyone who might mean us harm is likely to read this blog, I’m not going to be specific about the ranch’s exact location until after we have returned.
I felt perfectly safe last year in Colombia, but it is still a dangerous country. Prayers for our safe travel and return will of course be appreciated. Anyone who follows the news or does research on the internet is aware of just how troubled that country has been in recent decades. We will be taking all the basic precautions, of course, and have many contacts down there to help us.
If you’re interested in reading more about Colombia, check out some of the following sites in English:
The Colombian Embassy in Washington DC.
Colombia Week — excellent news and analysis with perhaps a left-of-center bent.
Z-Net’s Colombia page (a bit farther left, thank you)
Colombia Times, which collects various news articles on Colombia and other South American countries.
The Poor but Happy discussion board on Colombia. (This gets very interesting).
Amnesty International’s Colombia site.
Mennonite Central Committee’s Colombia site
COVIC (Children Orphaned by Violence in Colombia), a fine charity
The Lonely Planet Colombia Guide
The State Department’s Travel Advisory (Mom, don’t read this).
Our hotel in Bogota, which we stayed in last year and loved. It will make a nice contrast with the primitive conditions we expect in Cesar.
My Spanish is very poor. I can read it reasonably well, but can’t comprehend it orally. And when I speak, it tends to send folks into peels of laughter. (Colombians seem to laugh a lot.) My fiancee, of course, speaks perfect castellano, so she will handle the interpreting duties.
I’m very excited!
This morning, following a link from Stentor Danielson, I finally got around to reading Cardinal Ratzinger’s recent letter on the collaboration of women and men in the church and the world. It takes a while to read, and it is essential to read all of it rather than just getting summaries from the press.
I’m not going to comment on John Paul II’s theology of the body, largely because I haven’t read enough on the subject. What I do know about it leaves me (shock of all shocks) deeply ambivalent. What I do want to touch on is Ratzinger’s approach to feminism. There’s some surprisingly progressive stuff in the letter. Check out these excerpts from the critical third section of Ratzinger’s missive:
… one understands the irreplaceable role of women in all aspects of family and social life involving human relationships and caring for others. Here what John Paul II has termed the “genius of women” becomes very clear.It implies first of all that women be significantly and actively present in the family, “the primordial and, in a certain sense sovereign societyâ€,since it is here above all that the features of a people take shape; it is here that its members acquire basic teachings. They learn to love inasmuch as they are unconditionally loved, they learn respect for others inasmuch as they are respected, they learn to know the face of God inasmuch as they receive a first revelation of it from a father and a mother full of attention in their regard. Whenever these fundamental experiences are lacking, society as a whole suffers violence and becomes in turn the progenitor of more violence. It means also that women should be present in the world of work and in the organization of society, and that women should have access to positions of responsibility which allow them to inspire the policies of nations and to promote innovative solutions to economic and social problems. (Bold emphasis is mine).
So far, I’m with the Cardinal. In the highlighted sentence, he accepts as valid the aspirations of mainstream contemporary feminism. I particularly appreciate his willingness to embrace women in positions of responsibility that create and promote national and international policy. He’s not just saying women should inspire men to lead, he’s essentially calling on women to take leadership roles as well. I can dig it.
In this regard, it cannot be forgotten that the interrelationship between these two activities – family and work – has, for women, characteristics different from those in the case of men. The harmonization of the organization of work and laws governing work with the demands stemming from the mission of women within the family is a challenge. The question is not only legal, economic and organizational; it is above all a question of mentality, culture, and respect. Indeed, a just valuing of the work of women within the family is required. In this way, women who freely desire will be able to devote the totality of their time to the work of the household without being stigmatized by society or penalized financially, while those who wish also to engage in other work may be able to do so with an appropriate work-schedule, and not have to choose between relinquishing their family life or enduring continual stress, with negative consequences for one’s own equilibrium and the harmony of the family. As John Paul II has written, “it will redound to the credit of society to make it possible for a mother – without inhibiting her freedom, without psychological or practical discrimination and without penalizing her as compared with other women – to devote herself to taking care of her children and educating them in accordance with their needs, which vary with ageâ€. (Bold is mine).
You see, I knew Ratzinger and the pope were economic liberals! That section in bold is as close to endorsing state-mandated and compensated parental leave as I think the Vatican can come. And note the key modifier Ratzinger sticks in: “women who freely desire” to be with their children should be able to do so. Though he assumes that many women will want “to devote the totality of their time to the work of the household“, he doesn’t mandate it. He even acknowledges that some women with small children can and should work! That’s good stuff!
It is appropriate however to recall that the feminine values mentioned here are above all human values: the human condition of man and woman created in the image of God is one and indivisible. It is only because women are more immediately attuned to these values that they are the reminder and the privileged sign of such values. But, in the final analysis, every human being, man or woman, is destined to be “for the otherâ€. In this perspective, that which is called “femininity†is more than simply an attribute of the female sex. The word designates indeed the fundamental human capacity to live for the other and because of the other. (My emphasis again).
I’m beginning to think I need to invite Ratzinger in for a guest lecture in my women’s studies class. In other words, the good Cardinal is calling upon real men of faith to embrace their own femininity. Selflessness must be for men as well as women; the fact that women often seem to “do it better” does not mean that men are any less responsible to “live for others.”
And finally:
Therefore, the promotion of women within society must be understood and desired as a humanization accomplished through those values, rediscovered thanks to women. Every outlook which presents itself as a conflict between the sexes is only an illusion and a danger: it would end in segregation and competition between men and women, and would promote a solipsism nourished by a false conception of freedom.
Without prejudice to the advancement of women’s rights in society and the family, these observations seek to correct the perspective which views men as enemies to be overcome. The proper condition of the male-female relationship cannot be a kind of mistrustful and defensive opposition. Their relationship needs to be lived in peace and in the happiness of shared love.
On a more concrete level, if social policies – in the areas of education, work, family, access to services and civic participation – must combat all unjust sexual discrimination, they must also listen to the aspirations and identify the needs of all. The defence and promotion of equal dignity and common personal values must be harmonized with attentive recognition of the difference and reciprocity between the sexes where this is relevant to the realization of one’s humanity, whether male or female.
Ultimately, the good Cardinal seems to be saying that while men and women are in complementary relationship with one another, that reciprocity is of secondary importance to our common humanity. And based upon the first sentence of this last section, Ratzinger is clear that women have borne better witness to that humanity than men have. This is not so much a call to place women back in the home, barefoot and pregnant, as it is to introduce feminine values into our local, national, and international life. Indeed, the Cardinal seems to demand more change from men than from women, given that women generally do a better job of “living for the other” already.
Look, I’m being somewhat facetious when I call Ratzinger a feminist. But I also think the letter has been misunderstood and misrepresented by folks who haven’t read the whole danged thing, or who have read it while hunting for what they find most objectionable.
UPDATE: Lynn at Noli Irritare Leones has both some excellent thoughts on the letter, and a list of links to folks who have blogged the letter.
My fiancee and I aren’t leaving for Colombia until late Thursday night, and we are already worried about leaving Matilde the chinchilla for so long. We’ve got a trusted sitter for her, someone who has cared for her when we’ve gone away for the weekend before. But this time, we’ll be gone for ten days!
It’s strange how deep our attachments to our pets can be, isn’t it? My friends who have kids tell me that it gets worse when one has children, as I can well imagine. Then again, I don’t think I’d want to leave my kids for ten days until they are old enough to understand where we’re going! Matilde won’t know where we are, and the thought of her missing us drives me to distraction. Still, to pass on the opportunity to travel in order to stay with one’s rodent (however splendid that rodent may be) is, admittedly, an absurd idea.
I had lunch today with a former student, C, a young man who is about to be a senior at Wheaton College. When I first met C, he worshipped at an Evangelical Free church. He’s now convinced he wants to be an Episcopal priest, and has already begun the discernment process in Chicago. I loved hearing about his plans. His is not an uncommon story, they say — lots of evangelicals end up Episcopalians after they’ve been to Christian colleges and read the “right” theology. (C is positively obsessed with Karl Barth these days).
A lot of folks don’t realize the quality of students we have at the community colleges. C went to Wheaton; I’ve transferred students from Pasadena City College to other good Christian schools like Gordon and Westmont and Calvin. I’ve sent students to every UC campus, to Michigan, Texas, North Carolina, Duke, Stanford, Penn, Brown, Georgetown, Rice, Pomona, NYU. (I’ve never transferred a student to Harvard. Maybe someday.)
I promise, I’ll have another thoughtful post one of these days. Meanwhile, I have high praise today from Anne Zook, who writes:
Hugo drives me bonkers, okay? I don’t doubt he’s a great person, in fact, I’m convinced of it, but I can’t recommend reading this post unless you have some time on your hands. I mean, I read it, then my head exploded and the pieces when in five different directions. YMMV.
To keep it simple, there may be something to his theory of “profoundly disappointing male behavior.” If I see one more man stopped at a red light in traffic opening his car door so he can spit on the pavement, I may go postal. And while I’m on the subject of male failings, can I please beg you to put it all away before you leave the public restroom? You’re not being discreet. Everyone notices, even though they pretend they don’t. Stop it.
Gosh. Yet another behavior to keep an eye on. As it were.
Over at Scandal of Particularity, I learned of this stunning bit from a well-known conservative commentator :
Finally, there is the matter of faith, even of the sort Tom Paine showed in 1776. Paine was no Christian, but he did believe that God had created this vast and splendid universe in order to share His friendship with free women and free men, and for this reason the Creator put freedom at the core of things. Tom Paine had no tolerance for the Bible, and less for Biblical fundamentalists, but he was not so much an atheist, he wrote, as to believe that the Almighty Who made the universe for liberty would allow the cause of people willing to die for it to come to naught. Paine couldn’t bring himself to believe that God would favor George III.
In that same spirit, I find it hard to believe that the Creator who gave us liberty will ignore President Bush’s willingness to sacrifice his own presidency for the liberation of Afghanistan and Iraq — their 50 million citizens, and perhaps their progeny for ages to come. A kind of cosmic justice (which does not always materialize, I recognize) calls for vindication. Especially when the president has been so unfairly calumniated by his foes, domestic and foreign.”
It’s from Michael Novak in the National Review.
Scandal also links to this parody by Mark Shea:
We believe in a Kind of Cosmic Justice, Watchmaker of Heaven and Earth, and in George Bush, Servant of Liberty. He was conceived by the Spirit of Liberty, elected by the American people, and became President. For the elimination of the threat of WMDs the freedom-loving peoples of the world, he put his career on the line, was calumniated, died in the polls, and was buried under bad press. In the 11th month he shall rise again, because a Kind of Cosmic Justice won’t stand for his servant to suffer harm. He shall be re-inaugurated in glory to judge the terrorists and the threats to our economic supremacy.
We believe in the American Spirit, the Holy American Way of Life, the communion of consumers, the therapy of shame, and comfort till we die. Amen.
Some very good stuff in the comments section from yesterday’s post on houses, marriage, and expectations. Stephen wrote:
I think it’s impossible to watch “Sleepless in Seattle,” “When Harry Met Sally,” etc. and not be influenced in your view of what constitutes a healthy relationship. Romantic comedies, sit-coms, etc. all sell the lie that your soulmate is out there, simply waiting to be found and, when found, will bring peace, contentment, unsullied intimacy. I’m not trying to be flip here. We all, male and female, have unrealistic expectations on what marriage should provide, can provide, and then spend so much time dissappointed that the movie doesn’t continue, that we miss our own script.
I’m probably just going to reiterate my point from yesterday. It’s clear that in American history marriage has never been less economically necessary than it is today for both men and women. And as more women become economically independent, men can no longer say “I’m a good provider, that ought to be enough.” Many men are aware that “today’s women” expect more than their grandmother’s generation did. The pressure to be successful has not diminished, but the pressure to be emotionally adept and eager to share in household responsibilities has increased enormously. That can be overwhelming for many men (it certainly was for me when I was younger).
But I was struck as well by something AmarettiXL wrote:
I wasn’t making any big feminist statement by buying a house, just like I wasn’t when I became an electrician….it was the right decision for me. And keep in mind, saving for a down payment and buying a house is a “sure thing”; finding a mate is a very unsure thing.
I added the bold emphasis. On one level, I find myself nodding my head in agreement as I read that. Despite the oscillations of the housing market, it is generally accepted that an investment in a house is a wiser financial investment than getting married. (Of course, that’s only true for the increasingly small percentage of us who can afford to buy real estate.) On another level, those words made me very sad, and they point to a larger problem that I think underlies a lot of my own discontent with modern culture.
I realize I’m prone to seeing my own security in financial terms. I think about my townhouse, my state teacher’s pension, and I feel safer as a result. A little voice in my head says, “as long as you maintain those investments and keep on teaching, you’ll be fine no matter what.” But what of the billions of people throughout the world whose sole source of security is family and community? Do they have something we don’t have? Has our ability to be economically independent undermined our willingness to work on building not only healthy marriages, but healthy and vital inter-dependent communities? I wonder.
I’ve always been torn between my own desire to have lots and lots of “stuff” and my desire to lead a simple life. I’m not alone in this, of course! Even as I own property and lease new cars and wear Lucky jeans and Bruno Magli ankle boots, I still think of myself (politically) as a socialist. I’m still enchanted with the idea of living communally, though I only really did it in college and grad school. (Much of what drew me to the Mennonites was this idea of surrendering one’s own autonomy.) But as I’ve grown more and more economically stable, I’ve been more and more reluctant to really embrace the idea of surrendering that financial autonomy. (I suppose that old adage “people become conservative when they have something to conserve” has some merit in my case. Damn.)
To be honest, one of the reasons I’m a socialist is because I do think that virtue sometimes needs to be compelled by an external source. Left to my own devices, despite my faith, I will choose expensive clothes and trips over giving money to the poor. I do give a great deal to charity (to be honest, I tithe on my net income, not my gross), but I often think more good could be done if the money were taken from me involuntarily. Come the revolution, no ankle boots for me. (My conservative readers are really frothing now, aren’t they?)
What does this have to do with single women buying houses? Not much, perhaps, save that the notion that a house is more of a “sure thing” than a spouse makes me sad. I’m not denying its essential truth, mind you, just feeling wistful for something that may not be possible to recapture in our contemporary culture.
My goodness, I am all over the place this morning. I apologize for the disjointedness of this post! I’ve got so much to do in the next couple of days to get ready for Colombia. I especially want to get in lots of exercise, because I won’t be able to go jogging through the streets of Bogota. Not if I wish to return. Off to run in the Arroyo…
Recent Comments