This is an e-mail I sent...
I am sitting in the apartment in Banjul, Arabic flowing through the speakers below me. I've seen more Muslims bowing and doing their daily prayers, and it is so heartbreaking to know that they are praying to a dead god, someone who thought he was possessed by demons. Lori took my picture with a shopowner today and he said, "I shouldn't take a woman now because of Ramadan", weird.
The drive from Mansa Jang yesterday took about 9 hours. It is supposed to take 5, but the ferry was too full, so we had to wait. As we sat there, little kids touched our hands through the windows, asking for bututs and dalasis and for pens for school. They just stood there staring at us for over an hour, trying to sell us green oranges and ground nuts. Each day leaving Koina, kids would run after us, reaching in the van, which is gratifying and heartbreaking at the same time, because it makes me wonder if they will ever escape this life.
Lori witnessed to a man named Mamadou on the ferry. Please pray for him. They argued over Islam and Christianity. The traditions of the people are so strong; they will be disowned by their families if they give up Islam. I wish they knew that they were also giving up eternal life. He explained that Mohammed was "pure" and that by cleaning his hands he was pure, and by praying a lot he was exonerated from sin. It hurt to hear that, to hear his denial of the grace of God freeing us from sin. Lori said she'd agree to read the Qu'Ran if Mamadou would agree to read the Bible. She said she was totally comfortable with it, because she knew that he'd be reading the truth.
Although this trip has been a great experience, I am excited to get home. As I was taking a shower (dumping water over my head with a bucket) this morning, I noticed something. The window was split into two parts; one pane was an aged, yellow glass, the other side was just a screen. I realized that coming here has been like getting glasses. I didn't see things clearly before. I saw them through that distorted yellow glass. I was sequestered from the environment. The way the people lived here did not seem real even though on some level I knew it was happening. Now I see things through the other part; my vision is clear, I can hear the voices of the people, smell the smells, feel the breeze. I am part of how this world operates and my eyes are able to see how a majority of the world lives. Poor. Impoverished. Fighting for survival. And no matter how hard I try, I can't block out those voices. I can't make my skin or nose not feel or smell. I can't ignore it.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Ah, the Gambia
I’ve been in Africa for a week now. The poverty here is beyond words; you have to see it to believe it. I actually feel as if I have been transported back at least 50, if not 100 years. It is hot, and sad, and incredibly eye-opening. For instance, they don’t even have ice here, and when they do, people fight over it because they brought it from ANOTHER COUNTRY, Senegal. People ride donkeys and old bicycles to get around. Today I saw a big truck with at least 30 men on the top, and the truck broke down, and a man jumped off and popped the hood, and they continued. We are stopped daily by “Customs”, men with big guns asking for our documents and our business here.
When I got to the airport, the bus driver said, “Your people are dying, and so are ours, but from different things”, which was so profound. It is accepted to be unnecessary in the US for people to die from malnutrition or disease, but here it is happening all around and nothing can be done.
The government turns on and off water and power as they see fit. We met a Peace Corps worker today who said that the power came on right as our group came and will be shut off soon undoubtedly. There are posters asking for votes for Yayah Jammel, who was elected president recently with 90% of the vote. A shopowner, Samba, told us that they have gone without power for at least a year in the last couple years, sometimes up to 3 years. I can guarantee that I will never look at electricity, or water, or plumbing, or refrigeration, or maintained roads, or health care, or the freedom of Christianity the same.
The missionary here is great, and so is his wife Miracle. Because of Taylor, we have dodged many goats, people, and potholes on the roads to Koina. They have the three most beautiful children I’ve ever seen, Bishop, Marilyn, and Berry. Berry is my favorite, she is 18 months and is so smart and funny. They all call us “Auntie” and “Uncle” and say they missed us every day.
I am working at a makeshift clinic in a community called Koina, a round trip of 3 hours each day from Mansa Jang on the bumpiest, worst maintained road you can imagine. The door of our van has actually opened up during the trip, spilling suitcases and pills along the road…the van works sometimes and the battery terminals come unplugged several times on the trip. I see families of at least 3 people at the clinic, everyone is sick and has a fever and abdominal pain, a workup for which in the states would cost at least $500. Here, though, I treat empirically for Malaria, Worms, STD’s (in the Muslim faith men can have up to four wives and are not faithful even then), Malnutrition, Tinea, skin infections, Amebic Dysentery, Giardia, etc. etc. etc. People wait in line all day for a toothbrush and some Tylenol. The state of health is so poor, and I don’t think there is any end in sight as there is no education in place and the people are so poor. They can’t afford proper nutrition, which is paramount in health, and I have always just taken advantage of that. Even if they have money, the availability of medications is so limited. It is heartbreaking.
There is a dark spiritual presence in Koina as there is not one known Christian there. Most people are fasting so even if I have pills to treat their condition, they can’t take them. Really good Muslims don’t even swallow their own saliva. Unbelievable. When you ask why they fast, they don’t even have an answer, other than it is Ramadan. The translation is fatiguing, in fact more than once I have had 2 translators; 1 translating from English to Fula and the other translating from Fula to Mandinke. Lori and I pray over each family we see, and although they don’t understand, they are appreciative of the gesture. It is hard to know that once the handful of pills I am able to provide are gone, the patient will continue to suffer and struggle to survive here.
The people in general are very excited to see us “Tubabs”, or white people, because they automatically assume that all Tubabs have money. In the Gambia, the average income is about 25 dalasis a day, or about a dollar. And it shows.
The people in the village seem to love us Tubabs; the little kids follow us around everywhere we go, expecting toys and waiting to see the photos we take with our digital cameras, then laughing hysterically at their own appearance. Only rich people have mirrors. And shoes.
The language here is difficult, I’ve learned enough just for greetings. My typical conversation goes like this,
“Ja wali”(Good morning), or “Jamyaleh” (good afternoon) or “Ja eerye” (good evening).
“Hono banduma?” (How is your body), “Hono gorcoma?” (How is your husband), “Hono doleo?” (how is your compound?)…to which the response is always “Jam tan” (only peace). They greet saying Salam Alecum, to which you respond Alecum Salam. Women always ask “Hono gorcoma?”, to which I reply, “Me falaca gorcoma” (I don’t want a husband), and they laugh out loud. I always say at the end, “Nalenjam” or “Balenjam”, see you tomorrow or good night. "Ja Rama Bui" is also very common, or "Thank you very much".
On some level I knew the world was like this, but I didn’t choose to believe that suffering like this could occur. I had to see it with my own eyes to fully understand. It can’t be explained, and my pictures can’t tell the story of sheer desperation here. The amount of time in a day has been revealed to me, however the work it takes to live here is so much. Yesterday and today we made tega dayges, or peanut butter. The “ground nuts” we got were already harvested and peeled, and it still took us portions of two days to roast, clean, and grind the nuts. I can’t imagine how much work the whole process is. Work just to survive is incredible here; and I will never look at a jar of Jif the same. Every day we have to collect water to bathe and drink from the tap. That is if the tap is even on. We live in a compound where the doors fall off and toads and bats and rats roam freely. While the building is outfitted with a toilet, shower, and two sinks, the water pressure is so bad that none of them are functioning. I have never been so dirty in my life, but sponge bathing doesn’t seem to get the red African mud off. Even after I am clean, I just sweat again because it’s always 90 degrees.
Tonight I milked a cow. People here generally can’t afford milk, even the evaporated kind. The two men who took me there, Mustapha and Netty, couldn’t believe that we feed our cows corn! Corn is only for humans! They basically live on rice and couscous. Only rich people can afford meat.
We had church this morning with a small turnout, and a sort of cumbersome service with rough translations from English to Fula. I hope that the people of Mansa Jang will learn to look at Jesus as more than a prophet, but it is generally unaccepted here. The Muslim tradition is so strong and Christianity is not common.
Sorry if this is too random, I am practically comatose right now.
Please lift up the people of the Gambia in your prayers. They need a revival.
When I got to the airport, the bus driver said, “Your people are dying, and so are ours, but from different things”, which was so profound. It is accepted to be unnecessary in the US for people to die from malnutrition or disease, but here it is happening all around and nothing can be done.
The government turns on and off water and power as they see fit. We met a Peace Corps worker today who said that the power came on right as our group came and will be shut off soon undoubtedly. There are posters asking for votes for Yayah Jammel, who was elected president recently with 90% of the vote. A shopowner, Samba, told us that they have gone without power for at least a year in the last couple years, sometimes up to 3 years. I can guarantee that I will never look at electricity, or water, or plumbing, or refrigeration, or maintained roads, or health care, or the freedom of Christianity the same.
The missionary here is great, and so is his wife Miracle. Because of Taylor, we have dodged many goats, people, and potholes on the roads to Koina. They have the three most beautiful children I’ve ever seen, Bishop, Marilyn, and Berry. Berry is my favorite, she is 18 months and is so smart and funny. They all call us “Auntie” and “Uncle” and say they missed us every day.
I am working at a makeshift clinic in a community called Koina, a round trip of 3 hours each day from Mansa Jang on the bumpiest, worst maintained road you can imagine. The door of our van has actually opened up during the trip, spilling suitcases and pills along the road…the van works sometimes and the battery terminals come unplugged several times on the trip. I see families of at least 3 people at the clinic, everyone is sick and has a fever and abdominal pain, a workup for which in the states would cost at least $500. Here, though, I treat empirically for Malaria, Worms, STD’s (in the Muslim faith men can have up to four wives and are not faithful even then), Malnutrition, Tinea, skin infections, Amebic Dysentery, Giardia, etc. etc. etc. People wait in line all day for a toothbrush and some Tylenol. The state of health is so poor, and I don’t think there is any end in sight as there is no education in place and the people are so poor. They can’t afford proper nutrition, which is paramount in health, and I have always just taken advantage of that. Even if they have money, the availability of medications is so limited. It is heartbreaking.
There is a dark spiritual presence in Koina as there is not one known Christian there. Most people are fasting so even if I have pills to treat their condition, they can’t take them. Really good Muslims don’t even swallow their own saliva. Unbelievable. When you ask why they fast, they don’t even have an answer, other than it is Ramadan. The translation is fatiguing, in fact more than once I have had 2 translators; 1 translating from English to Fula and the other translating from Fula to Mandinke. Lori and I pray over each family we see, and although they don’t understand, they are appreciative of the gesture. It is hard to know that once the handful of pills I am able to provide are gone, the patient will continue to suffer and struggle to survive here.
The people in general are very excited to see us “Tubabs”, or white people, because they automatically assume that all Tubabs have money. In the Gambia, the average income is about 25 dalasis a day, or about a dollar. And it shows.
The people in the village seem to love us Tubabs; the little kids follow us around everywhere we go, expecting toys and waiting to see the photos we take with our digital cameras, then laughing hysterically at their own appearance. Only rich people have mirrors. And shoes.
The language here is difficult, I’ve learned enough just for greetings. My typical conversation goes like this,
“Ja wali”(Good morning), or “Jamyaleh” (good afternoon) or “Ja eerye” (good evening).
“Hono banduma?” (How is your body), “Hono gorcoma?” (How is your husband), “Hono doleo?” (how is your compound?)…to which the response is always “Jam tan” (only peace). They greet saying Salam Alecum, to which you respond Alecum Salam. Women always ask “Hono gorcoma?”, to which I reply, “Me falaca gorcoma” (I don’t want a husband), and they laugh out loud. I always say at the end, “Nalenjam” or “Balenjam”, see you tomorrow or good night. "Ja Rama Bui" is also very common, or "Thank you very much".
On some level I knew the world was like this, but I didn’t choose to believe that suffering like this could occur. I had to see it with my own eyes to fully understand. It can’t be explained, and my pictures can’t tell the story of sheer desperation here. The amount of time in a day has been revealed to me, however the work it takes to live here is so much. Yesterday and today we made tega dayges, or peanut butter. The “ground nuts” we got were already harvested and peeled, and it still took us portions of two days to roast, clean, and grind the nuts. I can’t imagine how much work the whole process is. Work just to survive is incredible here; and I will never look at a jar of Jif the same. Every day we have to collect water to bathe and drink from the tap. That is if the tap is even on. We live in a compound where the doors fall off and toads and bats and rats roam freely. While the building is outfitted with a toilet, shower, and two sinks, the water pressure is so bad that none of them are functioning. I have never been so dirty in my life, but sponge bathing doesn’t seem to get the red African mud off. Even after I am clean, I just sweat again because it’s always 90 degrees.
Tonight I milked a cow. People here generally can’t afford milk, even the evaporated kind. The two men who took me there, Mustapha and Netty, couldn’t believe that we feed our cows corn! Corn is only for humans! They basically live on rice and couscous. Only rich people can afford meat.
We had church this morning with a small turnout, and a sort of cumbersome service with rough translations from English to Fula. I hope that the people of Mansa Jang will learn to look at Jesus as more than a prophet, but it is generally unaccepted here. The Muslim tradition is so strong and Christianity is not common.
Sorry if this is too random, I am practically comatose right now.
Please lift up the people of the Gambia in your prayers. They need a revival.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Land Locked Blues
"Can anyone tell me what God created on the second day?", I asked.
"Um, wasn't it... two turtle doves?", Kirsten answered.
Perhaps the highlight of the class I taught at camp.
I got there and I wondered what I had gotten myself into. It was going to be over 100 degrees several days in a row. Now, I can handle forty below, but I can't handle heat. My body turns off. I mean my mitochondria seriously stop making ATP. After all, in keeping with the week's theme, I am a "nordique". Qoi.
So I pretty much wondered what I was doing at a camp 1204.3 miles away from my home. Where I knew 3 people. Not very well, I might add. I was hot, dirty, far from home, and not feeling a semblance of spiritual presence. I don't even like kids that much. I am retarded.
Let me tell you that it was, far and away, the best week of my summer. I came home exhausted yet invigorated. Part of it was devotions, part chapel and tabernacle, part group time, part alter calls and subsequent catharsis, part worship, part nature and dissociation from civilization (as much as you can be in New Jersey), part fighting my natural introvert tendencies to go out of my comfort zone and meet people who are much cooler than me. All of it was being enveloped by Christians, meeting people who do nothing but inspire me, kids with legitimate concerns and issues kids should never have to deal with. Teachers and counselors and deans giving up a week of their lives without pay to keep a camp that changes lives afloat.
I met so many awesome people. Brian, Emily, and Danielle were kind enough to pick a Minnesotan up in Philly. Sarah E. and Scott were my team leaders (Jesus, Hockey, Breathing), Sarah M. inspires me to play guitar- chicks rock!, and Sarah J., the sweetest girl ever. Courtney and Matt Ralph, the best deans in the history of deanhood. My roomies Lauren and Jill. Jon and Dave and Bandu in the lounge. Mama Ralph, my fellow Midwesterner/hugger. Dave Ralph and Tina, technology extraordinnaires. Angie, Greg, DJ, and Jay moving us with worship. My prayer group girls. My team (Go Leafs!). Milkshakes at 2 AM. Nightswimming in Lake Agape. Watching the kids fish, remembering the curiosity and thirst that seems to hasten with age.
I sat on the beach, moved by the acoustic music, emotions swelling, pleading to hear God. About two seconds later, I heard, "I'm tired of searching for a love that only comes and goes." That is so true. Believe it or not, the trip was worth that one single moment.
I also got to see my classmates/friends: Suz, Sarah, Nicole, Jentry, Julie, Shana and Chad, Kathryn, Carla, Greg and Arayel, Jen and Tom, Colleen and Laura. I got to attend a housewarming party, view where a friend's wedding will take place, and celebrate the birth of a baby boy and the engagement of a friend. And, as usual, I feel like the rest of the world is moving and I am standing still. I miss them all so much. One year is too long to not see them.
"And the world's got me dizzy again
You'd think after 22 years I'd be used to the spin
And it only feels worse when I stay in one place
So I'm always pacing around or walking away"
~Bright Eyes
"Um, wasn't it... two turtle doves?", Kirsten answered.
Perhaps the highlight of the class I taught at camp.
I got there and I wondered what I had gotten myself into. It was going to be over 100 degrees several days in a row. Now, I can handle forty below, but I can't handle heat. My body turns off. I mean my mitochondria seriously stop making ATP. After all, in keeping with the week's theme, I am a "nordique". Qoi.
So I pretty much wondered what I was doing at a camp 1204.3 miles away from my home. Where I knew 3 people. Not very well, I might add. I was hot, dirty, far from home, and not feeling a semblance of spiritual presence. I don't even like kids that much. I am retarded.
Let me tell you that it was, far and away, the best week of my summer. I came home exhausted yet invigorated. Part of it was devotions, part chapel and tabernacle, part group time, part alter calls and subsequent catharsis, part worship, part nature and dissociation from civilization (as much as you can be in New Jersey), part fighting my natural introvert tendencies to go out of my comfort zone and meet people who are much cooler than me. All of it was being enveloped by Christians, meeting people who do nothing but inspire me, kids with legitimate concerns and issues kids should never have to deal with. Teachers and counselors and deans giving up a week of their lives without pay to keep a camp that changes lives afloat.
I met so many awesome people. Brian, Emily, and Danielle were kind enough to pick a Minnesotan up in Philly. Sarah E. and Scott were my team leaders (Jesus, Hockey, Breathing), Sarah M. inspires me to play guitar- chicks rock!, and Sarah J., the sweetest girl ever. Courtney and Matt Ralph, the best deans in the history of deanhood. My roomies Lauren and Jill. Jon and Dave and Bandu in the lounge. Mama Ralph, my fellow Midwesterner/hugger. Dave Ralph and Tina, technology extraordinnaires. Angie, Greg, DJ, and Jay moving us with worship. My prayer group girls. My team (Go Leafs!). Milkshakes at 2 AM. Nightswimming in Lake Agape. Watching the kids fish, remembering the curiosity and thirst that seems to hasten with age.
I sat on the beach, moved by the acoustic music, emotions swelling, pleading to hear God. About two seconds later, I heard, "I'm tired of searching for a love that only comes and goes." That is so true. Believe it or not, the trip was worth that one single moment.
I also got to see my classmates/friends: Suz, Sarah, Nicole, Jentry, Julie, Shana and Chad, Kathryn, Carla, Greg and Arayel, Jen and Tom, Colleen and Laura. I got to attend a housewarming party, view where a friend's wedding will take place, and celebrate the birth of a baby boy and the engagement of a friend. And, as usual, I feel like the rest of the world is moving and I am standing still. I miss them all so much. One year is too long to not see them.
"And the world's got me dizzy again
You'd think after 22 years I'd be used to the spin
And it only feels worse when I stay in one place
So I'm always pacing around or walking away"
~Bright Eyes
Monday, July 17, 2006
Hello Mother, Hello Father...
I never did the camp thing. I was, in so many words, a momma's girl. Docile. Homesick. Wimpy, as it were. My sister went to camp, and there they watched The Wizard of Oz and when she heard "There's no place like home", she cried, ran to the phone, and demanded that my mom come pick her up. I remember. I was not about to leave my comfort zone for swimming and canteens and tetherball and crafts and relationships. I just wasn't.
So in a couple weeks I'm doing the camp thing for the first time. Yeah, I'm 26, so homesickness shouldn't be a factor.
I met Matt Ralph while he was preaching at a church in Chew's Landing. He quoted Bob Dylan in his sermon, and I was sold. He's a journalist and he cares more about the human condition than anyone I've ever met, and is wise beyond his 27 years. We've kept in touch since then, and his family runs a Bible Camp in Southern New Jersey. When the proposition to help out at "Ralph Camp" came up, I jumped on it. So for the first time, I will be teaching a class to junior highers (ahh! hormones, pray for me)... and Matt suggested that I, in all my poetic, nature-y-ness (as he put it), teach a class that focuses on how we fit in to nature and God's creation. I feel a flashback to junior high right now, sans the spiral perm and BUM Equipment sweatshirt, fearing that I may not be cool enough. I may have to start watching MTv or something.
It's funny, with a junior high audience I feel lead to stress that each of us is fearfully and wonderfully made, He knew us before He formed us in the womb, He formed us in His own image, we are His beloved, He loves us with an agape love, etc. etc. And while I know these things, they are hard, almost impossible, for me to believe. It's one of Satan's biggest holds on me, and women in general, that our intrinsic worth depends on our extrinisic appearance. I have wrestled with it for a long time, but at 26, I am just beginning to believe that I am exactly who I am because that's the way God wanted me; baby face, Norwegian washwoman-esque, non size-2 body and all. I need to hear it, I need to believe it, just as much as these teenagers do.
I pray that the kids will have a blessed, dynamic, life-changing week at camp. I pray that I will feel God's presence in the nature of South Jersey (yes, it exists). And I am so elated that I'll be there with one of the most inspirational people I've ever met. That is worth the trip.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
My weakness
I'd like to think that I can remember the specific moment I decided I was done living life for myself. It should be easy, because I've done it more than once.
I've thought it through in my head, felt broken by it, made an arbitrary decision to abandon a self-centered lifestyle, and then gone right on to live my posh, American, all-about-me life. I'll take some mass-marketed self-absorption to go, brown bag, no ice. I'm sick of it, but the whole of me occupies my time, and my doubts and fears have a magical ability of being all-encompassing. I get caught up in a career, a lifestyle, and therefore a sad, solipsistic existence. Even as I sit here, I am trying to come up with excuses for this. There are none.
I am upset that things aren't going the way I want them to go, but maybe that's because I am blinded by selfish ambition. Maybe that's why doors have been shutting left and right. Slamming, as it were. Slamming doors aside, I still have more than I need, more than I deserve, and I am left asking, "Who am I to be blessed? What makes me deserving?" The answer is simple: nothing.
Nothing.
It is my duty to use the resources I have to help others. I chastise the rich for not doing enough, but I could do more; I just need a nudge to get me going. Perhaps a kick; something that makes me realize that this life I am living is not mine. I am reminded of something Paul said in Philippians, "do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves".
Once a month or so someone at my church gives their Faith Story. It is undoubtedly emotional, purging, eloquent. And every time I hear one, I wonder to myself what mine would include. What would move me to tears? How could I turn this humble, if not insipid, existence into something inspirational? I could come up with something, make it sound real, maybe even squeeze out a tear. Of course I can cry at the drop of a hat about my own life, a life of luxury, all the while stoic at the sight of those dying from war or hunger or disease. That is a sad, sad fact.
I sit here, future still unknown, needing God to change my heart, make me grow, help me find purpose, save me from myself. I just feel alone in it. I want Him to come sit by me, hold my hand, give me the strength to surrender my life to Him, completely, unabashedly, without reservation.
No one ever said it would be easy.
I've thought it through in my head, felt broken by it, made an arbitrary decision to abandon a self-centered lifestyle, and then gone right on to live my posh, American, all-about-me life. I'll take some mass-marketed self-absorption to go, brown bag, no ice. I'm sick of it, but the whole of me occupies my time, and my doubts and fears have a magical ability of being all-encompassing. I get caught up in a career, a lifestyle, and therefore a sad, solipsistic existence. Even as I sit here, I am trying to come up with excuses for this. There are none.
I am upset that things aren't going the way I want them to go, but maybe that's because I am blinded by selfish ambition. Maybe that's why doors have been shutting left and right. Slamming, as it were. Slamming doors aside, I still have more than I need, more than I deserve, and I am left asking, "Who am I to be blessed? What makes me deserving?" The answer is simple: nothing.
Nothing.
It is my duty to use the resources I have to help others. I chastise the rich for not doing enough, but I could do more; I just need a nudge to get me going. Perhaps a kick; something that makes me realize that this life I am living is not mine. I am reminded of something Paul said in Philippians, "do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves".
Once a month or so someone at my church gives their Faith Story. It is undoubtedly emotional, purging, eloquent. And every time I hear one, I wonder to myself what mine would include. What would move me to tears? How could I turn this humble, if not insipid, existence into something inspirational? I could come up with something, make it sound real, maybe even squeeze out a tear. Of course I can cry at the drop of a hat about my own life, a life of luxury, all the while stoic at the sight of those dying from war or hunger or disease. That is a sad, sad fact.
I sit here, future still unknown, needing God to change my heart, make me grow, help me find purpose, save me from myself. I just feel alone in it. I want Him to come sit by me, hold my hand, give me the strength to surrender my life to Him, completely, unabashedly, without reservation.
No one ever said it would be easy.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
The Final Hour
My head and my eyes are heavy and while I should be, say, resting them, I choose to sit here. Mesmerized. Thinking someone might actually be reading this, my sad excuse for human communication. At lunch today, I sat down to my leftover penne and vegetables my personal chef (my sister) made and did a couple Wuzzles and the Cryptoquip in the Star Tribune. A couple other employees came in. We each sat at our respective tables, the fellow to my left biting an apple, the lady to my right reading the paper, the buzz of the Coke machine filling the silence. No one spoke, and I thought, "this is what's wrong with America".
I mean, that's just scratching the surface, and I am a loner so I'm not above reproach, and I've only been to eight other countries so I am far from seasoned, but this type of behavior is pathologically unusual from a global perspective. In a world where no one needs anyone, no one takes social responsibility. If anyone fails, it is a direct reflection on themselves, maybe their family, but not necessarily society. We "pull ourselves up by our bootstraps", having not been that far down to begin with, all the while washing our hands of any obligation to those in need. It's Social Darwinism at it's finest. We drive our fancy luxury cars, own our second homes, spoil our kids, and blatantly neglect any onus we have to a global, even local community literally dying in front of our eyes.
Oh, the sweet smell of hegemony. Oh, the aroma of imperialism.
To quote Lauryn Hill, "It's time to change the focus from the richest to the brokest".
I mean, that's just scratching the surface, and I am a loner so I'm not above reproach, and I've only been to eight other countries so I am far from seasoned, but this type of behavior is pathologically unusual from a global perspective. In a world where no one needs anyone, no one takes social responsibility. If anyone fails, it is a direct reflection on themselves, maybe their family, but not necessarily society. We "pull ourselves up by our bootstraps", having not been that far down to begin with, all the while washing our hands of any obligation to those in need. It's Social Darwinism at it's finest. We drive our fancy luxury cars, own our second homes, spoil our kids, and blatantly neglect any onus we have to a global, even local community literally dying in front of our eyes.
Oh, the sweet smell of hegemony. Oh, the aroma of imperialism.
To quote Lauryn Hill, "It's time to change the focus from the richest to the brokest".
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