Having Conversations: Martin Luther King, Jr. and the Civil Rights Movement of Today

How do we remember Martin Luther King, Jr. and the civil rights movement of the 1960s? Posting an inspirational quote from Dr. King as an obligatory Facebook status? Buying into racist stereotypes (it happened: http://www.charlestoncitypaper.com/HaireoftheDog/archives/2014/01/20/celebrating-mlk-day-with-fried-chicken-and-40s-of-oe)? Taking a day off from school and work? Participating in a “day on, not a day off” by doing service (it also happened: http://news.cofc.edu/2014/01/20/4-martin-luther-king-jr-day-2014-events-and-activities-hosted-by-the-college-of-charleston/)?

This is a couple weeks late, but I want to propose that we commemorate Dr. King and a civil rights movement necessitating our attention still today by doing what the activists of the 1960s did: have conversations. Perhaps that is overly simplistic, but as I have been thinking about the collection of rights people advocate for today (equality among races, sexual orientations, religions, abilities, nationalities and citizenship statuses), I have noticed a common thread. We struggle to have conversations.

Remember the great government shutdown of 2013? Yes, of course you do. It’s what happened when the government struggled to have real conversations. It happens on much smaller scales: within churches, on college campuses, in neighborhoods, across generations. When I try to remember the real conversations I’ve had in the past month, they’re few and far between. I mean, I talk to people all the time—those I agree with and those I don’t. But the times I have talked about real issues with people and actively listened to their side, civilly presented my thoughts, and each of us allowed the others’ opinions to matter significantly…those times are few.

As part of “Share the Dream” week on the College of Charleston campus, Jose Antonio Vargas, an undocumented American and successful American journalist, spoke about what it means to be American—both documented and undocumented. He connected immigrant rights with the civil rights movement of the 1960s. He gave the statistics and stories to propose that immigrant rights are important, that “no human being is ‘illegal.’” I walked away from his talk with a more meta message, though. His talk was much more about having conversations, and I think one of the clips he showed from his documentary, "Documented," encapsulated that. In the clip, he was interviewing an Alabama college student about recent legislation requiring students to present papers as proof of their citizenship when a man in the background of the shot decided to share his opinion, which greatly differed from both Vargas’s and the student’s. This man implied that all immigrants—legal or not—should leave the country because they are stealing jobs from Americans. Vargas didn’t shut him down (or let himself shut down), but allowed the man to express his opinion, asking him questions because he genuinely wanted to learn a different perspective from this man. And perhaps because Vargas listened to him, the man was then interested in Vargas’s story. They fist-pumped at the end of the clip, each apparently having learned something from the other. Heart-warming, right?

I don’t have to imagine how this conversation could have taken a different turn: I’ve seen it happen before. People get offended and defensive, calling one another “close-minded.” Liberal views and conservative views can both be close-minded, when everyone sees their own views as right and others’ views as wrong. There is no room for conversation.

I have been guilty of being on both sides of inability to have conversation. Now, I want the conversations, because out of conversations, movements are born.

Sunday in Morocco: Everything I Needed

Morocco...where do I begin? I've been back in the country for a week and a half, and I am still processing EVERYTHING. So I won't begin with completion, but feel free to read my incomplete thoughts and questions about the most difficult trip I've ever been on.

My grandma said she saw it in my eyes: the anxiety, the knowledge that this trip would be different. She is much wiser than I am. I wasn't conscious of that knowledge I carried as I was scrambling around on the morning of Friday, December 28th--departure day. I should have known all along. The planning process was hectic...even more so than normal. I remember one Thursday when I’d spent over four hours in the Center for Civic Engagement watching my plans and my confidence as an Alternative Break trip leader (and leader in general) spiral downward. I got back to my room that night around 10:30 and melted against the closed door. When departure day arrived, I had given up all hope of the trip going “according to plan.” I didn’t even want that anymore. I hoped instead for the flexibility to respond to the chaos I was sure would happen.

And chaos happened.

The travel days were a nightmare I am not ready to relive, nor can I see the good in the experiences yet. Our first full day at the homebase (Sunday), my group of junior and senior Bonners had our orientation with Cross Cultural Solutions (CCS), a truly incredible organization that facilitates sustainable international service and productive cultural exchange. Mohammed, the country director in Morocco, is absolutely fantastic, and as he introduced us to the basics we needed to know about Morocco and about our three service sites, I felt relief sink in, all the way down to my socks (which, in an effort to make a good first impression on the CCS staff, actually matched that day). As a trip leader, I was hyper-aware of the impressions my entire group was making on the Moroccan staff and of the reactions of my group to what Mohammed was saying. There was nervousness when he talked about women in Morocco (Morocco is an Islamic country and most women wear head coverings. We were also unsure at that point how society treated them.) but a definite sense of excitement when we heard exactly what we would be doing at our service sites. I’ll talk more about that in a later post...still processing a lot...

We learned some Arabic after our orientation, and even though I consider myself blessed with the gift of quickly picking up languages, I still only know a few phrases: la, shokran, kidayr, smiti Elizabeth, snu smitek, bslama. Oops. It was fun to try, though.

The afternoon was completely free for us to explore and adventure, and in a moment of swift decision-making, Eliza (my fearless co-leader who also might be the single most amazing person in the world) and I decided our group was going to take a walk to a nearby park.I had low expectations...a park in Morocco? But as we wandered through beautiful, luxurious streets where the homebase was located, I spotted a vibrant green polo field, houses of ambassadors to Morocco mushroomed with satellite dishes, and flowering plants dripping over tall walls. I let my guard down a bit. I was in desperate need of some beauty after a day of international airports, lost luggage (just mine), a seven hour flight next to one of my trip participants who vomited the entire time, and a general lack of sleep.

The park, le forêt urbaine, was breathtaking. It was an expanse of land filled with trees straight out of Middle Earth and sudden soccer fields and playgrounds. There were trails that people were walking and running. It shocked me because I have, up until that point, made generalizations that exercise is a luxury to which only Americans are privileged. I assumed people in other countries do not have the "luxury" (really, it's an issue of enough capital, I think) of eating so much they need to exercise or the luxury of time and space to do so. I was wrong. Green space in a big city also used to feel like a luxury only in the States. Again, I was wrong. People in Morocco have those luxuries, too; at least the people in that particular wealthy neighborhood in Rabat do. What other places in the world defy my assumptions? Do Moroccans see spaces like this park and moments of exercise as luxury? This was the beginning of Morocco shocking me, making me think twice about everything...

We spent a while in le forêt urbaine, soaking up the sun (Morocco is a cold country in the winter with a very hot sun), meandering along paths, attracting all sorts of attention as Americans have the tendency of doing in other countries. We took pictures of the sunlight mystically filtering through tall white trees and scoped out the people of Morocco. It was restful and thought-provoking and everything I needed for the day.

Hope. Hope fell over me on Sunday. After great chaos, Sunday was a day of reclaiming: reclaiming why I was there, why I love travel, why I love languages, why I love service. Strangely, though, it wasn't me who got to do the reclaiming; Sunday reclaimed me. I needed that. Why? You'll see...oh, you'll see.

A Poem from Tegus: "The Voice God Can't Resist"

"The Voice God Can't Resist"

Te pido la paz para mi ciudad. Te pido perdón por mi ciudad. Ahora me humillo y busco tu rostro. A quién iré Señor si no a ti?

Morning dawns over Flor del Campo
And students gather in a concrete soccer field
Overlooking their neighborhood, their homes, their families.
Their voices alone are small--like them.
But they join together.
Painfully beautiful, the violence is real for them,
So is the peace ,though, the new start.

Children equated with innocence
Take blame upon themselves
And with bold lack of reticence,
Cry to God for peace in a violent city.

Twilight takes hold of the world outside the fence
And florescent lights allow the soccer game to press on.
The game is light-hearted, betraying the deep seriousness
That sat heavily on the participants and observers just minutes prior.
Thoughts of "Qué es la paz?" blurred as sweat rolled down faces
And the game rose in intensity.
The divide between the opportunistic norteamericanas
And the hondureños that have been seared by scenes of violence
Becomes impossible to decipher as soccer begins to dominate.

The world outside becomes dark
Save for scattered stars made by streetlights.
Inside the soccer court, the boys become sparks
And the darkness starts to tremble.

For daily updates on our adventures, check out our group blog: http://blogs.cofc.edu/honorshonduras/blog/

When Gringas Play Soccer...

Buenas noches from Tegus! So just as a forewarning, I'm super hyped up on adrenaline right now, which will explain the excessive explanation marks to come.

It's day three in Honduras, and it finally feels official that I'm back! This year is a completely different experience in spite of the facts that I'm working with the same organization, that I'm here for the same amount of time, and that it's Honduras. I'm here with a group of students (plus two faculty members) from College of Charleston. We're working with the Alonzo Movement, and so far we've spent the majority of our time meeting with various program directors, playing soccer (badly), and awkwardly trying to connect with the youth that come to the program. We'd spent so much time in our class learning about the Honduran education system, the organization (LAMB), strategic planning, and other sometimes seemingly unconnected things. And we're finally here seeing how it all comes together.

Today has been indescribably awesome.
We spent the evening at the Alonzo Movement. The group of guys tonight were all around our age, which made us very apprehensive. It also made us all wear long pants instead of shorts. The man who directed tonight's group was fabulous, though. His name is Gabriel, and he runs the microfinance program that is part of LAMB. He might be the most dynamic person I've ever met! He got us gringas all warmed up for the evening by teaching us some basic soccer skills. That's right. We're awful at soccer. I know it's surprising. It made us more comfortable, and it also allowed the guys who arrived early to laugh at us a little. I overheard several comments about how bad the girl in the black sneakers and soccer jersey was. One guess who that was. (Hint hint: ME.) But once the program really got started for the evening, we integrated fairly well--singing songs, playing games, listening intently to a story about princes and princesses who learned to value other people.

Then it was time to play soccer. Gabriel arranged us into teams of two gringas and two Honduran guys. I was with a girl named Hannah, a guy named Hector, and a guy whose name he kept mumbling so Hannah and I nicknamed him Prince. They were great sports. We were obviously awful, but they continued to pass us the ball and let us pretend like we knew what we were doing. In a very awesome and probably God-sent moment, the goal my team was shooting on was wide open. The goalie just disappeared. And so I very timidly kicked the ball into the goal. AND SCORED. I scored a goal! High fives from Hector, Prince, and Hannah...and we were at it again. I think Hector scored a couple times, and then Hannah made an awesome headshot that didn't really do much. But then Hannah scored a goal! We were on fire. My head was throbbing and my heart felt swollen in my chest from running up and down the field, which is actually a paved court surrounded by a wire fence and situated on the top floor of the school. I was ready to quit, and I don't think I was seeing straight anymore. And in the single most awesome moment of my life, I leapt over one of the guys who had fallen down trying to defend me, dribbled the ball towards the goal, and took a shot on goal just as I collided with the youngest and smallest kid there. Yeahhh, I completely demolished that 8 year old. With no shame. But I scored another goal! And didn't even realize I had made a shot on goal. It was the best feeling. All the moment needed was a slow clap

On a more serious note, though, being somewhat competent at soccer, even if it was unintentional, ended up being very beneficial for the work we are trying to do in Flor del Campo, the neighborhood where LAMB and the Alonzo Movement are based. It  allowed me to chat with the guys on my team. Hector was especially candid. I found out that he's 17 years old and is going to the public university in Tegus. He talked with Hannah and me about our studies and we got to hear a little about his life. It was great! (especially when he raised his eyebrows and asked us if we were on Facebook. Ha.) He was this very good looking guy, clean and seemingly well put together as most Hondurans are, athletic, and probably very smart. How can he be an at-risk youth? It just doesn't seem possible! But the fact that we were in the context of a 100% safe place and that he was allowed the uninterrupted play of a regular teenage boy changes things. I wish I could be a fly on his shoulder as he lives his day to day life just to see what he's like in the company of other people and other situations. Maybe I'm biased because he was such an awesome teammate (we definitely won the mini-tourney), but his seemed like a success story of the Alonzo Movement and of the power of youth in Flor del Campo.

On that note, we spent this morning at LAMB's school in Flor. The children have a devotional every Wednesday, and we had the honor of attending. It was predictable at first--complete with goofy songs and motions, a Bible lesson, and a little skit. But then, the children learned a new song. The song asked God for peace in Flor del Campo and for forgiveness for the sins of the city. Please imagine for just a moment about 180 children in quaint school uniforms lifting their voices out over their city, which is known for violence and gangs, and standing up for themselves. It was beautiful in a painful way. Their principal spoke after their song, delivering the single most powerful pep talk I've ever heard. She told them that there could be peace in Flor if they would pray to God for it collectively. She was direct and explicit, saying that she knows what happens in Flor--fathers hitting mothers, children being abused, people being shot or robbed in the streets. She said that if they joined together in one voice that it could all end because theirs is the one voice that God cannot resist. She reminded the children of the story of Jesus telling the disciples to let the little children come to him and how they are el reino del cielo (the kingdom of heaven). There was so much power and hope in that moment. I saw the vision that the LAMB staff must see: peace in what once was one of the most dangerous colonias in Honduras because of the difference the children at the school and the youth in the Alonzo Movement can make in their community. It was chilling. The children's faces reacted when what she said hit home. I wondered all day how there could be hope there, how the children could even believe her, how boys like Hector could thrive in the crazy educational system to such an extent that he is now in college, how any place in that gang-filled place could be so safe.

I think the only reasonable answer is that God is there.

I'm Going to Honduras...Again!

Good things come to those who eavesdrop.


Ok maybe not. But I did learn in my Fiction Writing class that Wikipedia, staring, and eavesdropping are three best friends for writers (I also learned that creativity arrives through discipline and that I know nothing). Usually when I eavesdrop, I hear random college chatter that doesn't mean much to me. But over 6 months ago I overheard some seriously important information...I was gathered around a bonfire on Seabrook Island with several of my fellow Bonners and our director. As smoke bit at my eyes, I heard something like this:

Yeah, we're going to try to do two Maymester trips this year. One will be to wherever the student leaders choose and the other is going to Honduras. 

How do you already know that one is going to Honduras? 

Dr. Folds-Bennett and Mary Pat are planning that one. Dr. Folds-Bennett has worked with an organization in Honduras before so they'll be working with that NGO. 

Is there a student trip leader for that one yet?

The last question was actually mine. It was one of those moments where your voice speaks without your permission. But I managed to insert myself into the conversation just long enough to hear all the details that had been established so far before I raced up the dark path to the cabins where we were staying. I grabbed my cell phone off my bed and immediately called my parents. If there was an opportunity to go back and work with LAMB (the organization Dr. Folds-Bennett has experience with and the very one I spent three weeks with last summer), I wanted to jump on it fast. I remember standing on the porch of my cabin in the sticky evening air, pacing up and down as I related the details to both my mom and my dad.


What has now become "Honors in Honduras," was once just an idea of a new model where the Center for Civic Engagement pairs up with the Honors College at College of Charleston. Why Honduras? Simply for the reason that Dr. Folds-Bennett (henceforth known as "TFB") had connections there.


I didn't actually agree to be the student leader until I was on the Alternative Break trip leaders retreat. Everyone paired up for spring break trips and the other maymester, and it was apparent to everyone except me that I would be the student leader for the Honduras trip. I may have just agreed by default. I wasn't sure I wanted to go back to Honduras because it was such a hard trip for me, but I certainly didn't want to pass up an incredible opportunity just because my last trip there wasn't bump-free.


So last Wednesday we had our first class...
It was such a strange feeling to sit in a circle (it was more of a rectangle really) and discuss Latin American history and U.S. foreign policy with TFB, Mary Pat, and the other eight students going on the trip with me. All eight students had been through an application and interview process, where the most we could tell them about what we'd be doing in Honduras was that we were waiting for the team at LAMB to decide for us. We were trying to live the asset-based community development model...this is a hard thing to do when you're trying to plan both a class and a three week trip.


After finalizing our team, we started having weekly meetings to discuss fundraisers, practice Spanish conversation, talk about the alt break components (drug- and alcohol-free, diversity, education, orientation, training, reflection, reorientation, strong direct service), and prepare for an intense honors course in community-based research where we would learn the ins and outs of NGOs, program management, Honduran politics, capacity building for projects, and asset-based community development. Eventually, we will put together an entire project to execute while in Honduras working with LAMB based on what they tell us is their area of need.


That's a lot of technical words, I realize.


All of this is to say that since August, this idea has been unfolding, and now it's happening. It's exciting. It's terrifying (I'm taking eight girls to Honduras for three weeks?!?). It's oddly surreal.

I think about the time I had getting to Honduras last year. It was so last minute and there were so many weeks where I just really didn't know if I was going to be able to go. I took a lot of blind steps, and God showed up in awesome ways to get me there. And now I have the opportunity to go back and to take other CofC students--some who are believers and others who aren't--to this place where God is so real. Again, it's surreal. And I am honored to be a part of it all.

Life and Death in a Garden

Today was a perfect day for gardening.  It was cool enough to remind me that summer has not yet arrived, the sky heavy with clouds that threatened showers all day.  I knelt in the grass with my hair falling around me and pulled weeds out of one of the gardens my sister plants every year.  She’s always had a green thumb and a love of growing anything and everything; I could kill a cactus.  Actually, I could probably kill a rock. I just become negligent over time. Life happens and the things in my care begin to wither.  But just being outside was intoxicating. I was in the mood to weed today.

I went to San Francisco for spring break this past year with a group of freshman and sophomore Bonners from CofC.  We were there looking at nutrition, and that translated into a lot of time spent in urban gardens.  I loved it, every second of it—the weeding, the planting, the digging, the listening and learning, the harvesting. I loved having my hands completely immersed in the earth. I loved finding earthworms and just breathing in the smell of urban farms.  I grew up around gardens.  I knew how to identify tomato plants by their distinct smell and how to get down underneath the roots of weeds so they wouldn’t grow back as quickly.  Several of the other students on the trip decided to take what they had learned about gardening and farming back to Charleston, promising they would start urban farms of their own.  I know myself well enough to know that I enjoy gardening but that I would not have the dedication nor the natural talent to coax a garden from the sickly sweet brown earth of Charleston. 

Today, though, was a perfect day for gardening.  In spite of the cicada that stalked me and fussed incessantly as I moved around the garden, I was completely content. I sang, I pulled weeds, I discovered the miniscule serendipitous treasures that a garden holds for people who are unafraid to get their hands dirty and patient enough to look. The two hours I spent on my hands and knees working mindlessly but thinking constantly were the perfect cure for the restlessness that summer brings me every year.

The cicada that stalked me died and I was sad.

The weeds I pulled out lay scattered just outside the garden boundaries like casualties from a brutal war, but I do not mourn them.

The rain finally broke free of her cloudy barrier and soaked the freshly weeded garden, feeling like new life.

There’s still dirt under my fingernails, stubborn as sunflowers that will grow anywhere, and I feel very much alive. I cannot say the same for the stalker cicada and the murdered weeds.

The Lord will guide you continually,
      giving you water when you are dry
      and restoring your strength.
   You will be like a well-watered garden,
      like an ever-flowing spring.

                                Isaiah 58:12