To Change and Be Changed

I am trying to put words to my experience serving people with special needs in Morocco...it might be the hardest thing I've done in awhile, so be gracious and patient...
A couple Saturdays ago, the other Bonners and I volunteered with Charleston Parks Conservancy at Cannon Park to prune lots of plants for winter and to plant 2,000 daffodil bulbs. I grew up barefoot in my backyard during Southern summers, and I have beautiful memories of digging around in the soft black dirt with a white plastic spoon underneath my grandparents’ oak tree. When one of the Parks Conservancy guys handed me a trowel and a pair of gloves, I shoved the gloves in my back pocket and relished the feel of dirt on my bare skin as we dug deep to give each bulb a home. Later, the most painful and massive blister I’ve ever had formed on the stem on my thumb.

The process of healing feels very much the same for physical and emotional/mental/psychological wounds. The first day I had a blister, it hurt a lot. It was messy and I kept it covered with a Muppets bandage. The second day, a scab had formed over it, but every time I moved my thumb (A LOT), the scab cracked, and it was more painful than the first day. By the third day, things were looking up, and it felt like the healing process had really begun.

I had a similar experience in Morocco at my service site there. I volunteered in the special needs ward of an orphanage in the old, walled city of Rabat, helping the nurses there bathe, feed, and connect with the 27 people who live there. The first day was an utter assault on my sense: the hot, steamy bathroom smelled like human waste and was filled with people who were varying degrees of nude, most of their bodies twisted by physical deformities. I dove right in, and yes, it was unspeakably challenging. Feeding was a whole different round of difficulties, and I realized there is a learning curve that accompanies working with people with special needs because, just like any other human being, each person is unique with their own abilities and skills. When the bus came to pick us up after our first day, I felt frustrated, defeated, and downright disgusted with the way my brain was labeling the people I worked with all morning. I also felt like I needed a shower. My mind shifted back and forth between wanting to be callous, to do the service without letting it change me, and wanting to let the work change me even if it was going to be painful.

I had the next day off in celebration of the New Year, and as the group learned about the basics of Islam and toured Chellah, the Roman ruins in Rabat, I wandered along the line of change. After witnessing the tears and extreme frustration of one of the other women serving with me at the orphanage, I made my slow decision to let the experience change me. And I prepared my heart for a second day there.

The assault on my senses hadn't lessened at all. It was actually a lot more challenging (this word falls so short...) to look people--with whom I'd attempted to make connections two days prior and whose stories had begun to unfold (most of them had been abandoned, left for wild animals to finish off)--in the eye while bathing them, feeding them, seeing how the nurses treated them. I was physically queasy for the entire morning. My mind didn't know how to put language to what I was doing, what I was feeling, or even who these people were. I spent a long time singing to Kamal, one of the boys (he looked 8, but I think he was actually my age) who was completely bed-ridden, and I just didn't know what in the world I was doing there at his bedside. What would change in his life because of my actions? What would change at the orphanage because I was there? Would the nurses remember me? Was I helping at all or creating more work for them? I was full of questions without answers. (Story of my life, it seems.)
Later that day, I visited a traditional Moroccan bathhouse, or hammam, and had a really incredible experience that turned my day into a beautiful circle: I began by bathing someone else and I ended by having someone else bathe me. This launched me into the healing process. I realized it didn't have to be about a long-term change or about having people remember me/my service. I was there to create moments of joy for the people at the orphanage, to lighten the loads on the nurses' shoulders if only for a few days, to experience and let what I experienced rip me apart so I can be a different person. And the ripping began. I have struggled to put into words the pain, the grace, the peace, the frustration at myself in conversation and now here. I don't know that anyone other than the three Bonners serving at the special needs ward will truly understand the ripping and healing process I am still going through...

Now that I have been back for several weeks, I think I have finally been sewn back together. There's scarring, though, and who knows how long that will be present. I have been changed, so maybe forever. The blister just below my thumb is beginning to scar, as well. I stopped by Cannon Park on a run yesterday and saw that the daffodils are popping up from the dirt. Maybe flowers will be blooming by the time the scar fades away.

I think to bring about change, you must first allow yourself to be changed.
Blisters must form for the soil to welcome daffodil bulbs.

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.

Morocco Bound

After months of planning and emails and phone calls and meetings, I am finally headed to Morocco! I am co-leading a group of junior and senior Bonners from the College of Charleston to work with Cross Cultural Solutions in the capital city, Rabat (yep, like "robot" but with a's). We've had lots of bumps along the way, and at this point, I don't know that anything has truly gone according to plan. Just to mention a couple bumps....One of my participants, sadly, was unable to go, and the student who was going to fill her spot came down with the flu and won't be able to go now. We also thought we would be working with certain issues only to find out, after lots of education around those issues, that we are working with very different issues: special needs and hospitalized children.

Now, as I am looking at my watch, I realize I leave in only a few hours. How did the countdown go from months to a matter of hours?!? I no longer hope for a smooth trip that goes according to plan. I want unexpected surprises, which might be redundant, and I pray for the ability and flexibility to take advantage of opportunities for adventure. Often the best moments in life come from the chaos of disrupted plans.

Hopefully I will be able to blog some while I'm there...we'll see.

Ten days of Moroccan adventures, here I come!

Preaching to the Powers

Recently, my lovely roommate, who is in a public speaking class, gave a speech on human trafficking. It's an issue near to both of our hearts, especially in light of the fast-approaching holidays and the excessive amount of buying and consuming that accompanies them. Because of her five minute time limit, she chose to focus specifically on labor trafficking, and much to her annoyance, someone's iPhone went off several times during her speech. Apparently someone in the class before had left it sitting on a desk. No one could figure out how to unlock it and turn the alert sounds off. Courtney persisted in spite of the interruptions, but was really disheartened because she felt her speech wasn't as good/powerful/impacting as it could have been under ideal circumstances.

I was in our kitchen when she got back from her speech class. She told me what happened with a little half frown hanging on the corner of her mouth. And something occurred to me...

A friend had just a few days prior told me about one of his professors who believed people don't preach to other people but to the powers of the world: powers of oppression, powers of injustice, powers of hope. In this process, people sometimes overhear, but they aren't the intended audience. There are a lot of powers that need to hear people advocating for freedom and justice. And the iPhone going off repeatedly in the middle of Courtney's speech gave me hope that the powers were listening...and responding.

Apple is a huge company that I often feel is quickly taking over the world. I'm writing this on a iPad. There are at least five people I can see in the Starbucks where I'm sitting using iPhones at this very moment. Everyone in America knows the cute little logo. A little over a year ago, I would have told you that Apple is one of my favorite companies: great products, great customer service, great people. Now, though, I'm telling you that Apple is not what I thought. If an iPad were made by workers in the States, fair wage laws would push the price up to nearly $15,000. Instead, we pay a few hundred to add it to our armory of Apple products. It would be cliche if I made some statement about the terrible working conditions for Chinese workers making Apple products. You would probably brush it off and skip down to the next paragraph where I'm sure to start talking about bacon or something less heavy than the human rights issues around cheap labor. I don't even know what it's really like inside a factory where people work long hours in poor conditions for low and unfair wages. I have never lived that life, and, like the majority of Americans, I probably never will. A homeless man in Marion Square Park once told me, "You don't know what it's like. You just don't know." He nailed it. But just because Courtney and I don't know what it is like to be homeless in Charleston or to be an underpaid, unfairly treated factory worker for one of the most successful companies in the world does not mean we cannot be activists and preach to the powers. Here's the thing: the powers of injustice and oppression are even harder at work in Apple factories in China than the Chinese workers are. 

So when Courtney spoke out against the injustice of labor trafficking, the powers responded, using the iPhone as a voice. And as she explained her "defeat" to me, it seemed more and more like a victory, where the powers heard her and responded. I told her this, as she sat at my feet in our little kitchen, next to the sink with too many dishes waiting to be washed and the stove where black beans were cooking patiently. I was just thinking out loud, looking for a bit of meaning in her hours of preparation and in her heart for the issue at hand. The two of us arrived at a beautiful moment of grace, though. And it has given us renewed will to not give in to the great defeat of the world.

Thanks be to God for small miracles,
          for responses to our voices,
          for weapons against defeatism.
Lord, have mercy.
Christ, have mercy.
     Have mercy on us.
May the powers of oppression hear:
     the facts,
     the stories,
     the heartbeats.
May they listen and do what we ask.
Oh, the efficacy of our honest hearts' requests!
Lord, teach us justice,
     teach us the way of being free for freedom's sake,
     teach us wisdom in our consuming,
     and grant us a mind set on your kingdom on earth,
          and your kingdom eternal.
Speak out against those who cheat employees of their wages,
Give them voices to call out for themselves,
Give us the courage to be messengers of truth
     for them.
Do not deprive us of your ear, Lord of mercy,
     God of justice.
     So be it.

"'I will speak against those who cheat employees of their wages, who oppress widows and orphans, or who deprive the foreigners living among you of justice, for these people do not fear me,' says the LORD Almighty." Malachi 3:5

That Band Aid Song Got It So Wrong and Yet Still So Right.

There's something wrong with the way we celebrate Christmas! I'm just not convinced we do it right. Thinking we're missing the point of Christmas is not a new or original idea. But every Christmas the conviction still alienates and overwhelms me. Yet again, I feel like Charlie Brown standing on stage asking, "Isn't there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about?" Every time the boxes come down from the attic and Christmas tunes dominate the airwaves, I get so depressed. I turn into this brooding poet version of the Grinch but without the he-even-carved-the-roast-beast ending. I rant: Christmas is too extravagant and excessive. We're missing the real meaning. (I think I run the risk of sounding like that overly dramatic Band Aid song about Africans crying and not even knowing it's Christmas Day. I could do an entire critique on this song, even though it's one of my favorites. But I won't. So please keep reading.)

Because this past year has been especially tumultuous, I really want something different for Christmas. This year, I've made a new commitment to joy. I'm not going to ignore the fact that our Christmases are too materialistic/consumeristic or that we are blinded by our own dancing Christmas lights so carefully adorning every (!) single (!) roof (!). But I am actively choosing to get down off my soapbox and embrace the joyous parts of Christmas.

Cue Linus: "Sure, Charlie Brown, I can tell you what Christmas is all about. Lights, please..."

My Gameplan of Joy

Much singing and dancing to Christmas songs : particularly "The Christmas Song" by The Raveonettes, "All I Want is Truth (For Christmas)" by The Mynabirds, and David Crowder Band's "Angels We Have Heard on High"

Fair trade and homemade gifts : It's unrealistic of me to expect people to stop giving gifts at Christmas. It's a tradition passed down from those wise men in the Bible. But why not give gifts that are responsible and beneficial to the people we never think about: the ones who actually produce them? Fair trade gifts are great and there are lots of fantastic fair trade companies. Even better than that, though, are gifts that actively help people rescued from slavery (often labor slavery). Some of my favorites: SariBari, Thistle Farms, Ten Thousand Villages, International Justice Mission.

Watching Elf at least five or six times, while quoting every line of the movie : "Do you want to get some food? You know, like the code? *wink*"

LoveGaveHope : LoveGave is a project the collective Church of Charleston adopted several years ago to give back to the community. This year we're camping out at three Wal-Marts for 58 straight hours to raise the money and supplies to demolish local orphanages' wishlists. This is my first ever LoveGave event, and I'm stoked. Check in at the LoveGaveHope website between Dec. 6th-8th to watch the live broadcast or to donate.

Enjoying (with eyes all aglow) the rainbow of lights and blow-up Santas on motorcycles : This will take many forms including but not limited to the Christmas tree lighting in Marion Square this Saturday, the annual boat parade (also Saturday), and the inevitable Christmas Eve drive through a Rock Hill neighborhood with my family.

Baking Christmas goodies and decorating gingerbread houses with my little sister : Prepare your hearts for an explosion of goopy frosting and sugary candies.

Drinking eggnog with friends : I've never tried it before and I'm lactose intolerant...so this is sure to be an adventure.

Being with my family : Seriously, I just want to be fully present in their lives for the few days I'm home. We'll go for wintery hikes, see The Hobbit and Les Miserables, drink hot tea together, etc.



(Ha. Bono has a mullet.)

That Band Aid song tells us that "the greatest gift they'll get this year is life." Let's be real. Life is the greatest gift we'll all get this year. That resonates a lot with me this Christmastide for various reasons. So for my own sake, I am going to enjoy life this Christmas! C'mon! Enjoy it with me! Why does it have to be complicated? It doesn't have to be an "either/or." I can be aware of the footprint Christmas leaves on the world, choosing to be a responsible consumer/celebrator, while also rejoicing in the fact that I have life and friends and family. There can be joy in the awareness.

Childhood in Light of Halloween

Halloween happens to be in my top 3 favorite holidays. On days like today, when the routine of life and the fluorescent lights of the library are determined to crush my spirit, I claim it as my very favorite (yes, above all the big ones: Christmas, Easter, the 4th of July, Arbor Day). To an extent, I may have inherited my enthusiasm for the creepiest of holidays from my younger sister, Victoria, who has gone all out for Halloween for as long as I can remember. It was only a matter of time, though, before my love of Edgar Allan Poe, Alfred Hitchcock, and Snickers caught up with me, too...yes, I love Halloween.

To celebrate this year, I dressed up as the mouse from If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, one of my favorite books from when I was a kid. I made my own ears, rocked a pair of overalls, drew on whiskers and a little nose, and stuck a cookie (made of paper) in my pocket. And true to character, all day long, I craved a glass of milk to go with my cookie. I went to class, work, my internship at Darkness to Light, and my ESL class dressed as a mouse...I had no shame. It was Halloween! I am proud to say I elicited several smiles as people saw me walking down the street and when I entered a room.

The grand finale of my day caught me off guard. I thought the festivities were long over, and I was ready to wipe the drawn-on eyeliner off my nose. I was in a deserted frozen yogurt shop where my roommate, Courtney, works, waiting patiently for her to finish closing. Unexpectedly, she turned the music up, and recognition rolled over me: "Shout" by Tears for Fears. It was a beckoning back to our "American Duos: Shawn as Curt Smith and Gus as Michael Jackson" costume from last year. We danced in the classic Shawn and Gus fashion. No idea what I'm talking about? Here's a video to catch you up:

Anyway, one of the main reasons I love Halloween is that it is a celebration of childhood. For adults, it is the only day in the year where it is acceptable to "play dress up" and eat absurd amounts of candy. For me, as a child, I definitely exercised these freedoms more than just on Halloween. Halloween was the pinnacle of piecing together fun costumes and sitting on the floor surrounding myself with discarded candy wrappers until my stomach was swollen with sugary bliss. Remember trading pieces of candy with your friends? Remember the disappointment of getting a box of raisins or peppermint? Remember cold Halloweens where you just ended up wearing a coat over your costume as you trick-or-treated? Remember suspending disbelief and being genuinely terrified by every elongated shadow, yet finding nothing but joy in the terror?

I'm thinking a lot about childhood these days and what it means to reclaim it. With my work at Darkness to Light, I've learned a lot about child sexual abuse and the damage it does not only to a person's childhood but also to their future. There's something really freeing about looking back at the happy moments of your childhood, reflecting on the innocence and the intensity coloring every experience. I want to be more childlike in my everyday...not in the sense that I am immature and irresponsible, but that I really dig my toes into the dirt without worrying about getting dirty. I am currently planning an event for the spring centered around reclaiming childhood through the lens of child abuse as part of the Bonner Leader Program's Engage and Empower week.

So do me a favor and start thinking about your childhood. What are your favorite memories? What did you like to do most of all? What did you dream of becoming when you grew up? Who were your best friends? What was your favorite food? What music did you dance around to? What were your most painful moments? How did they shape you?
Tell me...what do you want to reclaim about your childhood?

A Poem for Monday Morning (looking a little differently at God's love)

My Inheritance

You were there when I found you—

that dark, wet place in the earth.

Your skin purpling around one eye,

The blackened blood connecting

Paled lips with ringed nostril.

You were grabbing at your heart,

Bent over in pain like

palms in a hurricane.

There were murderous cuts on your wrists,

scaling your arms. Your neck

had been marked by a choking hand,

But your chest still moved so slightly.

I watched as you took in short breaths of air

Clotted by your own life flow.

Naked, you had been raped

by this world I placed you in.

I watched you try in vain

to slice apart the ribbons attached to your heart,

            But your life belongs to Me.

The earth must have been so cold

on your back, the wind blowing

goosebumps onto your exposed breasts.

Blood under your chipped nails.

My beautiful bride,

I scooped you up from the stain

of your own life and staggered

a moment under your burdened weight.

With a soft cloth and warm water,

I washed what I could

from your skin and kissed gently

pried open wounds

I couldn’t erase.

You were there when I found you.

But now you are here in My arms,

waking up to My warmth

which imbues you with color again.

I am astounded when you look up

into My eyes.

My bride, My breathtaking bride.

My soul proclaims colors and light

And the world is somehow transformed

Because your arms have wrapped themselves around

Me. In this moment, I am made complete.

I sacrificed my own son for you, and,

Stunning bride, my radiant bride,

You are worthy.