A Step in the Right Direction?

In my futile attempt to keep up with current events, I stumbled across this article in the Washington Post. It discusses the idea of allowing Navy women onto submarines. The first time I discovered that women could not go to the vast depths of the seas on Naval submarines, it just didn't make sense. In subsequent thoughts and conversations, I have become less shocked, but it still didn't make sense. I know that I go on about how sexism still lingers in our society, but the more blatant bits still surprise me.

In discussing this story with a friend, we had two different takes. On one hand, I found the comment that women represent a huge resources being neglected a step in the right direction. On the other hand, my friend pointed out that no one recognized the discrimination for what it is, so we've still got some ways to go.

Re-Start

After weeks of craziness and learning what does not work, we at the middle school have come up with a new schedule and a new way of doing things. In other words, we have invited chaos upon ourselves for a few weeks in hopes that it will solve greater chaos. So, I have become the 8th grade religion teacher, but stepped back from the language arts and reading classes. Instead, I get to hang out in the library all day! I am pseudo-librarian, plus I get small groups from the classes all day to help. In the afternoons, I go back to the reading classes, which are supposed to be small groups, but we need to hire more teaching assistants before that can happen. I miss the reading group I had in the old schedule though. They were a bright group of kids and we were just getting to the point where I understood them and they understood me. Plus, I liked having a part of the day where I worked specifically with the smart kids.

Today I started my time in the library. I cleared off the desk and set it up as mine own, commandeered a milk crate for filing, and began a check-out system. I spent time working through social studies questions with sixth graders. Have I written about poverty of education? If not, I will soon, because that is what I saw here.

I think my calling this year consists of slowly taking on the jobs to which my roommates aspire. First, I become an English teacher. Next, I take on the role of religion teacher. Not quite the same as campus minister, but it'll do in a pinch. Lastly, I have suddenly transformed into a librarian. I can't become them completely, though, because they all want to have babies (last I checked) and that one is not about to happen this year!

Pledge a Protestor

The 40 Days for Life campaign has started up, and, as I told Em today, being out there on the streets is addictive. So of course I am involved out here.

Unlike the small facilities in Virginia that I've encountered, the abortion provider here is Planned Parenthood. Before, we could tell when the abortionist was in, who went in for an abortion, when the abortions happened, who walked out after one. Here, the large building provides ample anonymity for clients.

The Planned Parenthood building also displays a sign with a slender, blonde, masked caricature of a female superhero, complete with the short skirt and high-heeled books, with the words "Defend the Truth: Pledge a Protester." It's their twisted campaign to make money off of peaceful people praying, who apparently, by standing on the grass with signs that read "Women Deserve Love Not Abortion" offer "intimidation and harassment" to patients and staff. The solution: give Planned Parenthood money so that they can publish the money and attempt to demoralize pro-lifers.

What they don't realize is that we have something more powerful than any amount of money they can raise. So while it makes me sick, it does not deter me. Us. Because as speakers pointed out yesterday at the MCC event, I am not making these changes. The Holy Spirit is. And through Him and through Christ, we are all connected. We are all one.

This oneness includes even the people pledging and posting the pledges, even the people who work inside Planned Parenthood. After the humanity and personhood of the pre-born, this is perhaps the most important lesson for our side to learn.

Side Note: As I stood by the road with a sign today, a man stopped at the stoplight by our corner took a picture on his phone! And I was staring right at him! Really?!

The Saint Game

I have some good stories and a few thoughts to share from this weekend, but this post comes first.

This weekend was the Annual Assembly of the Missouri Catholic Conference, so I was in Jefferson City, in their Capitol Building, listening to speakers on Catholic concerns in public policy. Though one couple critiqued agenda for not having enough on the pro-life cause, I loved the diversity of topics.

As Ana, Em, and I got back onto I-70, away from the land of fast-food and gas stations, Ana looked down at the fuel gauge. As soon as she opened her mouth to comment, Em and I remembered, still many miles from Jeff City, we had had a quarter tank on the way in. Apparently, we were now riding a hair above empty. And there were no exits, let alone gas stations, in sight.

We flew down the highway, until at last we reached an exit. There were no signs -- you know, the "Food," "Gas," and "Lodging" type ones, but we hoped for at least one gas station to serve the intersection of interstate and country highways. Off the exit ramp, there was nothing but a sign: Calwell, 3 miles. We were now on empty.

Banking on the fact that Calwell, however small, must have a gas station, we raced down some highway with a letter name. Ana comes from the country, so she took the curves swiftly enough that we could make the three miles in about three minutes. But in those three minutes, we passed through creepy fog, next to stopped cars, and old trucks sitting in empty fields. More than a little like the beginnings of a really scary movie.

We made it to Calwell -- there was a general store. And, lo and behold, a gas station: a two pump deal with no awning over them and no where to swipe a credit card. And the general store, at 7pm, was closed. Now nervous, we hit the road again, and three minutes later, found I-70.

As we kept our eyes peeled for another exit, this one with a gas sign, Em began: "Mary, pray for us. St. Vincent de Paul, pray for us... Who else?"

Ana threw in St. Louis de Merillac, and then I took off. For the record, there are a lot of saints out there, and it's not hard to keep naming them for five minutes as you swing up an exit ramp that has one sign, "Gas," and into the gas station where you discover that though the gas station is closed, they at least will still take credit cards.

That's when you get to stop listing saints and start thanking them.

Swine Flu

I have been out of communication for a little bit, but here's to catching up on days off. We have today and Monday off due to much illness in the school, including possible swine flu. So, while I am worried about the students, I feel healthy and enjoyed my day off.

School has been on a different schedule this week due to standardized testing. They kept the middle school safely contained in the silent cafeteria under the supervision of a former marine. It was a relief, although I missed the interaction with the students. I also subbed with Ana for the 6th grade teacher, who was ill. They are still at the age where they will ask for help, and I feel useful when I can help someone figure out the difference between "between" and "among," or what a culture "adapting" means.

At the end of the week in a meeting with the middle school staff and admin, we started reworking the schedule as well. We're hoping to stem some of the chaos in the school. Pray for us as we do this!

More Colbert

I realized recently that I have been derelict in my Colbert watching, due to no cable and limited free/internet time. However, I started in time to catch Colbert's return from vacation. In the wake of this remembrance, a friend sent me this message:

holy crap i need to find some of this: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stephen_Colbert's_AmeriCone_Dream

i haven't had any yet, but i'm fairly certain if you don't like it you must hate america

I agree with him on both points. Plus, it sounds delicious. A seminarian today told me that when living simply, we should every now and then partake in "affordable luxuries." America is one of these.

Death of Pro-Lifer

I seem to be blogging like crazy for the past couple of days, but the news is just so comment-worthy. Today, I read about an event on Friday: the shooting of a pro-life protester.

From what I've been reading, there is no official link between his murder and his stance on abortion, in spite of the fact that he was killed holding a sign. The man accused of his murder killed another person that same day and had another shooting planned, but was arrested first.

Still, this has caused a flurry of media attention, and even a comment from President Obama. Not that he seems to have much of a problem commenting on areas that the President does not need to comment.

Mass In the Park

The apostles gathered together with Jesus and reported all they had done and taught. He said to them, "Come away by yourselves to a deserted place and rest a while."

People saw them leaving. They hastened there on foot from all the towns and arrived at the place before them.

By now it was already late and his disciples approached him and said, "This is a deserted place and it is already very late. Dismiss them so that they can go to the surrounding farms and villages and buy themselves something to eat."

He said to them in reply, "Give them some food yourselves. How many loaves do you have?" They said, "Five loaves and two fish."

So he gave orders to have them sit down on the green grass. Then, taking the five loaves and the two fish and looking up to heaven, he said the blessing, broke the loaves, and gave them to his disciples to set before the people; he also divided the two fish among them all. They all ate and were satisfied. (from Mark 6)

Today, St. Pius V had Mass in a nearby park, something they do once a year. Em told us about it, and since the rest of our house went to Mass last night, we went together. It was a very different liturgical adventure from last week's Tridentine Mass. This Mass, in "God's first cathedral," as the priest put it, harkened back to my days at Yosemite National Park, leading worship services under the rocks and mountains that took my breath away. Here however, we sat on flat grass and could see the cars on the nearby roads.

The experience of participating in Mass on a blanket held a different type of sacred. At first, I mostly just enjoyed the fact that the lectors were the best two I've heard since leaving W&M (we have some amazing lectors there; I'm liturgically spoiled). But then during communion, as I watched everyone get up off the green grass to share this meal of broken bread, it hit me.

I was living out the story of the loaves and fishes.

Our seminarian last year, in his theology series, explained the linking between the Last Supper, the Passion and death of Christ, and the Mass and Eucharist now, in terms of anamnesis. It means a remembering that is more than a remembering -- as separated as we are by time and distance from the historical event, spiritually, anamnetically, we share the same sacrifice. The cross, the Eucharist, and our Mass are all the same.

The sharing of the loaves and fishes serves as a precursor for the Eucharist. A sort of foreshadowing. It might be somewhat backwards for the experience of the foreshadowing deepen the actual event, but that's what happened today. Being a part of the miracle of loaves and fishes drew me into the miracle of the Mass, reminding me of the oneness of everything in our lives and our history.

After Mass, we had a picnic in superabundance. It also was reminiscent of the 12 wicker baskets left over.

The Morning Paper

Some days, the Post-Dispatch is a little too local for me. I miss the DC metro area, where local news always seemed to have national import. Today, however, I received some priceless Obama news. In the wake of yesterday's anniversary, we're discussing whether or not to send more troops to Iraq. According to the Post-Dispatch, "It's unclear when Obama will make a decision, although the White House says he won't be rushed. 'Getting it right is of utmost important to the President,' White House secretary Robert Gibbs said Friday."

Did I hear that correctly? Well, okay, did I read that correct? When it comes to war, a matter that is clearly time sensitive, when not getting it right in a timely manner can jeopardize both previous and future success, we can take our time to get things right. Yet when it comes to healthcare, we must act quickly. It's too important to wait long enough to figure what Obama's plan means and if it makes any sense.

I'm not criticizing the President for wanting to take his time and make an important decision very carefully. I'm just confused by his logic.

"A Village Called New York"

Over the summer, I read David Oliver Relin's Three Cups of Tea. The book tells the story of a lower-middle class rock-climber who began to build a school for one small Pakistani village and ended up running a foundation starting nearly 80 schools across Pakistan and Afghanistan.

I was reading it when I worked in the city, taking the bus up I-95, dropping off at the Pentagon, and stopping at various places along 14th St. The day I came Mortenson's day of Sept. 11, 2001, I was coming up to the Pentagon bus bay. Mortenson was in a Pakistani village and his host woke him up to tell him, "A village called New York was bombed." I found myself tearing up and having trouble reading on.

Today, we discussed the events of 9-11 with the middle school classes. In the 7th grade, the social studies teacher covered most of it, and I surprised myself by wiping away tears. With a group of people who don't remember that period of time, in a place geographically far from DC which is home, I found myself shaking as I read the Wiki article on September 11th to the 6th and 8th grades. And they understood the importance... the same way I understand the importance of the Kennedy assassination.

How long does it take for our lives to become history? To me, it's life, current events, reality, not something to be taught, something whose importance must be impressed upon middle school students. It makes time seem different in my mind. I'm not sure if it makes life shorter, or fuller, or both.

Side Note: The 8th graders were more interested in the math to figure out my age based on where I was in school in 2001 than learning about 9-11. One secret is out of the bag.

We're with the Band

That's a phrase I never thought I would get to say. And technically, I guess I didn't : I just tagged behind the girl (Ana) who did. She and Triss and I went down the street to a bar with live music to hear the band of one of Ana's high school friends. Of course, this made me want to whip out the CD from my college friend's band and share.

(Side note: I realized tonight that a huge part of the appeal of said friend's band is their nerdiness. Let's face it : I like nerds best.)

The Usual was opening for a big-name St. L artist, whose name escapes me because we snuck out after The Usual finished. One of the band members described their music to us as "kind of rock, with a little blues, and some light pop." (Not Diet Coke.) They played mostly their own stuff and one Beatles cover.

Live bands captivate me, though as I listen to more and more music, I am acquiring a better ear for what I do and do not actually like. Tonight, in addition to hearing music that I actually did enjoy, I spent most of the time watching the bassist's feet. The other band members stood, feet and bodies a combination of relaxed and rhythmical. The bassist's feet however were constant motion.

For almost all of the 45 minute set, he was on his toes or the balls of his feet. His feet pounded and twisted with the music, not the loose motion of little dances coming from the audience or the frenzies of jumping you sometimes see on stage or the carefully metronomed tappings which the other members sometimes demonstrated. Instead, they snapped up and down, moving his whole body in an intense and focused choreography above them. I have never seen feet move with such musical purpose, even when watching other dancing. I had the feeling of watching a poem being written.

After the show, we chatted with Ana's friend for a bit, got some free music to download and sweaty hugs from the band, and hit the road. We made it home by 10:30, a good time for a school day.

The Others

We have met at least three other groups of Catholic Volunteers in the city who do work comparable to ours. On Monday (Labor Day) we had a cookout for volunteers and former volunteers. While I enjoyed the birds-eye sight of people on blankets in our backyard, right-side up almost as much as upside down (I was on the swings next door), the sight didn't strike me.

But Triss later commented on the beauty of it : look at all these people who have dedicated their lives, at least for now, to other people. And only in this city. And only the ones we know about. And we're even missing a few from each group.

God bless Triss. Once again, the cynic in me came out as she made her observation. I thought : look at all these people in this city, trying to do good. Now look at the state of the city. Think about all the people serving all around the world. Now look at the state of the world. And think about all the people who are living life oblivious to the injustices with which we are becoming acquainted.

God bless Triss. Her outlook recognizes the hand of God, rather than ignoring the beautiful to see only the difficulties.

Exposing My Baby

A couple of my loyal followers have requested that I place some of my poetry on this blog. To honor them and thank them for being loyal followers, I will post the occasional poem if it relates to the issues about which I write. Feel free to ignore them.

Offering a poem (or story) for critique is often referred to as "putting one's baby on the [sacrificial] altar." This is more like simply exposing it to the elements. But here you go. It's a pantoum, a type of poem that repeats lines in a strict pattern. I have trouble with them, but unlike the villanelle, I enjoy this challenge.

The Public-Private Dichotomy

They still walk our halls.

We find the ghosts of the girls here before

In forgotten notes and writing on the walls;

They smile in our mirrors, stand outside our doors.

We find the ghosts of the girls here before

Laughing, “We were you!”

They wave to the people standing at our door:

We take on their work, but try to make it new.

Asking, “Where were you?”

Eyes peer into ours. We see the need

For the work that we must try to make anew.

After each hard day we leave,

Our eyes faced back on unmet needs,

Names on our lips, hearts held behind.

Each day we find it hard to leave:

When we’re gone we know we’ll find

Names still on our lips, hearts held behind

In forgotten notes and writing on the walls.

In our comfortable homes we’ll find:

They still walk our halls.

In Nomine Patris...

Having been to Mass in English last night, I figured that today would be as good a Sunday as ever to attend Mass at a nearby Latin church. More specifically, they celebrate the Tridentine Rite Mass, the pre-Vatican II one.

If I give the details, it goes something like this: I walked in 2 minutes late to a sparkling rite of sprinkling. I couldn't figure out from where the little booklets with the order of the Mass that other people had came. I realized very quickly that I didn't like organ music. I sat in the back, which meant I couldn't hear well what the priest said (I wanted to see how much Latin I could recognize) and that I heard many crying babies. It was hot and sticky.

And I felt as if I had found something for which I'd been searching but which had had no name.

In his book The Lamb's Supper, Scott Hahn describes his experience as a Protestant going to Mass: unsure and unfamiliar with the ritual, but becoming certain of the sacred. I think this morning was the closest to a "first Mass" I can have. The liturgy was not the same familiar pattern I learned from over 2 decades of attending Mass. The "pew gymnastics" had leaped from beginners to advanced. I watched others for cues and I still didn't understand. Yet I knew, in a way that had little to do with intellect or emotion, I knew that the sacred was very present there. After a while, people began to process up to receive the Eucharist. I stayed put. I felt like I stuck out, while really, it's more likely that no one noticed the blonde in the back.

While trying to figure out what the liturgy was doing, I noticed a group of people standing at the side of the church. The pews were no where near full, so this confused me. A little later, I saw someone coming out of a tiny wooden church-within-a-church. Was she praying in the Confessional during Mass? As the standing person closest to the Confessional took her place, I realized that people were going to Confessional as Mass was happening. This was perhaps the most bizarre part of the whole experience.

The understanding of the majesty of God came across overwhelmingly. Behind the pomp and the glitter, the Mass knew what it was doing: praising a God who deserves all the praise we have and then some. The fact that the priest faced the same direction as the congregation really struck me. Rather than making him inaccessible, it emphasized that we are all taking the same request to the same place.

I want to go back and understand it more. In fact, I plan on doing just that.

NOTE: I'd been warned about having to wear a veil to this Mass. The female congregation divided about 3-1 in favor of the veil, so I was not out of place without one. But I've spent a lot of time recently trying to imagine what it would look like if half the congregation were veiled. Now I know. It helped clarify some things for me.

Teacher's Day Off

Teacher's day off = my day of substitute teaching. I was left in charge of the Language Arts classes/the 8th grade on Thursday. Nervous does not begin to describe how I felt about this event. But I had an Ana at my side and complete lesson plans for the day.

I started with the 7th grade. I had a quick, nervous moment where they told me they had already done the questions I had for them. But, come to find out, they wrote the answers. So we had a class discussion on them, and for the first time since coming to the school, I heard the 7th graders engage in class and in a story. I still don't have the skills/know-how to get the entire class to participate, or even pay attention, but I could get enough of them to answer to have a class discussion.

On the flip side, the 8th grade remained pretty much silent. It took them until Friday to realize that when I ask questions I sincerely want answers. And not just one cookie-cutter "right" answer.

As for the 6th grade, they are still learning about indoor voices. I did discover that the 8th grade can do quiet, though, and quick for lining up. As per a fantastic suggestion from my beloved roomie, I offered them a competition and an incentive: kindergartners can line up in 3 minutes. Can you go faster? 2min30secs to line up, every time you line up for me, 4 days in a row, and you get a snack at recess time. We cut the time down from 5 minutes to 55 seconds. These kids are amazing when they put their mind to it.

I Will Never Lie, Cheat, or Steal...

Since the first day I proctored the practice math exams, I told the kids, "If you speak while tests are out, I will take your paper from you and you will receive a zero." They quickly figured out that saying "God bless you" to a sneeze would not get them in trouble, but got the idea of silence down fairly easily. Until today...

The test they had today came as a shock. Many of them seemed to have simply no clue how to do the problems, and I don't know if it was something they have not been taught, if it was presented an unusual way, or if they just hadn't mastered it. No matter what, my heart went out to them as I watched them struggle. However. I could do nothing and I still wanted testing conditions. When they sat and read it, they seemed to have some idea of what to do.

When chatter began in the back of the room, I slipped back and saw a blatant whisper. I whisked a test away from a usually well-behaved boy. A few minutes later, I saw him writing and watched until he passed the note. I was hoping for merely a few bitter words about me (though I didn't really expect that from these boys). Alas -- the note pertained to how to take the test.

To my surprise, the boys were surprised when I called it cheating. I hope I am not being naive in believing their sincerity. If it is genuine, it means that they have not been taught appropriate testing behavior and have been taught how to help each other -- the opposite of my high school class. We had a "work together or we all go down" mentality, but never a "I got my test taken away and I still want to help you" mindset.