I have to admit that I have waffled on this presidential election campaign more than any ever before. In my younger years there was either only one logical (from my perspective) candidate or none! The last time I got drunk was when George Bush, the II was elected (I couldn't even do that upon his re-election as alcohol does not mix well with depression). But for this one, I have to admit I struggled with two and was mildly interested that the Republikan party even had people of some character, despite not agreeing with their platform.
I have always been swayed by strong articulate women, and Mrs. Clinton is certainly that. She is brilliant, articulate and deeply knowledgeable. On most of her stands I seem to agree (a very difficult thing to admit for an aging leftist, ex-hippie). Her years of experience and campaign work while the First Woman (Lady?) is strong. But then there was that debate back in January where she was downright vicious and catty, and I waffled.
Mr Obama, on the other side, is slick and articulate. His way with words and poise in front of a crowd is beyond critique. His politic of change is refreshing and the media campaign behind him is seductive (did you watch the YouTube video of "Yes We Can?") and I was seduced - to say nothing about the fact that here is a contest between a woman and a man-of-color; two firsts at this level.
I even was reveling in the fact that Mr. McCain had character, was from the borderlands and had a somewhat thought out border policy. Then this week happened and the veil was lifted.
Someone threw a mudball and smacked John McCain and, I don't care if it is truth of fiction, exposed me to the realities of political campaigning in this country. Politics in the US is all about positioning and image - not substance and character. How good can you look? How many babies can you shag a photo-op with? Are you seen in church with your spouse looking contrite and pious? And if you are really good, can you surreptitiously smear, discredit or cause a shadow of doubt to fall over your opponent? I suppose I should give someone in Huckabee's camp credit for the mudball. Who cares?
And wen the veil was lifted, I had heard the promise of change (so sincerely spoken, yes indeed) spoken one too many times without the backup. Do you notice that answers are seldom, "this is what I have done about that, and you can take it to the bank that I will continue" but rather another promise of hypothetical results-orientation? Sorry, Mr. Obama, I want to believe, but I am too disheartened by history. Thanks Mr. McCain for giving us some substance beyond rhetoric, pork-barrel positioning and thinly-veiled economics that lines the pockets of the wealthy.
And when the dust settles, Mrs. Clinton is still standing. Standing not because I am seduced by powerful and brilliant women, but of her own and on her own - Bill be damned! I want to hate her because she didn't dump the philanderer for what he and so many of us arrogant masculinist bastards have done. She stood firm, and took the high road that I didn't even see. She is still standing, despite going on the attack against her opponent. And she is still standing on her record of tireless work that she has done.
I like Barack Obama, He seems to be a good man, but it is time for a change; he's right! It is time that we seek a leader who does unpopular things out of commitment and convictions, not because they look good. The groundswell of popularity that Obabm has enjoyed in recent weeks opened my eyes - we Amerikans love our look-good politicians - sorry.
I am weighing in. And the truth is that in the primaries I voted for Obama. Okay. I was falling for it. I cannot remember a time when I actually respected a candidate or political official. And I respect him. ButI think I am coming to respect Hillary Clinton even more.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Nine Year Old Minds
So I have a 9-ear old boy - it's like having a perpetually renewing edition of Calvin and Hobbes as a live-in guest (nobody in their right mind would actually sign up for this). Jesse and I have just finished our evening ritual of reading before lights out and the book we concluded tonight was entitles Beetles, Lightly Toasted - a little midwestern ditty about a bunch of fourth graders who are in a creative writing contest.
Andy, the protagonist, wins with an essay on how to enhance your diet and save on grocery bills by using beetles, grubs and worms in cooking, the title coming from his use of toasted beeltes in brownies as nuts. Jesse is enthralled and tomorrow we will no doubt be looking up recipes that we will try here at Chez Girrell. Oh yum! But far be it from me to stifle his creativity and investigative mind!
Now the only problem with all of this is that Jesse is certain that the only insects that are kosher are locusts and they are pretty rare around these parts in February. So we have to look further into some kosher websites to get clearance on grubs and beetles. (I might explain that another element of the joy of my life is that I am married to a Jew and therefore am bringing up our son in both traditions, the bulk of which right now is formal Hebrew schooling).
See it's a lot easier to be a Christian. First of all we have John the Baptist who ate that kind of stuff (but we all know he was a few bricks shy of a load anyway). But there was that dream that God tells the (oh heck who was it Peter or Paul who was about to have dinner the next day with the Roman centurian) writer to sit and eat all of these unclean things. So there it is right there in the good book for all to read, that you can eat lobster and bugs cuz God made 'em.
Then again maybe I'll convert to Judaism and limit my choices to fried locusts!
Andy, the protagonist, wins with an essay on how to enhance your diet and save on grocery bills by using beetles, grubs and worms in cooking, the title coming from his use of toasted beeltes in brownies as nuts. Jesse is enthralled and tomorrow we will no doubt be looking up recipes that we will try here at Chez Girrell. Oh yum! But far be it from me to stifle his creativity and investigative mind!
Now the only problem with all of this is that Jesse is certain that the only insects that are kosher are locusts and they are pretty rare around these parts in February. So we have to look further into some kosher websites to get clearance on grubs and beetles. (I might explain that another element of the joy of my life is that I am married to a Jew and therefore am bringing up our son in both traditions, the bulk of which right now is formal Hebrew schooling).
See it's a lot easier to be a Christian. First of all we have John the Baptist who ate that kind of stuff (but we all know he was a few bricks shy of a load anyway). But there was that dream that God tells the (oh heck who was it Peter or Paul who was about to have dinner the next day with the Roman centurian) writer to sit and eat all of these unclean things. So there it is right there in the good book for all to read, that you can eat lobster and bugs cuz God made 'em.
Then again maybe I'll convert to Judaism and limit my choices to fried locusts!
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Still Too Much
Andover, MA
Saturday, February 2, 2008, Groundhog Day, one day before the Superbowl - and all I can think of is "I wonder if they made it?" Any of the men and women we met. They had to try, as one said to us, "I would rather die trying than stay at home and see my family suffer because I hadn't." So they kept on throwing themselves at the border.
I have been trying to sort all of this out and to be able to answer the questions I undoubtedly will get at church tomorrow, "So what did you learn - how was it?" And I haven't had it all fall into one nifty trim little sentence yet. Maybe that's because it isn't neat or tidy. It is a broken mess - a failed border policy that doesn't work - a failed treaty that ends up hurting more than it ever helped - an economy so dominated by old arcane Conquistador hierarchies that it produces both the richest man in the world and many of its poorest. How do you put that into a sentence, let alone discerning what God would have me do and say and be as a result of having gone there?
Saturday, February 2, 2008, Groundhog Day, one day before the Superbowl - and all I can think of is "I wonder if they made it?" Any of the men and women we met. They had to try, as one said to us, "I would rather die trying than stay at home and see my family suffer because I hadn't." So they kept on throwing themselves at the border.
I have been trying to sort all of this out and to be able to answer the questions I undoubtedly will get at church tomorrow, "So what did you learn - how was it?" And I haven't had it all fall into one nifty trim little sentence yet. Maybe that's because it isn't neat or tidy. It is a broken mess - a failed border policy that doesn't work - a failed treaty that ends up hurting more than it ever helped - an economy so dominated by old arcane Conquistador hierarchies that it produces both the richest man in the world and many of its poorest. How do you put that into a sentence, let alone discerning what God would have me do and say and be as a result of having gone there?Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Encounter at the Wall
A few days ago, after returning from our deepest penetration of the trip into migrant-land, we were at the Nogales wall. We were on the Mexican side of the border and 
viewing this monstrous steel structure of 20 plus feet of recycled landing strip (courtesy of Desert Storm). Cecelia (our wonderful Mexican guide), who originally hails from Nogales was telling us that before the wall, the residents of the twin city would come together for fiestas and events. She said that that they would dance and party back and forth across the little fence that marked the border, and when it was over, they would each go home. But the families on either side could visit and have holiday meals together at any time.
Now looking at the impenetrable steel barrier, you could see no one and no thing. It felt inhuman and divisive. How could you have a relationship with anything you could not see? It was about then that through a little crack under the steel I saw some movement. I went to have a better look and saw two boys playing along the drive the Border Patrol use to police the wall. So I stuck my hand through and called to them. Nothing happened and we figured that they were scared of what might be over here, or afraid that they might get in trouble with the BP. So I gave up, but just as I was turning to go I saw a little chunk of rusted metal shoved through the hole.
I knelt down and pushed it back to the edge. It got pushed back to my side. And the game was on! Back and forth like the game of "football" we used to play in the cafeteria with folded triangles of paper. He stopped for a minute and I thought he had quit. Then the hand came through holding a dirty silk flower! I was stunned - a gift from a boy, a thank you for momentarily dissolving the wall. I took the flower and put my hand through to wave to him, and said "thank you, I have to go now."
My most prized memory of the day - perhaps of the whole trip - was this (maybe) 5 year old hand pushing through the hole waving goodbye to me.
Walls are constructed from fear, but children and families know that once you reach out to the other side you don't need a wall to protect you from the "other." There is no other in brotherhood and love.
viewing this monstrous steel structure of 20 plus feet of recycled landing strip (courtesy of Desert Storm). Cecelia (our wonderful Mexican guide), who originally hails from Nogales was telling us that before the wall, the residents of the twin city would come together for fiestas and events. She said that that they would dance and party back and forth across the little fence that marked the border, and when it was over, they would each go home. But the families on either side could visit and have holiday meals together at any time.Now looking at the impenetrable steel barrier, you could see no one and no thing. It felt inhuman and divisive. How could you have a relationship with anything you could not see? It was about then that through a little crack under the steel I saw some movement. I went to have a better look and saw two boys playing along the drive the Border Patrol use to police the wall. So I stuck my hand through and called to them. Nothing happened and we figured that they were scared of what might be over here, or afraid that they might get in trouble with the BP. So I gave up, but just as I was turning to go I saw a little chunk of rusted metal shoved through the hole.
I knelt down and pushed it back to the edge. It got pushed back to my side. And the game was on! Back and forth like the game of "football" we used to play in the cafeteria with folded triangles of paper. He stopped for a minute and I thought he had quit. Then the hand came through holding a dirty silk flower! I was stunned - a gift from a boy, a thank you for momentarily dissolving the wall. I took the flower and put my hand through to wave to him, and said "thank you, I have to go now."
My most prized memory of the day - perhaps of the whole trip - was this (maybe) 5 year old hand pushing through the hole waving goodbye to me.
Walls are constructed from fear, but children and families know that once you reach out to the other side you don't need a wall to protect you from the "other." There is no other in brotherhood and love.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Mass in No Man's Land
January 27
We just returned to Casa Misericordia from our trip to Altar. I am so filled with images and thoughts. There was undeniably a sinister air about Altar though the CCAMYN center for refugees, where we stayed, stood out like an oasis in the desert. The accommodations for the migrants were clean and new and the meeting/meal room itself was beautiful and spacious.
This morning we went to the Catholic Church (the only church in town) for mass and the children were the choir and the lectors. It was a ray of sunshine to hear their beautiful and powerful voices in this church when only moments before we were interviewing migrants and watching out for the coyote in the square outside. It was one of the strangest things I have ever seen. Picture this town only a few blocks square with a central square at the hub. On one side of the square is a church and on the other three sides are openfronted shops selling either ready-to-go food or hats, coats and rucksacks (all black for heat absorption and cammouflage). Roving the square are small groups of migrants (all men and boys that day and due to the cold and rainy weather, not as many as the 1200-1500 usually passing through). The coyotes carefully watch their groups from fixed positions on the corner or nearby. They eye us with a mixture of scowls and distrust.
When we walked around the square telling the migrants about CCAMYN and asking them questions, I was watching for the coyote. Brita (our professor) asked me how I recognized them and I told her about how they stayed fixed to one place and would go over to the group we had talked with and then returned to their position. I also said I had noticed their energy.
And then, at 10AM the church bells began to ring and everyone filed into the church. Regular members, children, migrants, coyotes and our band of seminarians and professors. Truce! It was miraculous - for that entire hour everyone was Catholic and prayerful. The children sang like angels, the priest gave a lighthearted but spirit-filled sermon, people commmuned - and there were no borders, no migrant or resident, just God's children gathered together as one family.
When it was over, the priest introduced us to the parish and we went up front to speak to the congregation and they applauded us. But we all felt that they deserved the applause for keeping a faith in such a place.
Afterward he escorted us to a boarding house where the migrants stay in their short time. It was horrific and he said that this one was one of the better and cleaner (there are no "ratas y cucarachas" there). The accommodations weren’t much better than the Amistad bulkhead.
Traveling so much and so far in this cramped van has really taken a toll on my back and legs. There are three of us who have L5S1 problems and we call each other the L5 club. We are all taking care of each other but it is hard. Our only consolation is that we know that the migrants have to travel in rougher conditions than we have, sometimes 20 or 30 in the same size van as we cram the 14 of us and our equipment.
We just returned to Casa Misericordia from our trip to Altar. I am so filled with images and thoughts. There was undeniably a sinister air about Altar though the CCAMYN center for refugees, where we stayed, stood out like an oasis in the desert. The accommodations for the migrants were clean and new and the meeting/meal room itself was beautiful and spacious.
This morning we went to the Catholic Church (the only church in town) for mass and the children were the choir and the lectors. It was a ray of sunshine to hear their beautiful and powerful voices in this church when only moments before we were interviewing migrants and watching out for the coyote in the square outside. It was one of the strangest things I have ever seen. Picture this town only a few blocks square with a central square at the hub. On one side of the square is a church and on the other three sides are openfronted shops selling either ready-to-go food or hats, coats and rucksacks (all black for heat absorption and cammouflage). Roving the square are small groups of migrants (all men and boys that day and due to the cold and rainy weather, not as many as the 1200-1500 usually passing through). The coyotes carefully watch their groups from fixed positions on the corner or nearby. They eye us with a mixture of scowls and distrust.
When we walked around the square telling the migrants about CCAMYN and asking them questions, I was watching for the coyote. Brita (our professor) asked me how I recognized them and I told her about how they stayed fixed to one place and would go over to the group we had talked with and then returned to their position. I also said I had noticed their energy.
And then, at 10AM the church bells began to ring and everyone filed into the church. Regular members, children, migrants, coyotes and our band of seminarians and professors. Truce! It was miraculous - for that entire hour everyone was Catholic and prayerful. The children sang like angels, the priest gave a lighthearted but spirit-filled sermon, people commmuned - and there were no borders, no migrant or resident, just God's children gathered together as one family.
When it was over, the priest introduced us to the parish and we went up front to speak to the congregation and they applauded us. But we all felt that they deserved the applause for keeping a faith in such a place.
Afterward he escorted us to a boarding house where the migrants stay in their short time. It was horrific and he said that this one was one of the better and cleaner (there are no "ratas y cucarachas" there). The accommodations weren’t much better than the Amistad bulkhead.
Traveling so much and so far in this cramped van has really taken a toll on my back and legs. There are three of us who have L5S1 problems and we call each other the L5 club. We are all taking care of each other but it is hard. Our only consolation is that we know that the migrants have to travel in rougher conditions than we have, sometimes 20 or 30 in the same size van as we cram the 14 of us and our equipment.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Migrant Sendoff
Jan 25
One month after Christmas and 46 days since Daniel left Argentina. This morning we had breakfast with about 20 migrants and prayed with them before they left for the border. It was a tearful goodbye and I really did not want to see them leave. As each one went out of the door, he would turn around and smile at us. It felt like seeing a platoon of young soldiers off to the battle front. Carlos with his cut hands. Hector with his torn coat. Both victims of last night’s failed attempt. But they each had to keep trying.
From there we went to the wall and had a memorial service for the ones who hadn’t made
it. One of the names I read was Roberto age 27 months old and I broke down crying again. Do people actually think that his mother or father intended him to die in the desert? Do people actually think that their crossing is anything less than the last desperate effort for survival?
These are people, men women, boys and girls just like us just like Ari. How can we look at them and feel anything other than love and compassion? If I get nothing else from this trip, I will take home these two things:
Flesh and blood have no borders – we are all part of the human family.
Those who want borders for safety have it all wrong – it is in the moment we are vulnerable that we dissolve the fear, break down the barrier and become safe with each other.
One month after Christmas and 46 days since Daniel left Argentina. This morning we had breakfast with about 20 migrants and prayed with them before they left for the border. It was a tearful goodbye and I really did not want to see them leave. As each one went out of the door, he would turn around and smile at us. It felt like seeing a platoon of young soldiers off to the battle front. Carlos with his cut hands. Hector with his torn coat. Both victims of last night’s failed attempt. But they each had to keep trying.
From there we went to the wall and had a memorial service for the ones who hadn’t made
it. One of the names I read was Roberto age 27 months old and I broke down crying again. Do people actually think that his mother or father intended him to die in the desert? Do people actually think that their crossing is anything less than the last desperate effort for survival?These are people, men women, boys and girls just like us just like Ari. How can we look at them and feel anything other than love and compassion? If I get nothing else from this trip, I will take home these two things:
Flesh and blood have no borders – we are all part of the human family.
Those who want borders for safety have it all wrong – it is in the moment we are vulnerable that we dissolve the fear, break down the barrier and become safe with each other.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Conversions at the Border
Jan 24
What a remarkable day. Today we met with Mark Adams at Frontera de Christo, a Presbyterian minister who lives the word better than anyone I have ever seen. His commentary and commitment were beyond that of Jim Stevens of C2C. Truly a man on a mission. He talked about how he saw examples of faith in the people in Mexico that he had never seen before. He choked up telling us about when he had been first invited to a cement block walled (with no roof) new construction of a house for some bible reflection. The house if he could call it that was two rooms and one bedroom the size of a small apartment. There were six people living there. That night they read the gospel of John and he was thinking “how could these simple uneducated people understand such a complex and theoretical passage?” But when asked how they had heard God speaking in the passage one man said, “and the word became flesh and dwelt among us… that means that God understands what it is like to be out of place, because he left heaven and divinity to be with us. He knows what we feel.” On a subsequent visit there were 12 people living there and by Christmas there were 20. Mark asked if some could come and live with him but the home owner said that he had plenty of room. He said that when he had left Chiapas he thought about building a casita but he had decided instead to build a big home where many people could stay. Mark could not finish the sentence with the thought that what he had considered a tiny house was to this man a spacious home with room for everyone.
It has us all thinking about the scarcity that we Americans operate from. If only we saw life with the abundance that these people lived with we might approach it all differently. He spoke so openly and articulately about this like it was a conversion experience. Yesterday we listened to Mike Wilson of Tucson who diligently puts out water bottles at various stations along trails in the Tohono O’odham nation lands. Mike was a former Special Forces green beret in El Salvador and one day he was working and it was hot. So he decided to have a banana split. He was outraged by the price of $3.60 he had to pay but, heck, he had the money and paid. Later that day he was to have dinner with some people he had befriended so he went home with the wife and her two kids. After dinner her husband came home from his job of driving a bus along the rural routes. He was exhausted and he put a mason jar of change on the table and began to count out his days wages – over 12 hours of driving. As he stacked up the coins and tallied his entire wage for the day, Mike was crushed with guilt and embarrassment – the man had not even made as much as Mike had paid for his ice cream treat.
These little events are the conversion experiences these folks describe. Mike thinks of himself as Saul turned Paul – a former trained killer now saving lives on a daily basis. Where yesterday I was so weighed down by the gravity of it all I could hardly speak, tonight I have hope.
We are staying tonight at a refuge called CAME in the Mexican border town of Agua Priete. We had dinner with some of the migrants – some who are on their way to the US and two who had just been deported after 13 years in Phoenix. One of the men going north was Daniel, who had waked on foot from western Argentina through Peru, Ecuador, Panama and then was canoed through the jungle waters of Panama into Costa Rico and eventually walked into Mexico. He had done this in just 45 days. This man was determined. The stories are all like that. Two young men from a little further south who were trying to go across were just the most polite and wonderful young men you could want to meet. Neither spoke a word of English and none of us had much Spanish. But we communicated with the occasional help of our interpreter.
We spoke with two of the volunteers – one of which was just 18 years old. Steven had been volunteering every day after school for the last four years. I asked him why he did this and he said that everyone in his church does it - it is needed so he does it. Just that simple. I told him that I hoped my son would grow up to have those values as well.
Everyone is asleep now but I have stayed up – filled with good thoughts inspired by people who are living their mission and who see god in every person they meet.
What a remarkable day. Today we met with Mark Adams at Frontera de Christo, a Presbyterian minister who lives the word better than anyone I have ever seen. His commentary and commitment were beyond that of Jim Stevens of C2C. Truly a man on a mission. He talked about how he saw examples of faith in the people in Mexico that he had never seen before. He choked up telling us about when he had been first invited to a cement block walled (with no roof) new construction of a house for some bible reflection. The house if he could call it that was two rooms and one bedroom the size of a small apartment. There were six people living there. That night they read the gospel of John and he was thinking “how could these simple uneducated people understand such a complex and theoretical passage?” But when asked how they had heard God speaking in the passage one man said, “and the word became flesh and dwelt among us… that means that God understands what it is like to be out of place, because he left heaven and divinity to be with us. He knows what we feel.” On a subsequent visit there were 12 people living there and by Christmas there were 20. Mark asked if some could come and live with him but the home owner said that he had plenty of room. He said that when he had left Chiapas he thought about building a casita but he had decided instead to build a big home where many people could stay. Mark could not finish the sentence with the thought that what he had considered a tiny house was to this man a spacious home with room for everyone.
It has us all thinking about the scarcity that we Americans operate from. If only we saw life with the abundance that these people lived with we might approach it all differently. He spoke so openly and articulately about this like it was a conversion experience. Yesterday we listened to Mike Wilson of Tucson who diligently puts out water bottles at various stations along trails in the Tohono O’odham nation lands. Mike was a former Special Forces green beret in El Salvador and one day he was working and it was hot. So he decided to have a banana split. He was outraged by the price of $3.60 he had to pay but, heck, he had the money and paid. Later that day he was to have dinner with some people he had befriended so he went home with the wife and her two kids. After dinner her husband came home from his job of driving a bus along the rural routes. He was exhausted and he put a mason jar of change on the table and began to count out his days wages – over 12 hours of driving. As he stacked up the coins and tallied his entire wage for the day, Mike was crushed with guilt and embarrassment – the man had not even made as much as Mike had paid for his ice cream treat.
These little events are the conversion experiences these folks describe. Mike thinks of himself as Saul turned Paul – a former trained killer now saving lives on a daily basis. Where yesterday I was so weighed down by the gravity of it all I could hardly speak, tonight I have hope.
We are staying tonight at a refuge called CAME in the Mexican border town of Agua Priete. We had dinner with some of the migrants – some who are on their way to the US and two who had just been deported after 13 years in Phoenix. One of the men going north was Daniel, who had waked on foot from western Argentina through Peru, Ecuador, Panama and then was canoed through the jungle waters of Panama into Costa Rico and eventually walked into Mexico. He had done this in just 45 days. This man was determined. The stories are all like that. Two young men from a little further south who were trying to go across were just the most polite and wonderful young men you could want to meet. Neither spoke a word of English and none of us had much Spanish. But we communicated with the occasional help of our interpreter.
We spoke with two of the volunteers – one of which was just 18 years old. Steven had been volunteering every day after school for the last four years. I asked him why he did this and he said that everyone in his church does it - it is needed so he does it. Just that simple. I told him that I hoped my son would grow up to have those values as well.
Everyone is asleep now but I have stayed up – filled with good thoughts inspired by people who are living their mission and who see god in every person they meet.
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