The Forceps of Our Minds

I came today with the intention of writing something. But the page stared blankly back at me. Lately I have read such wonderful books, writing that inspires a person to do and be more, but simultaneously mocks my own ability or hope to emulate the author's achievements. Every time I sit with the intention of penning my own poignant words, my arthritic mind strecthes fitfully, snapping and cracking, then turns its back to ingnore me. A swirling of thoughts hovers like a cloud just above me; now and then I see pieces of characters or musings desiring freedom, to be let loose, but they escape, turning back into the cloud before I can grab ahold.

Suddenly everything I want to say becomes secondhand or trite, repeated a myriad of times before by the masses, lacking any semblance of creativity. No new thoughts exist in my mind and I feel like an old retiree, confined to a rest home, rocking slowly on the porch, rubbing cold, veined hands, and repeating the same decrepit story to those who no longer listen.

"Oh, poor girl," you may cry. "Self-esteem issues." Not at all. Because at other times, I lean back as I narcissistically admire the beauty of my own artwork, pictures painted with words. Reality is a strange thing. It is not set securely in the ground, deeply rooted and steadfast, but swayed by the ever-shifting sands of our perceptions, affected by infinite factors caught up in a single day. At one time, I am complimented and praised; here I become self-assured and confident. I am capable of exactly that to which I aspire. But then I am criticized harshly or, worse yet, ingnored altogether. Now the strong northern winds blow furiously, bending my thoughts toward my flaws and detriments writhing slowly beneath a papyrus-thin smile.

I read a quote today by H. G. Wells, one that inspired such thoughts and some undirected need to pen them. He trenchantly noted, "The forceps of our minds are clumsy forceps, and crush the truth a little in taking hold of it." I like this, both for its darkness and its accuracy. I often wonder in which ways my mind crushes the edges of reality, how shards of the truth fall noiselessly to the ground. I sense this when I am doing very well, buoyantly acknowledging my excellence and my endless capabilities. I sense it, too, when I am so very low, burdened by a weighty desolation that makes me want to eat copious amounts of chocolate, then retire to bed early.

In either state, I am infinitely thankful for all those things in my life that keep me grounded, guiding a shaky hand that gingerly handless the friable truth. I am thankful for my parents, both of whom encourage me more deeply than I could express. I am thankful for my friends, for their presence, for their loyalty. I am thankful for the gifts that authors have given, sharing their ideas, stretching toward what is greater while delving into the deepest recesses of humanity. I am thankful for nature and music, both of which are so deeply spiritual to me and move the core of my being. And, naturally, I am always quite thankful for chocolate.

H. L. Mencken

The men the American public admire most extravagantly are the most daring liars; the men they detest most violently are those who try to tell them the truth.

Third Life in Korea

A cool crispness fills the air, like a tardy Michigan fall, encouraging the palette of color in the trees, entering one's lungs with greater density, coaxing pedestrians to don layers of wool and down, like fattened ducks before Christmas dinner. In this weather are promises of grinning pumpkins and costumes, food and family, gifts and decadence. It is holiday weather.

As I begin the morning walk from the subway to my school, I casually regard the people and buildings I see every day. Old, wrinkled faces smiling brightly and toothlessly as I walk past. Structures of brick that lean upon each other for mutual support. Laundry draped like Tibetan prayer flags atop the huddled houses. Businessmen wearing falsely enthusiastic suits, stepping like tall men on their way to work.

It is Korea. But today it is a different country from what I have known before. This thought struck me as I walked up the gently sloping road, barely large enough for a single car and pedestrians. The hills that people here call mountains rose from behind the buildings, showing off the colors of their trees like shiny political badges. I watched them as I walked quickly, the Eagles providing my morning sound track. I thought of home. I thought of how long it's been since I've seen the fall fireworks in the Michigan foliage. And then I turned my eyes down from the hill, seeing a staircase winding around the side of a house, snaking to the top where the Tibetan laundry froze in the early morning cold. A large sign was posted atop the shop in front, written in a language I recognize, but do not understand.

Suddenly I realized; I have entered a new country. This is a new Korea.

When I first came, I was slightly awed at the thought of being in a new country. I remember riding the bus or walking on the street, watching people and signs, and being overwhelmed with waves of excitement and amazement that I was here living in this foreign country. It was the classic honeymoon phase of culture shock. This Korea, the first I knew, was fun, interesting, and amazing.

Then I returned from traveling in India and Christmas at home. I began my second contract, also very excited about the various opportunities. But time passed and I entered a new Korea, one that I loathed and wanted very much to avoid. Everything around me grated on me; I found walking through the streets arduous and unappealing. I had entered the second phase, one I never thought I would encounter. I remember my Anthropology class had a formal name for it, but I cannot recall the name. Basically, it is one where you despise the host culture. Wikipedia calls it an "I hate everything" phase. A fitting title.

This is a new Korea, one about which I am yet unsure. Perhaps I can best describe through something I recently learned. Korea is still listed as a third world country, though the image that this title evokes is extremely different from what one encounters while living in the city. It has all the immediate signs of a modern city: electricity, public transportation, rows upon rows of apartment buildings. But when I discovered that this place, somehow, is still technically part of the third world, I had to look closer. Suddenly the pieces of the photograph became clearer, the pores and wrinkles showing. There is a certain beauty in her flaws, those ones that she works so hard to cover.

The third phase is entitled by Wikipedia as "Everything is ok." This may not be as applicable to my time here, as I still struggle with the second phase. But that serpentine street that leads me every day to my school holds in it the great beauty of a place so crossed between the old and new. Sometimes I see the trash that lies carelessly discarded on the street. At other times I notice the curious faces of strangers seeing me for the first time. But then I see my familiar buildings, the people I recognize. And I smile. Welcome to my third life in Korea.

The Day I Shot Ten Men

Rain was predicted for Saturday. This was a gripping disappointment for all those chained to classrooms or desks throughout the daylight hours of the week. Saturday is a day of freedom, a short break from the interned work week sentence.

Every weekend, it seems, the doomsday weathermen gleefully foresee rain and gloom, informing us that our original weekend plans must be abandoned. Then on Monday, they search for the large, laminated cardboard suns to spread across the darkness of our indoor weeks. So, again, inimically dark rain clouds were pasted to Saturday.

But they were wrong. Over night, while I was snuggled under my down comforter, rain storms flew lightly through the city, clearing skies for the morning. A Crayola blue reigned in the heavens by lunch time. And so our weekend plans went forward. Paint ball.

“Paint ball?” others asked. “Did you play inside?”

“No,” we answered. “It was in the woods.”

“Korea has woods?”

Just north of Busan, about fifteen minutes from my apartment, we dressed in full war gear, including army fatigues, a "bullet-proof" vest, a sturdy helmet, and gardening gloves (naturally!). The "we" to whom I am referring are a number of friends from church as well as students of theirs and other friends. With smiles and promises of murdering our dear friends, we squared off into two opposing teams. My team included the only two who had experience playing before, though we were taunted by the black team for our red helmets. "They'll be really hard to spot," was the jokingly sarcastic suggestion.

This was a first for me, apart from messing around with the game at camp. But this was a real game, the setting complete with trees, dirt, hills, and even, somewhat ominously, a few graves. My team, allow me to brag, was awesome. Of the five games that we played, two were a draw and three we won outright. All of us immediately dove into the spirit of it, throwing ourselves to the ground in true war-ready fashion. Two teams filled once with friends became enemies, North and South turning on one another.

My first time shooting someone was almost as fun as my first time being shot. I had snuck across the other team's territory, closely on the heels of Nathan, when I spotted Sacha, a very serious enemy of mine, guarding their flag. Using my exceptional assasin skills, I took her out. But our thirty pound helmets with their two percent visibility at times made it difficult to realize we were hit. So she kept shooting. Rather indignantly, I stood up and proclaimed, "Hey, I just shot you!" That's when I took it in the hip from another member of her team. Oops. The sting was intense, like if a bully had pulled a thick rubber band, then let it snap on your exposed skin. But I have some spectacular bruises to show for it. So being hit wasn't a total loss.

At the completion of the game, ended prematurely by our impatient referee, we emerged resembling the intial stages of a Jackson Pollock painting. It was such great fun, we have already planned our next outing. I'm hoping to up my body count significantly this time. Who knew that shooting your friends could be so much fun! I included a few intimidating pictures on my flickr account (side bar). Please note the one where three of us women hold three of the men as hostages. I'm quite proud of it.

Jesus Was a Commie

As I opened my lovely gmail account, which has effectively taunted, beaten up, and thrown hotmail into the nearest dumpster, an email caught my eye. One of a number of forwards that I receive throughout a regular emailing week, I opened it immediately, wondering at the somewhat provocative title: Fwd: Fw: Just received this.......The photos beg we comply.

No photos were included in the forward. What was present, however, evoked a definite response in me. Read on:

"Prayer chain for our Military...please don't break it

"Please send this on after a short prayer. Prayer for our soldiers..please don't break it

"Prayer'Lord, hold our troops in your loving hands. Protect them as they protect us. Bless them and their families for the selfless acts they perform for us in our time of need. Amen.'

"Prayer Request: When you receive this, please stop for a moment and say a prayer for our troops around the world.

"There is nothing attached.... .. Just send this to people in your address book. Do not let it stop with you, please....
"Of all the gifts you could give a Marine, US Soldier, Sailor, Airman, & others deployed in harm's way, Prayer is the very best one "

This is the exact forward, complete with its grammatical and punctuation errors, which made my skin crawl ever so slightly. Yet more irksome than the errors in writing was the error in the message.

I have grown up as an American, raised with pride in my own country and culture. I was also raised in the American Christian church, which has in many ways adopted U.S. nationalism. For a demonstration of this, one need look no further than the number of pastors who preach politics from the pulpit. Separating a poor, nomadic, minority, first-century man from wealthy, secure, white, dominant American Christianity has apparently become too difficult a task for some pastors. Too many churches court the seductive power of national politics, which is shameful, because to equate any political party with being Christian violates the very principles upon which this religion was founded. It also undoubtedly calls to mind the horrid times in church history when it bedded politics and set into motion a period of immeasurable human slaughter.

Yet this is an aside from the forward, sort of. What struck me so strongly about the attitude of this request for prayer for a certain group was the conspicuous lack of certain other groups. Where's the request to pray for the people in the countries where these men are stationed? Where's the request to pray for the struggles that we bring on these people, this invasion of their homes? The prayers for their children? The prayers for the people building bombs to destroy us? The prayers for those shooting back at us?

Why only for our troops?

I have a tentative answer to this question. It is because, in our American Christian minds, we view America as the purveyor of freedom and equality. Not only that, but it is a sort of missions; soon, we will see the rise of the Christian church in the middle east. And thus we can feel good about our occupation.

I get angry and physically ill when I consider this. Not only does it compromise thousands of human lives, mostly Iraqi, but it also completely misrepresents Christianity. Jesus was not an American. He was not Republican, nor was he part of a democracy. Instead, he made people like that really angry. He said weird things and hung out with outcasts.

The church accepts the Bible, calling it "God-breathed." So why do we ignore stuff like this?

"You have heard that it was said, 'Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you."

This message seems long-forgotten in a culture whose motto appears "America=Christian=God's favorites."