nineveh

Circles, Stories and Processing Privilege

Privilege is not a bad word but a gift, I felt reminded today while I was vacuuming. I believe in “owning privilege” but probably don’t practice this very well; especially in the most recent season of my life when I have been steeped in some of the local realities of poverty and oppression.

Also I have felt a bit out of touch with the ways that I am privileged in recent months because of unexpected challenges in our day to day circumstances. The problem with being out of touch with my privilege is that it makes it harder for me to live in a place of gratitude.

I was confronted with my privilege this week when some of the work that I have been involved in was featured in a local newspaper article. It wasn’t the biggest deal in the world, but it made me think of people who work tirelessly for family and community and there work goes unnoticed, uncelebrated. I didn’t think of this immediately. My initial thoughts when the idea of having our work celebrated through a ribbon cutting ceremony was brought forward were of resistance. I felt personally that the goals of my participation in promoting community gardens as a space for meaningful engagement where yet still so far out of reach that such an event seemed like the wrong priority. I have a dream of engaging youth who are experiencing various challenges in urban agriculture as a way to increase wellness and success. With all the hard work that people have volunteered, I still feel that there is a long way to go.

How do you live in a place of gratitude while circumstances are far from ideal and actually very broken? I feel like this is Spirituality 101 in almost every tradition and belief system. But I think we all at least feel the tension in some capacity. In my faith tradition, we are taught that the starting point cannot be one of the condition or circumstance, but rather of the reality of a loving Creator that holds all things together.

Carl Jung is a teacher/thinker that I appreciate and he talks about holding together the “tension of the opposites” and uses the example of the mandala where duality is replaced and opposites are held in supportive union. I find myself and I’m probably not alone in this having to hold together many opposing “energies”/or strong feelings. I guess the temptation for me is to pick one over the other: Poverty versus privilege, rage versus love, anger versus peace, hate versus acceptance. The reality is that I am poor, enraged, experience hatred and anger. I am also privileged, in love, at peace and more and more moving into a place of acceptance.

I think when I have habitually chosen my poverty above my privilege, I feel isolated and undernourished. And I am less likely to do this in the season that I am living out right now, but when I pick my privilege over my poverty, I am likely to become judgemental, unintuitive and cold hearted.

We are all poor and privileged in different ways. But can I be both?

I don’t think the answer is balance, in fact I have come to hate that word, it is mathematical utopia and unnatural to me (just my opinion). What is balance? I cannot exist in a placid equilibrium, I can only exist here on this great garden called earth, a place of snow storms and floods, and sunny days, and gentle breezes, and only God knows which of those you’re going to get, depending on where you were born and where you travel to. My prayer is that in my joureny I would come across mandalas and the medicine wheels. That I would find a healing circle, and be reminded that the Creator holds all things together in the palms of his hands.

Not very surprisingly I am very experiential in my spiritual expressions and needs. And I tell you, I strongly dislike rows of pews. I love prayer circles and sharing circles. A circle means that we are all in this together, that there is no time restriction and that you can dance, cry and be seen and be heard.

I was reading about the history of African American Spirituals that were a way of worship during slavery. How the slaves would attend bush meetings and form circles where they would move and dance in spontaneous expressive worship. In an effort to de-Africanize slaves, they were forbidden to meet in circles and were forced to worship in pews to restrict movement. When reading these stories I felt that circles are for especially meaningful in seasons of struggle when the need for each other is deeply felt, and when you need to wail, and beat your suffering into a drum, wave your arms and speak in tongues. And leave feeling a sense of gratitude.

I have had the poverty and privilege of being involved in a community process that will hopefully promote much needed cultural circles of support in local African immigrant communities.

Anyway, while I was vacuuming, I fel awakened to my privilege. One of my greatest privileges is in my ability to tell my story. Here in this blog and in other spaces, it gives me voice and is empowering. On a global scale and even on a local scale I am relatively and incredibly wealthy. All my most basic needs are met and my son’s basic needs are met. I have a hard working partner. I have love in my life. I have inherited from my parents a love for scholarship and an ability to think well. What I lack in emotional regulation is made up for in passion. I have access to technology and feel empowered to create change in my community. I have citizenship in a stable country. I have an international upbringing and a good education, I have a patient and good Creator.

Messages

I’m one of those people who can’t remember where I place day to day things or memorize people’s names but I have a really good memory for stories and things people say to me. Like most people, I have received and responded to many “messages” in my life experience that have shaped me in various ways. I am sharing some of the messages I’m processing still from the last year or so that have some kind of imprint in day to day journeying, the way I engage the world, the way I think and feel….

Part of my life these days is about trying to find some kind of peace, resolution, or just a way to deal with or respond to these messages.

Many of the sources for the “messages” that float to me are from my environment but some come from some parts inside of me as well.



“I’m not saying that that’s the way it’s supposed to be, I’m just saying that’s how it is, there are just some tables that you won’t get invited to”

“Those “associations”, they say they care, they just come, they ask as questions, they say they will come back, but they don’t care”

“I want to do something about it, tell me what I can do. There are people in our community who know people, and those people know more people, they can do something”

“A Canadian, is a Canadian, is a Canadian”

“Let us talk to our youth from a position of strength”

“So educate me, what is cultural specificity? And if I support you, who else do I have to support?”

“Thank you for your pure volunteerism”

“This place is a colony, I woke up one day and was like, oh my God, we are living in Africa 1959. Where are the indigenous people? Out of site and poor! This place never went through any kind of independence and they are proud of it!”

“We must cut debt, we must care for the poor, we must do these thing simultaneously because of something we are calling intergenerational Justice”

“And please don’t bring food to these events, I tell you, it makes me sick, once you bring food that’s all they want to talk about, talk about the issues, and if you wear your traditional dress, it’s all over”

“Let’s not try to change each other”

“Here’s a radical idea, personal responsibility, if you want to work with youth, take responsibility and go work with youth”

“As a white person, I go through the same stuff! What about the rural poor?”

“Motion to adopt these minutes? Seconder? All in favour? Opposed? Okay done”.

“This is why I am opposed to personal stories, personal stories paralyze us”

“Well, they are not our children”

“We have found in the past that there are problems with that group, last time there was some drinking involved, perhaps you can find another venue? Maybe a Neighbourhood Association”

“They are known a problem gardeners”

“Make sure they will actually want to garden”

“If you find yourself repeating some of those unhealthy patterns that you grew up in, then you probably need to do some soul searching”

“The Camp Fanis! The Refugee Camp! There are no problems here, don’t talk about problems here in Canada”

“It was said at the meeting, 'she is just trying to get paid’”

“I was put in solitary confinement, I expected to find scary people in prison, somehow I would feel better if the people were scary and bad. It was just the mentally ill and people with substance abuse issues”.

“If they act like thugs, they will be treated like thugs”

“Tim Horton’s, McDonald’s, those jobs are just for the white kids”

“Maybe you watched the Royal Wedding, it’s okay if you did, it is an important part of our culture”

“It’s not that they don’t hire minority youth, it’s the way they write their resumes”

“We heard that some employers were afraid of hiring immigrants, they were afraid of saying the wrong thing around the office, and getting sued”

“We are proud of our Fanis”

“You will hurt yourself”


“If I have to put this kid with me in a cardboard box, I am not afraid of poverty, I will see this thing through”

“They have no idea what I have already lost, they can’t starve me out”

“The Holy art of giving for Jesus’ Sake ought to be much more strongly developed among as Christians, never forget that all state intervention for the poor is a blot on the honour of your Saviour . . .It is perfectly true that if no help is forthcoming from elsewhere the state must help, we may let no one starve from hunger as long as bread lies moulding in so many cupboards and when the State intervenes it must do so quickly and sufficiently”

“You can vent if you want to and I will let you do that, but we both know that you are going to keep going, that you are not done”

“I mean, I’m not sure how I would benefit from this”

“We are the one's we've been waiting for”

“So let’s build this thing from the ground up, nobody is coming to save us”

“Ignorance is a privilege”

“I mean, I’m sick of the complaining immigrant, there are a lot of opportunities here, the way I see it, there are no opportunities back in Africa, and then they come here and start complaining”

“I guess I’m trying to be independent”

“We’re getting cornered from all sides, they don’t want us to help ourselves, they don’t want us to ask for help, they don’t want us to speak out”

“We were brought here to work in factories”

“After all the shit I’ve been through, If I could choose a different life, a life of privilege with a functional family, and have all my primary needs met, and turn out to be an adult who has everything and whose eyes are closed to suffering around me, I would pick my broken life over and over again. It’s made me who I am. I would pick the same for my son. My biggest fear for my son is not that he be poor, or that he suffers but rather that he doesn’t know how to care and how to respond to suffering!"

“We have 300 of our boys from this community at Maplehurst Prison”

“Because of Slavery, some blacks of African descent experience a psychological barrier to farming”

“We are people of the land”

“Out of all the immigrants groups the African immigrants are at the bottom”

“Give the poor legal title to land so they can rise out of poverty”

“There is an unhealthy relationship between the system and the community, the system should declare a conflict of interest”

"The system should serve the community, the community should be self determining"

“I’m done trying to change people’s minds. I’m not here to change anyone’s mind, if they waited for all the slave-masters to change their minds we would still be in slavery”

“I think the central question though, does the federal government have a responsibility towards the poor with regards to the alleviation of poverty? And once you have addressed that central question , what might that look like? . . .the key thing that we are saying in The Call is that the government does have a responsibility with regards to the alleviation of poverty. And I would say that the fundamental argument there is not a constitutional argument, and I say that with due respect to the American constitution because we live here under the Rule of Law and that what we do in this country must be constitutionally warranted… But I would argue that the claim that a National Government has a responsibility with regard to the poor is ultimately and Biblical argument and I think that tramps the constitution, so I think there is a clear imperative in Scripture that those who rule have a responsibility to establish justice for the poor . . .everything should be subject to scrutiny, but it’s not then some kind of blind hustice that you then apply, you have to apply laws, you have to make choices, you have to determine what the priorities are, our argument is that we should give a certain priority for federal programs that effectively address poverty, when those programs can be warranted in terms of this constitutional order, but that the ultimate reason for that is a scriptural responsibility. Rulers have a responsibility to do justice for the poor. I think we would agree on that. What neither the document says nor what I am in this setting wanting to elaborate is what that responsibility looks like, because I think that is indeed a prudential question and an extremely difficult question, I have spent now, what? 25 odd years studying this question: What are the responsibilities of government with regards to the alleviation of poverty? And what actually makes a difference? And after 25 years I have very little to say on that question, as does everybody else. We know it’s an imperative, we know we have to do something about it, and we know it’s one of the most difficult challenges that we face”.

“My parents came here as Dutch immigrants and they never worked in their professions either”

“Today when I got on the bus, I felt distinctly accepting for the first time of this place as my home. I mean Grand River Transit, and the bus drivers, they show the beauty of this culture, I am beginning to love Canada because of Grand River Transit”
“They feel entitled to everything that they have, they don’t want know”

“I don’t fit in anywhere, I don’t fit in with ignorant white people anymore and I am not black”

“We have never felt at home in their institutions, they are not our institutions, we can’t fit in, even Canada Day, there are fireworks, and we feel sad and out of place, what are we supposed to say? Happy Steal Our Land Day?”

“The only way to begin to contain this thing called European culture is to begin to name it, to other it, to put limits around it”

“Christian schools seem to be producing “salt of the earth” citizens who provide the backbone of communities, are the pillars of their churches, and are living lives of purpose and hope. Fears that religious schools are the incubators of social unrest, producing a generation of culture warriors, seem to be largely unfounded"

“We must cut debt, we must care for the poor, we must do these thing simultaneously because of something we are calling intergenerational Justice”

“Grant me an upright heart that no perverse intention can lead astray, an invincible heart that no disaster can overcome”

“I want to be like you and like the Church Fathers, I want to be like St. Francis of Assisi and to be fearless in the face of poverty, I want courage and faith. I want to be at peace with feeling misunderstood, but where I lose all hope, is times when I feel that you have left me, that you Jesus Christ have left my home and heart”

"Open my eyes that I might see wonderful things in your Law"

beginnings of community garden

A member of one of our gardener families and recent friend emailed me a picture of myself standing at the new northdale site of Patchwork Community Gardens on one of our rainy workdays a couple of weekends back.

I am watching Izaka on the deck playing with his water table, I spent this morning at home, this is a different way for us to spend a Sunday morning. The ground outside is really wet and muddy from a series of rainy May days. The heat and humidity is a welcome break from the rain. I enjoyed my time with Izaka this morning, I got out his summer outside toys from the basement and especially enjoyed how he didn't remember them from when he was one last year, and was so excited.

I also enjoyed rubbing sunscreen on his cheeks and nose and the back of his neck. I'm thinking of getting my paint stuff out from last summer, in the next couple of weeks.

Sitting here I also found my mind running over the events of the last several weeks including that rainy day at the Northdale site of Patchwork Community Gardens, a new community garden project that I have had the pleasure of having a role in creating.

My mind also stopped at a couple of nights ago at the closing ceremony of our Homework Support Program at Laurentian Public School. Maybe sixty children or so attended, as well as parents, and volunteers. We ate samosas and mandazis and enjoyed a dramatic presentation from the African-Caribbean Drama Troupe, who presented a family message on the importance of HIV testing. Walking into Laurentian Public School a bit late for the ceremony, I remember feeling a bit aware of how my volunteer hours at the HSP program has slowed down for the winter semester, with more focus on grant writing and planning for the gardens.

I almost was hesitent to reunite with one of the moms who I had developed a friendship with over the course of the school year. A Somali woman, whose name I won't disclose but she had lived in Kenya before coming to Canada with her five children. She has a very warm smile and I am drawn to her because she not only speaks Swahili which is not so surprising for any East African in a country that shares in Arabic heritage, but that she is also fluent in my mother's tibal tongue, Luo, a language that I cannot speak myself but love to hear. She picked it up living in Nairobi in part of the city that housed a large Luo community. She must have identified tribal physical features in me when she first saw me on my first night volounteering, because she approached me with a warm smile and greeted "Ithinadi?".

Anyway, on the night of the celebration I don't bump into her right away, I take an empty sit beside some little giggling and whispering girls who are making a strong effort to sit throught the speeches on the program. They are beautiful in their colourful hijab covered heads bumping together in mischief and I have to repeatedly hush and seperate the girls. We are listening to a young lady lawyer making a speach about how anything is possible with hard work and dedication. Our Association president inivted her in to motivate the children. I am happy to see many of the board members present, and some senior members of our community. It never takes long to be assigned a task and at the time to share meals I am in charge of making sure the children single file out into the cafeteria.

In the bustle I ran into my friend, and she takes me into an embrace "where have you been?" she asks. [I have to stop here and say that I love being embraced by a woman wearing a hijab, leso or kanga or really most african female clothing that involve excessive fabric, I feel wrapped and held, and for those few moments very much at rest].

Any stress that might have accompanied the anticipation of our reunification is eased by her warm smile. I tell her that I have been working on gardens, community gardens. "Where?" She asks, "I want to come, we need something to do in the summer with the kids...". Our conversation continues on in Swahili.

Laurentian public school is on the far end of Kitchener and it is going to be a one and half our bus ride commute home to my end of Waterloo, I am hoping I get to the University terminal on time to catch the last #13.

Walking from Laurentian Public School to the bus stop there is a group of young boys and girls walking with me. They are heading to their high rise apartment building. It's night time and they are very loud and cheerful likely still experiencing a rush from the celebration snacks.

I also find therapeutic the sound of animated voices of families walking home in a city night, mixed with street lights and occassional trafic. It's warm, it reminds me of road-side markets and mabati canteens in Nairobi after sundown, it makes me feel like things will be okay. I look accros the road at Laurentian Park before getting to my bus stop and can't help thinking of a possible community garden filling some of that space next summer. I say bye to a group of elementary-schoolers that have been walking with me when I reach my bus stop, and they shout there goodbyes. The mothers wave.

Izaka has now had his fill of the deck and water table. He came inside, breastfed, had a snack and is down for his nap. Now I'm looking out on the deck at the sight of his toy boats and cars resting next to the play water table. His spring boots are placed carefully beside each other on a wooden bench that Justin build two springs ago for the deck. It's been a good morning.

Earlier while pulling out my little boy's summer toys from the basement and allowing my mind to go over the events of the last few weeks some of which I have shared here, I stopped on my way up the stairs suddenly. I had what I suppose was an epiphany, that interrupted me kind of effortlessly. Standing on the steps halfway up from the basement, with my arms filled with Izaka's toys I realized that my community is the place where I find it is possible to give, and equally possible to receive.

Angry Poem

I close my eyes and go to a sunny field
We are all there.
We are having a picnic after church on a Sunday
The children are dressed in white and yellow
Little girls in yellow dresses and little boys in white dress shirts
And they are laughing and running.
I recognize them,
They are our children.

The men are standing a short distance away
In a naturally formed circle
Talking with hands sunk into their trouser pockets
Every once in a while one of the men will shout
Something instructive to one of the especially energetic
Little girls, with black plated and beaded hair,
wearing a yellow dress.

And we are sitting in the shade,
Lost so very deep in conversation,
Something expressive and close to the heart,
And I throw a light kanga over my dark legs that are beginning to
Sting ever so slightly from falling rays of sun that escape
Through spaces between the tree branches.

And a breathless boy in a white dress shirt
Falls into my arms every now and then
Taking a break from chasing or being chased.
“Mama!” He interrupts our conversation catching his breath,
“Water, I need water!” We exchange glances and smile.
“Please?” I remind him placing a cup in his grasp.
“Please!” He barely repeats before taking a few heavy swallows,
And in a wild rush places the cup down, scrambles to his feet,
And springs back to the serious endeavour of chasing,
And of being chased.

I open my eyes, in a dark room, with a screen lighting my face, trying not to
write an angry poem.

this one is untitled

Your tired climb gets slower as you near the top, I hear your steps,
And the light of the leaf game you left on mute is lighting the side of my face.
We muttered quiet prayers and a weak goodnight.
In this tight cluttered space where we sit and much has passed through
You are loved.

I bathed him today in a basin, one of the many small unplanned differences
Claiming us, me, you and him, in a basin,
I can’t bring myself to do it the other way.
And he hates the water and soap, and he bears it and latches on to my breast,
To make peace.

The basin is a small remnant maybe of something from before, ours was blue and
She bathed us outside in the sun, my sister and me, small feet.
And when he carries the bathwater out to the deck I ask myself if it is possible to
Ache for something you didn’t really get to hold for very long.

She dropped me off from the library and after my usual big sisterly questions
She tells me that she is going back again, to the sun and basins,
And I think I understand it.

The blue basin in the sun, there was a mad kitten that chased her tail while
The water splashed and we laughed at her. The black lunatic kitten.

I telephoned her to let her know that I was tired, that I wanted to be with him, really with him. Every day to read, to play and then the basin and then to bring him close to me, and let him latch and drift and dream.
But life had become the tide that comes in and goes out at will.
And I am left splashing and laughing then crying on the side of the sea,
seemingly alone.

She told me it was the same, that you give what you give, and you do what you have to do, and you always feel that it is not enough. But what I do I do for him, And how I fight, I fight for him.

And when he gets taller and weans out of our tight spaces I dream that mingled in
With the residue memory of a basin, and the lights from the leaf game,
Your tired steps, and my laughing, splashing and crying,
Will be the sound of muttered prayers, and weak goodnights, and a distinct feeling
That he is loved.

Watchman

There is a small red hill close to the
Convent called Resurrection Garden on the
Edges of the City where Pope visited in
In the Year 1995.

The small red hill is at the bottom of
A steep unpaved Rhino Park Road that leads
To the back entrance of the gated
Neighborhood of my early childhood.

In the back entrance there used to be
An old Kalenjin Watchman, who spent days
In the shelter of a narrow shack,
Rungu in hand and reading a Swahili
New Testament.

Sometimes I imagine you as a Watchman,
And you are not very old,
But you wait for me in that narrow shack.
You wait for me.