Advanced Citizenship

Advanced Citizenship

 

Sometimes I think

I didn’t sign up for this

I didn’t choose to be born

Of this place

Of this time

Of this family from this country

In this world that seems

       so vast and confusing

              And so limited and infinitely finite

But here I am

And who I am

Albeit reluctantly

Is a citizen of a world,

This world.

Where borders, colors, and languages

tell us who we are supposed to be

Where one mans freedom flag, is another’s flag of tyranny

Where my own liberty is contingent upon the way others choose to see me

As 3/5 human, as property, slave, whore or president

Its an interconnectedness I sometimes resent

That who I am must be placed in this subjective context

For others to qualify and quantify

The validity of my existence

But don’t I do the same?

Isn’t it just a part of the human condition?

To seek, to find, to claim my tribe?

To draw the circle around myself?

As much to keep me in as to keep you out?

But if I am truly a citizen of something beyond my country, then what would be my flag?

What would be my anthem?

Would my tribe be a reflection of the united nations?

Would I finally be able to embrace them?

Those strangers who would be my family

Those enemies who would stand with love for me?

I am not sure if I am ready for such advanced citizenship.

When all that glitters isn't gold...

The science of the mind is deceptively simple. Here's how it works: everything you think, every thought has the power to manifest itself in your life. But not each thought carries the same weight. For example, I often think about winning the lottery, but that thought hasn't quite come to fruition. Why? Because you must take your thought and breathe life into it through emotions. In short you must really believe in something to make it appear. Click your heels three times and all that.

Sounds fun right? Are you thinking of something wonderful? Are you thinking of a tuna melt on sour dough, or a moonlit evening on the beach? Can you feel the sand squishing between your toes? The soft wind caressing your skin? Or are you thinking of that driver who cut you off in traffic? Are you thinking about punching your boss in the face? The science of the mind is law, like electricity. You can take a lamp and plug it in and the electricity will cause it to illuminate, or you can take a knife and plug it in and become electrocuted. Either way, the electricity will work in the exact same way. Which is how I have become careful about what I think.

I have spent the last few years trying to think my way into a greater expansion of life, through prayer, meditation, vision boards, treasure maps, and anything else I can think of. And in retrospect, I haven't done to badly. I manifested the money for my great vision quest, then came back and landed the job with the exact salary stated on my vision board (double my last salary). And then a car came to me, seemingly out of nowhere. And so on, but once things go from the thought to reality, they are not always exactly as I pictured them. Which makes me wonder what other thoughts am I having that are playing out in such destructive ways?

I'm reminded of that scene in Ghost Busters where they finally figure out the legend of the curse and realize that all they have to do is clear their minds and nothing will manifest, but of course one of them has an errant thought and suddenly they are besieged by a 50 foot tall StayPuff Marshmallow Man terrorizing New York. That's the state I'm in. Mostly good except these few errant thoughts producing the monsters that made me string up the double dream catchers just to sleep through the night.

So what happens when all that glitters isn't gold. When the things I draw to me...things I've prayed and worked so hard for, aren't as fulfilling or rewarding as I thought they would be? How can I learn to trust myself to think the right way?

YOGO-or in my case twice a year

Written for the GV newsletter...

I admit when the day finally came I was pretty stressed out to be herding my fourth group of eager teenagers through four airports and two sets of customs. But as the last supply drive box was loaded on top of the fancy red chicken bus, I breathed a sigh of relief. We had finally made it to Guatemala. From here the road was more or less familiar.

I was armed with a minute by minute itinerary of everything we would do over the next 15 days as well as a map of San Miguel Escobar denoting every homestay family. Having accompanied previous groups, I felt comfortable and confident that together with the Guatemalan Staff we would be able to provide the robust, transformative experience we promised during all those school presentations and Info Nights last September.

And in retrospect I believe we were able to do just that, but as usual things did not go exactly as I imagined. I keep trying to find the way to articulate what was so different about this trip. I hesitate to compare it to my previous trips because though we did many of the same activities, such as visiting the dump and volunteering on our work teams, the trip (well really the entire program) is more than its components, but rather something that is co-created by its participants. And the Spring Program participants were a unique and beautiful blend of diverse personalities and experiences who chose to create something very special.

There are so many stories, so many small victories and major revelations that I find it difficult to explain. I could tell you about Sam, a kid I once thought of as shy, infecting the entire group with the YOGO (you only Guatemala once) philosophy and how this pushed everyone to try new things. I could tell you about gorging on cake and ice cream with Annie and Rita during the Antigua tour or about how Mary-Anne always sang and lead her work team in games or how Stacey spoke so beautifully about her experience in the Hospital that I almost cried. Or I could tell you about trading poems with Devin and Nava or about Lupe who was so eager to translate that she sometimes translated Spanish to Spanish or English to English or Steve who makes the funniest faces ever and still can never seem to get all the way through Redemption Song on the guitar. But they are all just pieces that add up to create something greater than their sum.

Throughout the trip, the Spring participants created and re-created community. They worked hard and played harder. They drew their Chapin counterparts into the fold. They held one another accountable for participating in discussions. They passed each other Kleenex and held hands with people who were feeling homesick or overwhelmed by something they had learned or experienced. Work teams created get well soon cards for people with upset stomachs. There was an attitude of “what can I do to make this a great trip?”

Chris Fontana always says that it is each person’s responsibility to make sure that everyone else “gets it”. And that is exactly what this group did. My experience is that this was a trip filled with compassion, honesty, humility, a great deal of reflection, new found friendships, learning, and fun. It was a trip that really connected me in a new way to our mission, because I returned to the States feeling more empowered and privileged to have gotten to know such a special group of people. I came back really feeling like not only did they “get it”, but that I did too.

Written at the Houston Airport that like most airports I've ever been it is home to a multitude of atrocities that erode our freedom daily. Yes, it's a familiar diatribe...and I repeat it because it is still true.

For Your Safety
Stars and stripes wave over me,
but every time I start to believe in freedom
I go to the airport and get a reality check.
Here, for my safety and yours,
I am "temporarily" stripped of
my shoes, my laptop, my belt, my hoodie, and
my civil liberties.
At least I get my shoes back
after someone somewhere has seen me naked
and deemed me worthy of an additional pat down
to make sure my ass
is still my ass
and not a weapon of mass destruction.
And I am allowed to reassemble my possessions
and proceed to my gate
with the illusion of safety
tucked into the place where my presumption of freedom
once was.
I contemplate the shiny blue exterior of my passport
and question my citizenship
the same way I question
how I am always
"randomly selected"
to undergo more detailed screening
for my safety,
and the safety of my fellow passengers
but I do not feel safer
knowing that for any reason
I can be escorted to that special white walled room
behind the curtain
that doesn't lead to Oz.
I do not feel safer
when the other "randomly selected" passengers
are a collective image of everything we are told
to be afraid of:
brown people
black people
turbans
and accents that don't have a Southern Twang
I do not feel safer
to have compromised my freedom
to placate the fear of my fellow countrymen
that we will not spared from paying for the crimes we have committed
that no one wants to talk about.
That we might one day have to pay
the true price of gas
which will far exceed $5 a gallon
because it will include the reparations
for each human life our military has taken
for our safety.
I question my citizenship
with the knowledge that this choice,
these choices that I never made
the decisions I did not oppose vehemently enough
define me.
I question my citizenship
with the understanding  that
with the priviledge of this passport
I am complicit.
Both agent and target
and I am certainly
not any safer
wrapped in the banner
of my country.

More Guate Poems

I wrote this one after visiting the Hospital. Last Summer was my first time working there and believe me when I say carrying a hundred cinder blocks up a mountain side on the Construction work team, or picking 300lbs of coffee with the Coffee work team is far easier than sitting in the hospital with all the sick, disabled, and abandoned people trying to have a beautiful experience some place so intrinsically sad. It's one of those feelings that kind of sticks to your soul. So when we had our poetry workshop and I set the kids to writing it was still on my mind, then something strange happened. The sky turned yellow. I was convinced that it was going to storm, but actually my host mom says that it's a sign that it won't rain for the next 10-15 days, that we're in some kind of summer stasis before the winter starts up again.

Sepia Afternoon
(For Oscar)

I felt the light shift
the sudden coolness in the breeze
and I thought of you
in your courtyard
surrounded by the orange blossoms
you would never see
would you be chilly
or would the wind be like the
familiar caress of the woman
you spoke of from your other lifetime
the one where you were whole
or closer to it,
a member of a family
long since disappeared
do you dream of them still
their faces the only images
left to play upon
the blank screen of your eyelids
as you slide beads onto string
do you number them
like days
and wonder
how many lifetimes
are left for you
to pay for your mistakes
as I wonder
will I be sent the bill for mine
does it bother you to never see my face
or it enough to recognize
my voice and the warmth of me
sitting beside you
in our sepia afternoon
you with your blindness
confined to your eyes
and me with mine
impairing my ability
to see beyond the wicked
shape of things
the way we all conspire
to perpetuate
the systems that pin us all in place
like frozen constellations
and our stars are so far apart
it seems impossible
that we would even coincide
if only to share a moment
in this sepia afternoon
already a forgotten photo
of a place I don't often dare to remember
because to remember is to admit
that I am neither as good or as noble
as I would like to believe
nor as worthy of the privilege
to squeeze your hand
before I say goodbye
and walk away from you
again.


Since the start of the trip I have been thinking a lot about happiness, partly because in almost all of the reflections some kid mentions that they are amazed at how happy people are despite the poverty. And I never quite know how to respond to this because I feel like they are missing a piece. So here is what I wrote.

My Smile
Please don't mistake
this smile
for happiness
I smile because
I have nothing left
so here is my silent act of
revolution
the waving flag
of my indestructible nation
Proof
that there is a part of me
that will never be colonized.
Strip me of my heart language
outlaw my cultural existence
use my own fabric
to brand my tribe
and then commence your genocide
Yes there are days
when I will cry
when I'll be forced
to run and hide
to fight and die
to wonder why
but when I can
I try to smile
to make sure I have
one thing left
that you can't own
to buy or sell.

This one I wrote for my homestay mom.

Casa de la Carola

eggs and black beans
pan frances and hot coffee
always buen provecho
when I come to her home
siempre bienvenidos
I never feel alone
because within these blue walls,
hung with portrait, sheltering a courtyard
full of turtles
I find my family
see something of my grandmother
in the wisdom of her hand
shaping tortillas
hear echos of my dad
in her laughter
when she tells me dirty jokes
there is something universal
in the way she heaps my plate full
and demands I eat it all.
It's the kiss on my cheek to day good night
the cup of hot chamomile
to sooth an upset stomach.
When I walk the streets
I am a stranger in a strange land
but when I'm here,
I'm home.
I'm loved.

Greetings from Guate- a few poems

Has it really been so long since my last post...well I guess it's bittersweet. I've been busy in 2012 enjoying my new home and still navigating the difficult awesomeness that is my career. Here I am again in San Miguel Escobar, Guatemala, on my first trip of the year with just a few days remaining. The common sentiment in this trip has been YOGO-You Only Guatemala Once...which I guess for me is not exactly true since this is my fourth trip. But in other ways it is absolutely true because this trip has been completely different from the others.

I guess part of that can be attributed to the fact that I met these kids in October and have been with them every culture night and through the retreat as well. Many of them have worked with me in the office as well, so I know them a little differently than the other groups. Also I think it's maybe just this time in my life where I am really kind of stepping back and thinking about what is important and what I really want to accomplish.

Becoming a part of GV has been one of the most challenging, but also rewarding experiences of my life. I have learned a lot about myself and better still gotten the opportunity to really get to know my program participants in a way that has changed us both. And I have a lot to say about it, but for now I am just going to share a few poems I've written on this trip. One of the kids of my trip is a Slam poet and just an awesome human being and he has inspired me to reconnect with art.

The Perfect GV Circle

Stand with me
arms crossed,
hand in hand,
shoe tips toe to toe
arched in a linear curve
To my right, I can see you
every face, every eye
to my left, you are present
every spirit, every sigh
drop and sit
and you are a jumble
of knees and slumped shoulders
hat brims pulled down low,
voices soft with the fear that
someone might actually hear you
see more than
your face, your eyes,
your shoe tips toe to toe
what would happen
if you opened your mouth too wide and
out flew a bit of your soul
that's what you don't want to know
will you be judged
will you be told
that who you are is not
enough
So you hide behind
the silence of
"I don't know what to say"
But there comes a point
where you must learn
to trust that you'll be okay
Because nothing's ever promised
all we have is just today
yesterday is over
and tomorrow's always
a day away
so just open up your mouth
and say what you've got to say
or better yet open up your heart,
but first stand up and put yourself all in
complete the circle
round it out and don't give in
to the fear
that you won't be perfect
that it won't be right
cause when it's all of us together
and you know the group is tight
you'll realize that
perfection lives inside
the flaws you've been trying to hide.


Some of us
(Written after the discussion on the 36 year civil war)

What money doesn't change is that
we are all biodegradable
collections of flesh and bones
teeth, eyes, hair, and chromosones
but some of us are human beings
and some of us are target practice
some of us bleed and have feelings
and some of us are seen as less
How casually we speak of casualties
of accidents and incidents
number the victims instead of naming
those who were never of any consequence
because some of us are human beings
and some of us are target practice
disposable lives that have no meaning
other than inconvenience
those whose need for
power, money, oil, fruit, land, whatever
exceeds their capacity to see
that some of us are human beings
and some of us are murders
liar, monsters, and theives
consumed with a bottomless obsession with greed
with the need to always take more
no matter what the price
the need to shelter in a toxic paradise
whose glittery borders are paved
with the remains of anyone who
might oppose, who might suggest
that some of us are human beings.

2011

As another year comes to an end, I find myself once more in a contemplative mood.In many ways 2011 has been good to me. I moved back to Seattle, began my career with a small non profit, visited Guatemala three times, and bought my first house. But it was not a year free from sadness or stress. Work, while rewarding has stripped me of my social life and left me feeling depleted and imbalanced. I also had to say last goodbyes to two very special people: my grandmother and my friend Anita.

All of these transitions, both for better and worse have left me wondering once more, is this all there is? Am I where I'm supposed to be? Am I getting right? And for the millionth time I'm struck by the ambiguity of it all. But here I am, once more at the end of one thing and the beginning of the next, poised to move forward into the blank canvas of 2012, year of the dragon. Ready or not...