Reflections from a displaced other
The season is beautiful and my share is good
And all of my hopes shall finally have their turn.
I have now been gone a month, and suppose its time to begin reflecting on my new life here. Reflection is a dangerous business though, and I have learned to stay away from it as nearly as possible. Many emails have been sent, and quite a few blogspot posts written, but I have yet to write a single page in my journal. It is probably safe to begin doing so now, and for the sake of my future self I may do so. Yet as I read through the journal I realized the consistent difficulty I have relocating to 'strange new worlds'. With striking regularity I have trouble finding my way past the two week mark, and with the same regularity I move forward as a new person after the fortnight. I wrote to a friend that the changes that have taken place in me have not been profound; in fact I should not call them "life changing." But I also realize that events and situations can be "life changing" without being profound; if there has been change (and there almost certainly has) then it must be taking place in this latter sense.
I originally wrote several pages of rant at this point, mostly about US foreign policy. I decided that though blogs are often used to voice opinions that no one else cares about, I would rise above this temptation. If you want to hear meaningless political dribble, you have talk radio at your disposal. I'll stick to writing about my life in Ethiopia. The point of writing about US foreign policy, however, was to point out the ways in which living here has given me an 'outsiders' perspective on US politics. The people here, even those living in the remotest of tribes, know painfully well that they live in the poorest, least powerful part of the world, and that the US is the richest, most powerful nation in the world. One thing I noticed upon arrival was how quiet the mosques are. I came prepared to hear prayers blasting from loudspeakers throughout the day. I am told that since the war in Iraq the prayers have been muted. The political struggles of Ethiopia are as disconnected from Iraq as Amy Grant is from talent, yet the defeat there has fascinating ripples here.
I've also come to the realization that I will never 'fit in' here. I don't mean this in the sense that I, je, ich, will never be comfortable with cold showers, powdered milk, or eating out of someone else's hand. Nor do I mean that because of my wealth I will never be comfortable amidst poverty. Rather, I will never fit in because the people here will never see me as someone who is comfortable with all of these things. I will always stick out, just as any of you who come here will stick out (and, keeping in mind, that I assume not ALL of you reading this blog are crackers. I suspect African Americans would stick out as well, though you may be able to slip in and out of the market without immediate detection). For the first month here this kept me from doing several things. I didn't go on any long bike rides, knowing that I would be pointed at and laughed... with? Mostly at. Local teens come and play volleyball outside my window at work. How many afternoons did I not go play? Lately I've come to embrace this difference rather than fear it. Yes, I am white. Yes, I am rich. But I'm also here, and it does much more to help me and us for me to ride my bike with kids running next to me up the hill, or play volleyball (rather badly) with the teens than it does for me to hide inside my office listening to Bjork with my headphones on while reading Pierre Hadot explain why the classical philosophy expounded in Plotinus and Poryphyry has much more to do with contemporary forms of life than we dare to imagine (and he's right).
Speaking of forms of life, amidst the veritable cornucopia of differences between my culture and this, there is a lot to be agreed upon as well. A smile is still a smile. To look upon the smiling face of the other is to encounter them - almost to know them. A smile is something we can agree upon. And that's something. A child's laugh is laughter, wherever its heard. That I can understand. Perhaps smiles and laughter are 'merely' cultural - if so at least my culture agrees with this about these two matters. That too is something. Something encouraging.
So now you have it. I play volleyball and ride my bike, and I listen to children laugh and we smile together when they do. I go to religious festivals and celebrate Orthodox Christian holidays that we've never heard of. I shop for produce in the market. I walk to the tops of mountains on dusty old roads that have looked the same for centuries as they do now, all the while chewing sugar cane (in much the same way it has been chewed for centuries). On Sundays I go to church and listen to prayers - sometimes tears - of the other. All the while I am pointed at, called to, smiled at, greeted by strangers. The I that is I can do little more than be here - and in being here I am utterly alone. But in my, in our, aloneness is found commonality. In knowing that I am alone the other knows that I am other - and the possibility for encounter is created. Perhaps, even as friends. And to become friends with another - with, the other, the other that is even foreign (American!) - well, that's almost Christian.
Tomorrow I will go 'exploring' again; exploring with my friend whose name I don't know (you cannot ask for a name after living with someone for three weeks). Sometime soon I will describe Meskal - the holiday mentioned above celebrating the rediscovery of the cross upon which Jesus was crucified.
For now, I bid you good morning, or good night, or good day.
Peace
And all of my hopes shall finally have their turn.
I have now been gone a month, and suppose its time to begin reflecting on my new life here. Reflection is a dangerous business though, and I have learned to stay away from it as nearly as possible. Many emails have been sent, and quite a few blogspot posts written, but I have yet to write a single page in my journal. It is probably safe to begin doing so now, and for the sake of my future self I may do so. Yet as I read through the journal I realized the consistent difficulty I have relocating to 'strange new worlds'. With striking regularity I have trouble finding my way past the two week mark, and with the same regularity I move forward as a new person after the fortnight. I wrote to a friend that the changes that have taken place in me have not been profound; in fact I should not call them "life changing." But I also realize that events and situations can be "life changing" without being profound; if there has been change (and there almost certainly has) then it must be taking place in this latter sense.
I originally wrote several pages of rant at this point, mostly about US foreign policy. I decided that though blogs are often used to voice opinions that no one else cares about, I would rise above this temptation. If you want to hear meaningless political dribble, you have talk radio at your disposal. I'll stick to writing about my life in Ethiopia. The point of writing about US foreign policy, however, was to point out the ways in which living here has given me an 'outsiders' perspective on US politics. The people here, even those living in the remotest of tribes, know painfully well that they live in the poorest, least powerful part of the world, and that the US is the richest, most powerful nation in the world. One thing I noticed upon arrival was how quiet the mosques are. I came prepared to hear prayers blasting from loudspeakers throughout the day. I am told that since the war in Iraq the prayers have been muted. The political struggles of Ethiopia are as disconnected from Iraq as Amy Grant is from talent, yet the defeat there has fascinating ripples here.
I've also come to the realization that I will never 'fit in' here. I don't mean this in the sense that I, je, ich, will never be comfortable with cold showers, powdered milk, or eating out of someone else's hand. Nor do I mean that because of my wealth I will never be comfortable amidst poverty. Rather, I will never fit in because the people here will never see me as someone who is comfortable with all of these things. I will always stick out, just as any of you who come here will stick out (and, keeping in mind, that I assume not ALL of you reading this blog are crackers. I suspect African Americans would stick out as well, though you may be able to slip in and out of the market without immediate detection). For the first month here this kept me from doing several things. I didn't go on any long bike rides, knowing that I would be pointed at and laughed... with? Mostly at. Local teens come and play volleyball outside my window at work. How many afternoons did I not go play? Lately I've come to embrace this difference rather than fear it. Yes, I am white. Yes, I am rich. But I'm also here, and it does much more to help me and us for me to ride my bike with kids running next to me up the hill, or play volleyball (rather badly) with the teens than it does for me to hide inside my office listening to Bjork with my headphones on while reading Pierre Hadot explain why the classical philosophy expounded in Plotinus and Poryphyry has much more to do with contemporary forms of life than we dare to imagine (and he's right).
Speaking of forms of life, amidst the veritable cornucopia of differences between my culture and this, there is a lot to be agreed upon as well. A smile is still a smile. To look upon the smiling face of the other is to encounter them - almost to know them. A smile is something we can agree upon. And that's something. A child's laugh is laughter, wherever its heard. That I can understand. Perhaps smiles and laughter are 'merely' cultural - if so at least my culture agrees with this about these two matters. That too is something. Something encouraging.
So now you have it. I play volleyball and ride my bike, and I listen to children laugh and we smile together when they do. I go to religious festivals and celebrate Orthodox Christian holidays that we've never heard of. I shop for produce in the market. I walk to the tops of mountains on dusty old roads that have looked the same for centuries as they do now, all the while chewing sugar cane (in much the same way it has been chewed for centuries). On Sundays I go to church and listen to prayers - sometimes tears - of the other. All the while I am pointed at, called to, smiled at, greeted by strangers. The I that is I can do little more than be here - and in being here I am utterly alone. But in my, in our, aloneness is found commonality. In knowing that I am alone the other knows that I am other - and the possibility for encounter is created. Perhaps, even as friends. And to become friends with another - with, the other, the other that is even foreign (American!) - well, that's almost Christian.
Tomorrow I will go 'exploring' again; exploring with my friend whose name I don't know (you cannot ask for a name after living with someone for three weeks). Sometime soon I will describe Meskal - the holiday mentioned above celebrating the rediscovery of the cross upon which Jesus was crucified.
For now, I bid you good morning, or good night, or good day.
Peace
posted by Michael Rodgers at 5:26 AM
2 Comments:
i've been re-reading i and thou this past week and been utterly confused, while understanding it in part at the same time. when i read your remark about the smile, that you have encountered them...it took me back to his book, that life is about encountering people, not experiencing them. i'm really proud of what you're doing...it encourages me. hope you have a great week being an other.
Shannon, I love having smart relatives... and friends. As I wrote the post I was mentally combining ideas from an article I had just read by Derrida and Buber's I and Thou. It wasn't an eccident you picked that up ;-)
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