A 98% factual piece of fiction

I visited a monastery across the valley from Orvieto. This is my account of that, but one I'm planning on using for a story I'm writing.

The walk to Cappuccini Monastery wasn’t far. After stopping for a coffee and a cornetto at around seven, I walked across town and took the elevator to the base of the cliff. I still find it strange to see Orvieto from below. When I’m surrounded by the familiar buildings and streets, it seems to be on ground level. From the bottom, I can see how tall the walls really are. The town thrusts itself toward the sky, dug out of tufa and stacked up like a tree building itself from the soil.
After cutting through a vineyard on a questionably public path and crossing the main road, I took a right under a brown sign—CONVENTO DEI CAPPUCCINI—past a gas station, a cheap clothing store and a grocery store.
I was glad I decided to bring my scarf. It was a cold, damp morning. The clouds turned over on themselves again last night, just like they did when this month began. I went to bed around midnight with no shirt on. The weather had warmed up considerably two weeks or so after the storm, and even though the rest of San Paolo was a good ten degrees cooler than the temperature outside, the rooms were warm a night if we kept the doors closed. I woke up shivering at 4 AM to what I was sure must be some sort of air raid. The same feeling used to come over me when I’d wake up to the noise of the highway across the baseball field at our house on Adams Street. Thunder shook the 800-year-old walls and wind rattled the shudders. It’s frightening to experience a thunderstorm from inside a cloud.
When the rain died down again, I put on a long-sleeved shirt and fell back asleep. When I woke up, the late fall weather from earlier in the month had overtaken the Indian summer. The path to Cappuccini curls up an adjacent hillside through recently harvested olive groves and fields of empty branches and fallen grape leaves. Looking back toward the city, the Cathedral façade peeks up from the other side of the plateau. Its three peaks sparkle golden and wet with the mist of last night’s storm as the sun dispels the fog, now seeking shelter in the valley. Within an hour, I reached the gates. I took a few photographs for her. She is the reason why cameras exist—rather, her absence calls them into existence.
The road curved up through another grove, into a cloud. When I set out, I planned to spend my morning watching Orvieto from far away. The monastery was a place where I could see where I have been living for the past three months; I could take it all in with a glance. As I climbed the hill, however, it struck me that I couldn’t see a thing.
Cappuccini is a simple, quiet place. At the entrance to the central piazza, a statue of St. Francis stands in a dry fountain off to the left. His face is indiscernible—part exasperated, part apologetic, part comical, but each affect is rendered in a way that would exclude any other. The main path is made of gravel, generously dispersed over large areas of grass (or else, grass crowding into large areas of gravel), much like the driveway of the farm in Merrimac where we used to go apple picking.
I wandered up toward what must be the dormitory, passing a simple wooden sign: “Il Signore Ti Dia Pace” painted in black. Walking around to the back of the building, I found an overlook that faces Orvieto. The world beyond the monastery was still shrouded in grey, though. Save for the distant hum of engines and the whispers of tires on the highway below, it could all have disappeared when I climbed into the cloud. I thought of sitting down for a while in one of the green metal benches, but decided to look around a bit more.
The church flickered soft red light, cast from a single candle burning by the tabernacle. I dipped my finger in the holy water and crossed myself earnestly. It’s a ritual that I’ve no problem carrying over from my Catholic upbringing. I knelt in a pew and murmured some prayers—confessions, an Our Father, requests for strength and wisdom—and then sat in the dimly lit church for another half-hour.
After exploring the grounds a little further, I found my way back to the green benches with the vague notion of waiting for the fog to clear. At this point, though, I don’t need it to anymore.

STAR SPINNING!!!

I promise there is an explanation behind the absurdity of my face here. Please, read on.

Between my sometimes intense personality and the lessons and challenges of my time in Africa, you might worry that I don’t think much about having fun. But that’s not true! And this week I want to share briefly some photos and captions that prove I care about more than learning and being serious. Sometimes I’m as goofy as I was when I left high school. Humility combined with immaturity is an important part of college, I think.

Case in point: star spinning, which is the most fun you can possibly have with only stars and flashlights. Basically, you stare at a star directly above you while spinning really fast for 30 seconds. Then you stop spinning and someone shines a flashlight in your eyes. You become so disoriented that you instantly fall over and have no concept of balance. It’s pretty hilarious.

(Star spinning unhinged reality for me in this moment. It was beautiful.)

Now, I would say “try this at home,” but I might then be liable if you twisted your arm after falling over. So don’t try it at home. Try it in Uganda. That’s one thing that you don’t have to worry about in Africa: liability. Outside of America, you find that people don’t really care what you do.

Christians who want to have fun within such a loose environment – without getting drunk in pubs every night – have to find some respectable way to entertain themselves. “Meaningful conversations” only go so far. Eventually, everyone just wants to see people fall over and lose control of their bodies and minds. And I realize that sounds very similar to what happens in those pubs I just condemned, but I swear it’s different!

(See how happy they are? How can you go wrong with expressions like those?)

First of all, with star spinning you’re getting exercise, and you aren’t going to throw up or get alcohol poisoning. Good, harmless fun. It’s also very beautiful, as you can see roughly five million-trillion more stars in the sky when you’re not surrounded by city lights. Moral of the story: another great adventure in Uganda that you should come try for yourself.

(Sam couldn't handle it.)

(But I'll be back for more...)

My week long homestay in a rural Ugandan village

This entry is going to be a bit longer than my others, but I’m writing about the most rewarding experience of my entire time in college, so please forgive me. I have a lot to say.

Last week, I got to spend six days in a rural village in Soroti District, part of Northern Uganda. I lived with the Okui family in Serere, and I spent my time helping out around their farm and simply observing how their daily life reveals their rural African values of subsistence agriculture, family community, and Christian faith.

First, a quick rundown of the family: there's “Papa” and “Toto” (the heads of the household), their two grown daughters, and about six grandchildren; many other relatives visited during the week. They’re a big family already, but the first thing I noticed was how welcoming and friendly they were, treating me as if I had always lived with them. In fact, when I first arrived, Papa gave me only a very brief tour of the homestead before ushering me into the main meeting room for an hour of family prayers!

Now, I thought I had seen truly fiery worship from other Ugandans, but the Okui family is a whole different breed. All the family members (even the 8-year olds!) pray simultaneously, some shouting, others whispering fiercely, and Papa trying his best to translate for me!

After I got used to the fervency of these prayer sessions, I started to enjoy them and joined in with my own (not so fierce) whispered prayers. Prayers were almost always followed by the children telling stories and riddles to the whole family, and the meals were also completely family-oriented. The Okuis finish most of their work before nightfall, so there is no anxiety or rush to spoil these nightly traditions of relaxing, singing, and watching three-year-old Gloria fall asleep on her mother's lap.

Intense worship followed by intense family time – yet it was never overwhelming. 7000 miles from my real home, it was very comforting.

After a few days, Papa brought me to visit the local school that his grandchildren attend. It was exciting to see so many enthusiastic kids, and the principal of the school took us to greet and encourage every classroom. Most of the kids were thrilled to greet us. Sadly, a few of the youngest thought I must be some pale monster and began sobbing when I approached.

Of course, although visiting the school was a lot of fun, it can’t compare to the hours of conversation I had with Papa. After working on his farm or eating a meal, we sat and talked about simple things like agriculture, local politics, differences between America and Uganda, and how nice the evening sky looked. And each night, after we finished singing and praying, he asked me to close the family meeting with a special prayer.

One night, after I said Amen, he turned to me and said, “Peter, you are a true son to us. You are a part of this family.” I know that’s the kind of thing that “you really have to be there” to appreciate, but I have to share it anyway. Even after the death of two of his eight children, Papa's home is still full of his loved ones. He lacks nothing, neither in family community nor in material resources to sustain them. And for some reason, he deemed me worthy of being a part of that.. He and his family are just that generous.

One blog entry couldn’t possibly suffice to explain all that I gained from living with the Okui family. But also, no amount of writing could really convey the full point of the story. You just have to live it for yourself. And the point is this: I’ve met thousands of wealthy people in my life, all of them more influential and educated than Papa and his family. Yet very few of those wealthy people interest me at all. Not like the Okuis. Because the Okuis want to just be with me and talk to me - and about pure things, too, like sweet potatoes, mango trees, and stories and songs from my childhood. One week with Papa, and I was “part of the family.” How many weeks would that take in America?

Thank God that I get to go home to a family and a college filled with people who can actually understand what I’m talking about.I hope you can, too..

A few new poems from my class.

Hello friends.
It's been a while. I wish I've been posting here more, but I've been very busy. I promise I will have a more proper update sometime in the near future, but for now, a few poems from my most recent class.

I want to believe this is a silent scene,

(on Bergwald by Albert Müller, 1925)

but it’s not. Rarely is anything silent.

And over there, it’s all noise and laughter and talk

—and I’m drowning sometimes.

I’m lost, I think, but then I find myself here

and I feel a little better. A fire paints one section

of trees a light flickering green while the surrounding

forest continues to soak up dark like purple ink.

These are tall, skinny pines like we’d find

out west if we went up into the Rockies.

(Away from the mountains, it’s flat

and I’m almost crushed

by vacant sky.)

It is my camp, but I’ve snuck off and notice

the glow of light and sound coming together.

When I need to be no one and try

to remember what it is not to speak,

I come out here and feel the pleasing scrape

of pen on paper—not even writing for the words,

but for the sound words make when they’re scratched

out. If that were the only sound, there would be no need.

This is hyperbole. There need to be other sounds—

one in particular:

any moment of quiet is made all the more

still by your steady breathing.

But you are not at the camp

or in the woods.

Upon waking up

as if you have, for the last indefinite

amount of time, been dangled head-

first over the edge of a cliff,

which for all you knew could crash

into Hell itself,

but with no memory of the ordeal.

Only anxious sweat

and a thumb print above

your left ankle.

Thirty Pieces of Silver

(Inspired by Thirty Pieces of Silver (1988-89), an installation piece in the Tate Modern by Cornelia Parker)

“I resurrect things that have been killed off... My work is all about the potential of materials - even when it looks like they've lost all possibilities.” -Cornelia Parker

She scoured yard sales and thrift stores for silver

things, rented a steam roller, and produced

thirty clusters: large, more or less round groups

suspended inches, moments above the floor.

A shadow anticipates each object’s

descent, but also gawks at the surreal

levitation, a fragile détente between

floating and falling.

Fancy forks and platters

Spoons, teapots,

and candelabra,

A trombone, the bell

like a pressed flower pulled

from a yellowed book,

A trophy—to whom,

and for what, precisely

unimportant.

Keeping Time

(on a metal statue named Maurizio that rings the clock bells at Piazza del Duomo)

They cast Maurizio, dignified, skinny and small

To stand atop the tower, mallet in hand,

And wait in stoic stillness for the hour’s command

To hammer every measure of the daily song.

Envying the power his hands held to compel

A man, one moment resting, to retreat,

They thought, if life is an ever-undulating rhythm

That taps out time through crescendos and troughs,

What better job than to count the cadence

And watch men scatter, leaving trash for the pigeons?

But the deep wound of time seeped

through and slowed the gears that swung

his arms, until the bronze man knew nothing

more about the present turning hour.

A lonely ritardando in a choir of steady

Ticking clocks, Maurizio now stands, a street-side

Prophet with apocalypse on his tongue but crazy in his eyes,

Tolling two-sixteen with eight convicted

Notes. But if life is an ever-undulating rhythm

That taps out time through crescendos and troughs,

What better job than mocking every

Measured moment—showing each as slow

And fast, trilling first and fading last?

On the Separation of My Parents

(inspired by a piece of student art)

This is a chair

that once sat up

right in a (slow

burn of a) home.

Now it hangs

crooked in ash mostly

shadow among the wreck

age of a place may

be never alive, now sure

ly long

gone.

A Hillside I Vividly Remember, But Never by Name

Two hills, connected by a patch

of unkempt, wild trees

and bushes. I used to go sledding

here years ago, but now

a new thrill—some sort of kite

so big it pulls us clear off

the ground for a second or two, more

if we’re not careful.

It’s a cloudy holiday, and some friends

invited us out here to try. But Nick

stands a little off from the group,

pushing and pulling at nothing,

his eyes glinting with intensity, teeth

bared, brow bent inward. Out of breath

and elated, I beg him to try. I have

no need for a medium, he smiles,

to harness the wind. I control it.

As we slide around on the long,

wet grass, struggling to hold

onto air and earth all

at once, he laughs triumphantly

and tells us we should thank him

for dragging the wind over

this hillside so we could enjoy

flight for just one moment.

Here when I was much younger,

I felt the same: a second of lightness

punctuated by fear and impact—

But then, I had not yet learned

how to name schizophrenia,

nor known my brother

to wrestle with the wind.

Peter's Update: Learning to Appreciate my College Education

For too long, I have taken for granted the fact that I could always expect to attend college and even grad school, if I were willing to work for it. My education has been readily accessible and all but guaranteed. And now here I am, a student in Africa, and I’m finally gaining some much needed perspective on what an education is really worth.

(A girl at a local school has to go retrieve a spare desk by herself in order to do her coursework.)

The perspective I’m talking about comes from a sad reality: access to education may be the single most important factor for ending poverty and conflict in Africa, but there is not nearly enough to go around!

Here’s an overly simplistic summary of the issues at hand. African countries are poor and often corrupt. Many government leaders do not take care of their people, and the people lack the power and unity to make things better on their own. There are not enough schools or teachers, and the students don't have enough money in their pockets to pay for uniforms and tuition. And there are very few jobs available to the determined kids who overcome all these challenges and make it through the system. Yet without educated, middle-class citizens, African nations will not develop fast enough to keep up with poverty, disease, and war. So you’re probably going to keep seeing the starving kids on television – at least for a while.

(This is Julius. He is mute and has severe physical retardation, yet he absolutely loves to be at school. If only he could benefit from some kind of special education program, he might be capable of developing self-sufficiency.)

So, my account of African education is a major guilt trip, right? Well, that’s not really my intention. I’m actually just trying to set the scene for a pretty amazing juxtaposition that I’ve been witnessing since I arrived here. I am studying at Uganda Christian University literally with the future leaders of Uganda, Kenya, Tanzania, and many other African countries, and although I know our high school graduation speakers all told us we’d be the future leaders of our country, somehow it just strikes me so much more when I come to study in Africa. In this context, the future leaders of the continent are living amongst beggars and AIDS victims and people whose entire families were murdered in a civil war (take your pick of which war). These students don’t need to do internships in the inner city to learn how they might possibly apply their majors in real life. “Real life” is shockingly ever present in Africa.

And you should hear these students talk about the futures of their countries! I’m taking a politics class with almost all Africans, and they literally tremble with passion as they describe their ideas for bringing about development, peace, and social harmony. And when faced with all of Africa’s problems, many of them have this unbelievable optimism for creating a society where everyone can hope to enjoy the blessings they’ve received. Who am I, that I get to sit in on their discussions and even offer my own opinions?

(This is Jones, a friend of mine who graduated from UCU. He's the kind of student with the charisma, talent, and integrity to do great things for his country.)

But that inclusiveness is the beauty of my semester abroad. The brightest young minds in East Africa are fully willing to engage with me and discuss the tough global issues that made me want to come here in the first place. And if they had the resources for education that we have in the United States, I cannot imagine the impact they could have in their countries. Perhaps enough that we’d no longer need to televise starving babies. Now, there’s your guilt trip!

And if you want to know more about this, I’ll talk to you about it at Gordon when I'm back for the spring semester. Until then, good luck with your homework, and wish me luck with mine.

Peace and love from Mukono Town.

Photography in Africa: Give it Context, Kid

*A rather suspicious little girl at a school I visited in Rwanda. I'll use this image as a visual starting point for what I want to write about this week...

Before I came to Africa, a friend of mine who studied here one year ago gave me a warning about photography. He wasn’t so concerned with my bringing a large, expensive camera. Every camera an American brings is large and expensive. His concern was not even that I might become a nuisance by taking too many pictures. His warning was that I must not perpetuate negative stereotypes back home through the photos I show people. So, with that in mind, I want to share some of my thoughts about living abroad and doing justice to the people and places you see…and photograph.

Many of the pictures we see of Africa make poverty seem like a soul crushing force. Children with flies in their mouths and eyes, wearing no clothing and covered in dirt, suffering from distended stomachs and parched lips. Of course those realities exist, and the honest pictures depicting them have their rightful place in our lives.

But my friend warned me to place my pictures in the proper context. He pointed out that a naked, dirty kid might not be just some pitiful victim of social injustice, like we’re used to seeing in “Save the Children” campaigns on tv. He may simply have run out of his house without clothes, carefree and innocent, and then played in the dirt with his friends. His mother would probably yell at him later – I can recall similar incidents from my own childhood!

But if I just took that picture, of a dirty, naked African kid on the street, few people would think, “Oh what a playful little fellow!” Most would feel bad about the image, remind themselves to give money to World Vision, and move on to a more palatable photo. Without providing an explanation, I would be doing an injustice to the subject of my photograph. The following photo shows what I mean.

(This is Waswa. He lives with the family that hosted me for two weeks. He's outside sleeping on cement and has flies on his face...because he's got a headache and is really tired. His patio just happens to be made of cement, and he's such a deep sleeper that flies (which are everywhere) don't even wake him up! He's not impoverished. He's just adorable. Context.)

My goal in Africa has been to take great pictures of beautiful people, even if they are dirty or malnourished or poor. I hope each of my photos preserves the dignity of these people, and I want that dignity to be blind to poverty or wealth. I want my pictures to completely draw the viewer into them. I don’t want that to happen because it’s voyeuristically tragic or depressing, even if the subject is living amongst tragedy. I want that to happen because it's clear I’ve found something worth learning about, worth staring at - even if it’s not always glamorous.

(A girl practicing a choir song at a local primary school.)

I hope you also get the chance to spend some time studying in another country, and after two months in Uganda, I give it a full recommendation. And if you do go to Africa, bring a camera.

It’s gorgeous here.