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.

My Daily Life in Uganda: Riots, Christianity, Poverty, and Bungee Jumping

Hey guys, welcome back to my year-long blog about my last two semesters at Gordon College! In this post, I want to explain some of the daily life stuff of being an American college student in Africa. It’s an exciting but challenging experience.

First, you should know that Uganda is one of four countries in the East Africa region. The others are Kenya, Tanzania, and Rwanda, and many students at Uganda Christian University (UCU) come from these three nations. Furthermore, there is strong diversity even among the Ugandans, who come to UCU from all over the country and bring with them their regional and tribal differences.

Within this very cross-cultural campus, the conversations can get intense, especially because African society is heavily characterized by tribal culture and regional politics. A few weeks ago, this became very real to me when violent riots broke out in the capital and in our town over a controversy between the president and the leader of the largest tribe in Uganda. Being a Politics major in Africa is a fascinating experience!

Of course, being a Biblical Studies major in Africa is also really interesting. Christianity in Africa is growing rapidly, and it is loud, vibrant, and passionate, like many elements of the culture here. It’s also a lot more fundamentalist than Gordon College (and most of the United States), and I’ve had to adjust to a much more conservative lifestyle: dress clothes all the time, male-dominated religious institutions, and a huge emphasis on strict morality.

(This boy lives near me. I guess he didn't get the memo about the formal dress code.)

African Christianity is also complex because of its integration of tribal religions and traditional values. One of the most intriguing lessons I’m learning through all of this is that the Gospel is a lot less formulaic and rigid than I used to think. The Jesus Christ I’ve always “known” made sense to me as an American – discovering Africa’s Jesus is demanding a lot of humility, prayer, and conversation. I’ll talk more about this throughout the semester.

Now, I don’t want to make it seem like I just contemplate and argue and pray all the time – Africans also have fun! I play quite a bit of soccer, which is fast and chaotic. I visit Kampala, the massive capital city, and the local markets, filled with greasy meat and Barack Obama apparel. And I try to enjoy the traditional food – although rice, beans, and plantains get old pretty fast! I also stayed in a home near the university for two weeks, where I drank lots of tea, watched Nigerian soap operas and soccer, and even cooked my family an “American” meal. (OK, so the meal was spaghetti and sausages, but it was the only familiar food I saw at the market. Don’t judge me.)

(Another fun moment - the residents of my dorm dragged this guy outside on the morning of his birthday to "wash" him with buckets of cold water. Thank goodness my birthday was in August...)

Lastly, I just came back from a weekend in Eastern Uganda at the source of the Nile River. We went white water rafting and bungee jumping, and it was absolutely thrilling. It was also really expensive ($200) and very touristy, and this week we’re starting a sobering new course unit on African poverty. I get a sinking feeling in my gut when I pause to compare my relative wealth to the absolute poverty all around me. I think the guilt and conviction are essential to an honest study abroad experience in Africa.

I'm not yet sure what God wants me to do in my own life about all of this, but I have a feeling it’s going to hurt, like the rich young man in Matthew who was distraught at Jesus’ command to give up his wealth to become his follower. But I’ve also been learning that some changes have to hurt, at least a little bit, to be sincere. Keep reading this semester and I’ll be sure to let you know how it goes.

Peace and love from Mukono Town.

Weekend in Brussels

My time in Aix has been fairly typical, nothing too out of the ordinary or particularly interesting to mention. I've found some people who I enjoy hanging out with, and who I'm making travel plans with. I feel traveling will help me pass the time here. As such this past weekend I travelled with two friends to Brussels. I had been told that it was a rather boring city but we had a great time. I was oddly surprised at how it actually fit the stereotype of people loving waffles (similar to France actually fitting the stereotype of loving French bread). They actually have waffle stands on the road, and you see people walking around the streets eating their waffles. And I must say, they are some of the tastiest waffles I've ever eaten!

Also, though fries would typically be thought of as French (or perhaps denote "freedom") they actually originated in Belgium as well. So there were probably just as many fry stands as there were waffle stands, and they're served with a little skewer and typically covered in mayo. Again, I must say that they were some tasty tasty fries. And of course they are also famous for their beer and chocolate. So the entire weekend was very food oriented. All the meals were hearty and often greasy, which was a nice change after being on a consistent diet of vegetables and olive oil - which, don't get me wrong, I enjoy immensely. We visited the Magritte museum, a surrealist painter, and probably best known for this piece:

We also saw the EU capital building. We happened to show up right as a protest was being set up for the dairy farms of Europe. They were prepared for it to get violent and had razor wire set up, riot police, water canons, etc. It was pretty intense. Here is a news article on the protest. We left before anything started, and by the looks of the article, it seemed pretty peaceful. In all, it was an enjoyable weekend.

Also, a friend from Gordon, Amy Bither, happened to be visiting France and we met up in Marseilles on Friday. It was really nice to see a familiar face from Gordon, and have some really good discussions (which have been rather lacking here). I feel like it made me even more homesick for Gordon, but it was still a great time nonetheless. We went to the beach, explored the town a bit, and then just hung out at the old port and at a café.

I got the chance to do a lot of reading and reflecting on the train back, and am almost finished with the book My Name is Asher Lev. It's been really good, and given me a lot to think about. I'll probably start some Kierkegaard soon. And I also brought some Dickens with me; maybe this semester I'll finally be able to finish David Copperfield, a book that I've tried to finish since freshman year. In general I spend a lot more time alone than I normally do. Most weeknights I just go back to my house, hang out with my host mom for a bit, watch some french TV with her, and then read for the rest of the evening. It's a good discipline which I've always admired, but never really been able to do. I must say, it's nice, but having substantially less significant and meaningful human interaction like I'm accustomed to has been difficult and rather lonely. But like I said in my previous post, it is teaching me how to stand on my own two legs. I'm just glad that I brought a mini-library with me.