On Being in Detroit

Krista Tippet's show, On Being, featured Grace Lee Boggs and Detroit this morning. Dr. Boggs is my neighbor - she lives and runs the Boggs Center just a short block from our house here on the East Side of the city.

You can see the episode entry on the show's blog and listen to the podcast if your interest is piqued. I think two of my coworkers collaborated on the pocket park pictured at the bottom of the page. (That is, they worked with five others on a pocket park and I think it's the one pictured. In my searching to confirm this, I also found this great article that mentions both Kate and Lindsey: http://michigancitizen.com/artists-take-local-food-message-to-the-streets-p10724-1.htm.)

Beginnings - Chickens and Chaos

It's my third day of work here at Spirit of Hope and this morning I did chicken chores almost entirely by myself. My first couple days have been a bit hectic and scattered because my supervisor is out of town. So I've been sort-of belonging to several different people and projects over these first days. That in itself is not so different from how my work will be for the year - a variety of different projects that all get a bit of my time; the difference is that the person who has the best sense of the grand plan isn't here to explain it to us. BUT that has left me with a lot of time to get to know the people, animals, and space I'll be working with over the next year. For example, I've started out each day with chicken chores (which also cover four ducks and a turkey named Uncle Bob) and some good conversation with the folks who come to AA at the church each morning. This morning we had nine chicken eggs and a duck egg; yesterday we watched Uncle Bob put one of the aggressive, abusive roosters in his place. This morning I was invited to an impromptu five-minute dance party in the side lot of the church building. It's a good way to start the day.

Things are also going well on the home front. We're slowly but surely settling into something of a routine of cooking, keeping track of what food to buy on the weekend, getting to know neighbors, figuring out how to establish good time and space boundaries with the kids on our block. I've also been looking at different churches to visit. I'm mixed on the idea of worshiping where I work - which is too bad, because Spirit of Hope looks like a great place! But there are a few congregations closer to our neighborhood, as well as a couple others that look interesting over this way. (For context - I live on the east side of town and work in a neighborhood just northwest of downtown. Detroit is situated on the Huron River, which separates the US side from Windsor, Ontario. The city is oriented more-or-less lengthwise, east-to-west, like St. Paul, not north-to-south, like Minneapolis.)

I ride my bike four miles to work each morning, which is really convenient because Mack Ave (which we live just one block south of) becomes Martin Luther King Blvd, which is the street the church sits on. So after I take my left out onto Mack, I don't have to even switch lanes until I'm at the church. I realized yesterday that this is the farthest I've ever lived from where I worked - by about double. It's funny how localized one's life can be.

On Monday, before starting work on Tuesday, we took tours of Spirit of Hope and Gleaners, Inc., which is where Ariana works. Gleaners is a HUGE food clearning house for the five-county metro area. They work with a lot of major food processors as well as local farmers to get large-scale deals on food donations, which they then turn around and offer to local food shelves and kitchens, passing on the deals that the smaller operations might not be able to get because of scale. They also run a whole gamut of cooking classes geared toward getting folks acquainted with exactly what one can do with some of the food that comes in. Then they also run a program called Kids Helping Kids, where school-age children come and pack backpacks with a weekend worth of food for kids who face food insecurity at home. All in all, pretty exciting work. They also do something similar to a CSA, but which you can order monthly, which provides a box full of produce each month for $17. We're definitely going to subscribe to that program as a house. One of Ariana's other projects will be to plan local events for Food Day, a day similar to Eath Day, dedicated to growing awareness and commitment around issues of food justice, from the Farm Bill to Urban Ag to justice for food service and farmworkers.

I'm also getting acquainted with the various levels of services provided around HIV education and prevention in the area. It seems that the current school board president is really involved with the education and testing end, so I will hopefully be able to talk with her today or tomorrow.

Think of yourself and say

Think of Others
by Mahmoud Darwish

As you prepare your breakfast – think of others.
Don’t forget to feed the pigeons.
As you conduct your wars – think of others.
Don’t forget those who want peace.
As you pay your water bill – think of others.
Think of those who only have clouds to drink from.
As you go home, your own home – think of others – don’t forget those who live in tents.
As you sleep and count the planets, think of others – there are people who have no place to sleep.
As you liberate yourself with metaphors think of others – those who have lost their right to speak.
And as you think of distant others – think of yourself and say “I wish I were a candle in the darkness.”

This is a busy week, with packing and preparations for moving once again. A week from today I'll hop on a MegaBus with a one-way ticket to Detroit. Lutheran Volunteer Corps orientation is in the Twin Cities this year, so I have an extra week in town, but it'll be pretty full.

I gave a presentation at my mom's church last night, preceded by making up four pounds of beans and almost 40 tortillas. It was stressful in a couple moments (like when my metal comal didn't cook the tortillas evenly and ended up burning several of them). But now this morning I've woken up with a familiar feeling in my fingertips from all the flipping and accidentally touching the griddle and clothes smelling like corn masa. These simple, pleasant sensations, along with the fact that I can justify wearing a sweater on this wonderfully cool August (August!) morning, means that I've been able to find moments of calm in the midst of the whirlwind of moving again.

Mahmoud Darwish's poem is fairly new to me, but it has been a helpful reminder not to let the mundane, daily elements of my life become too routine without acknowledging that there is something extraordinary in them. And that many things that should be a given in a human life are not for many, many people. Sometimes I'm tempted by the sexiness of thinking of myself and wondering how I can be a huge, burning fire - all on my own. But poetry and religious traditions the world over wouldn't have wisdom on the importance of even a single candle against the darkness if there wasn't something to it.

De maravilla

I just spent a few hours in the museum with a guy (a kid? he's my age, so more or less) who tried to kill himself the weekend before I came to Suchi. I don't even know him that well, since he's kind of quiet and I'm kind of awkward, but I was realizing this morning that he would be only a story in my life if he'd been successful. I am so, so grateful that he is here.* (The word "here" - specifically in the sense of "I am glad that you are/I am/she or he is here" - is coming to have so many meanings for me. Here in this town or municipality of Suchitoto or in El Salvador or in the world or, more philosophically, existing in the same time and place as I/you do. Hard to describe, but I am glad that he's here, present in every aspect of "here.")

There is a woman named Yanira who lives on the street in town. Generally she sleeps in front of the police station, because some people harass her a lot. I think she comes in and out of her direct relationship with this reality. This, mixed with Spanish, makes it sometimes really hard to carry on a conversation with her. Sometimes she gets really angry, and sometimes she is just happy as a clam. Today, yesterday, and the day before, I saw her at least once per day and every time she was in a good place. I am so glad that she seems, at least in this moment, to be doing well. She is so wonderful. It doesn't matter that she always asks where I've been - usually leading with some version of "it's been a long time since you've been in Suchi, hasn't it?" even though I generally have been around. Yesterday I saw her with two bags of groceries and other general needs. And a huge smile on her face.

We had a big concert last night of Christmas music. The harps played - or rather, the harp students played their harpsicles. (Sorry, I just can't help but use "harpsicle" whenever possible.) Ariel's kids choir sang a few songs, including a couple with the harps(icles). A couple of kids from Alex's poetry and rap class read their own poems. The adult choir sang Dona Nobis Pacem and Capilla Celestial (Angels We Have Heard on High). And then we all came together with Paul's guitar class and performed Somos El Mundo (We Are the World).

We were not always (ever?) fully in key, but my God did we do a beautiful thing in that chapel. To see Alex (my neighbor) and Angel, both of whom come and skate every day, come in their dress shirts, looking kind of awkward, because they're 15 and 17 (respectively) and suddenly dressed up; to hear Alex read his poem about nature; to get bumped into by Luis Felipe, who has the most physical, bouncy interpretation of the "Gloria" ever -- these were extraordinary, but also such ordinary experiences. So wonderful.

After the concert, Ariel and I were sitting together just watching people eat sandwiches and drink hot chocolate. Angel sat with us and asked, "¿Cómo están? ¿De maravilla?" - How are you? (And the only way I can think of translating 'de maravilla' is the lame and clunky "marveling".) But yes, we were indeed marveling at what had just taken place. Marvel seems the perfect partner for the anticipation of Advent.

This morning Suchi held the pre-inauguration for the newly-founded farmers market. Now, being from Minneapolis, I was proud of how normal it was to stand at 'my' farmers market and watch my mayor talk about the city being committed to finding a permanent location for the market. (Turns out this is an international problem. :) But even more so, I was thrilled to see the vendors, the buyers, the produce (all of which was from the municipality), the artisan foods produced with other local stuff, and the Centro Arte youth drum corps, a couple of whom had sung in the concert just 12 hours before.

Marvel. And anticipation. We await the market's growth into something more permanent and secure. We anticipate concerts to come, in which at least half will sing on pitch(!) at least half the time. And I marvel at the smiles of two wonderful people whom I would not have known if circumstances had not proceeded as, thanks be to God, they did.

Simpl(y extraordinary) gifts

I received an extraordinary gift yesterday. No, scratch that - I have received dozens of gifts every day of my stay here. But this week, and yesterday in particular, have a couple standouts.

On Friday night, several of us from the Center went to El Sitio to take part in and document (for the museum) their community vigil for Copapayo. Effectively all of the families in the community come originally from Copapayo and the sole survivor of the massacre lives there. There is a sister parish in Michigan that always sends a delegation this time of year to celebrate the commemoration together, which is why the vigil was this weekend. We ate in the house of one of my students then went back to the gazebo/plaza and saw a couple short videos before folks gathered for the procession. Then we all worshiped together in a mass said by the priest from St. Catherine's (this MI parish). After the mass, which was wonderful in so many ways, we went back out in front of the church for music (provided by a group from the neighboring community of El Barío, including Alex's Davíd and Nico, with whom we work in the museum). After the music, the youth of El Sitio - about 90% of them students in 7th-9th grade at the school - got up on the gazebo platform and read the names of the people who were killed in the massacre. After every name, we repeated está presente, "is present" (here/with us). This is a most powerful way recognizing the life and continued presence of people who were killed. And we said it 155 times, including once for an infant of 8 days. It was a gift and an honor to be there sharing the evening with the students and the community that has so opened its arms to me and Christy in our time here.

The gift from yesterday actually starts a couple weeks ago on Margaret Jane's birthday. We (Ariel, Christy, Rosa, Eva, and I) had just gotten back from the actual community of Copapayo on Sunday morning after the vigil the night before and a friend of Margarita's came over for breakfast to celebrate her birthday. The three of us breakfasted together as Margaret Jane and Lita (who is a health promoter in her community) shared stories of their friendship during the war and a trip they took to Geneva to present a paper on health issues among refugee women in El Salvador (of which Lita was then-currently one). This in and of itself was a gift.

During the meal, Lita told me about a book about the experiences of displaced and repatriated communities during and after the war. She told me she would bring it to me and I was really excited, but it sort of fell out of my mind. Well, yesterday, while Ariel and I were doing a lunchtime loop that included food, the ATM, and buying baby shower things for our friends Marvin and Karla, we ran into Lita who was in town for the HUGE confirmation Sunday. (Jay, if you're reading this: 270 confirmands. I think HTLC's new confirmation strategy should include something along the lines of "be Catholic." Just a thought.)

When we saw each other, Lita reached into her bag and pulled out a bound photocopy of the book she had been describing during breakfast. When I told her that I was so thrilled to read it and would get it back to her asap via Susan or Margarita, her response was, "no, no, no - te lo regalo" (basically, "no way, I'm giving it to you"). She made and bound the copy of this book for me after one breakfast conversation and brought it with her since she knew she was coming to town and could give/leave it for me. I almost wept.

Then, back at the museum, I got to looking at the book. It has testimonies, songs, poems, drawings, chronologies, maps - all from people who lived either in refugee camps in Honduras or Nicaragua or in internally displaced camps within El Salvador, such as Calle Real (where Margaret Jane worked for five years in the 80s - and where she and Lita met). Vilma, the other person working the museum for the day, recognized the book and we looked through it together. As it turns out, she was born in Mesa Grande, one of the camps in Honduras, and lived there until she was 6 years old. She knew the tunes of several of the songs and sang them for me, right there in the entrance to the museum.


I...don't know what to do with all of this. I mean, I know of course that we're going to make another copy of the book for the museum and probably a couple more for the other volunteers. The practical, obvious steps. But what I'm actually going to DO with this embodied, copied, bound love that I received yesterday? That is still developing.

Meanwhile, we have grand plans for a Thanksgiving feast this Thursday and I will have no problem thinking of things I'm thankful for.

Solo Dios con nostotros

First things first. I'm realizing that I've kind of thrown most of you into the deep end without giving you floaties or anything like them, with regard to where I am and the general situation here. Without meaning to be mean (since I'm a Minnesotan), I have to say plainly and clearly: I have never been to South America and it is not where I am now. In fact, there are a full three countries plus a little corner of Honduras between me and the very tippy top of South America. :) El Salvador is in Central America, which is the land that connects the continents of North and South America, also at times known as the Americas and also (especially outside of the US, where we consider ourselves THE ONLY) known simply as America. (That's right, in a lot of places, there is not a recognized north/south divide.)

I found a couple of maps to orient you to more or less where I am. (Now let's see if I can actually put them up on the blog.)




First, Central America, the general region. El Salvador is the little blue rectangular one nestled in between Guatemala and Honduras.






Alright, second, El Salvador itself. Click on this photo and it should get bigger. You'll see a finger-shaped lake an inch or so directly above the capital, San Salvador. That is Lake Suchitlan, on which Suchitoto (the town where I live) is situated. Suchi is also listed on the map, on the south side of the lake. Two days a week I take a boat sort of around the lake, staying on the south shore and not actually crossing it, to the school I teach in.



Ok, hopefully this helps a bit. Also, I'm not especially close to the equator. I'm probably about as close to the equator (and this is a big guess) as Minneapolis is to the North Pole. Sorry for having made assumptions before and not given y'all the tools that may have been useful. Now you can have a better picture in your head of where I am. (And I think, if today is indeed daylight savings, that we are even in the same hour as Minnesota. We're basically straight south.)

************

That was a nice geography lesson. Now on to something that is really current in the country. It effectively hasn't rained here at all this month. This is unusual for October. Usually October is the strong end to the rainy season and an important time in the bean crop cycle. The two times it has rained, it has been fast and furious - not what you want hitting DRY topsoil. This being the case, the bean crop is completely lost. Beans are already up above a dollar a pound (and have been for a couple weeks). This means that most people simply aren't eating them, whether they buy beans or grown their own. Since this is often the primary source of protein...well, you probably get it. And since most kids are getting out of school, they are facing two months without the government-provided nutrition program food that they receive in school. (Which isn't perfect, but it almost always has protein. And for the kids that really need them, it simply has calories to get through the day.)

One of the vigilantes at the Art Center and I were talking a few days ago. He works here over night and during the day works his land. His beans are gone. He said that there are some that might re-plant, hoping for some unexpected rain later in the season, but we are rapidly hurtling toward the dry, dry time of the year. Toward the end of the conversation, Eduardo said something that hit me hard: "It's only God with us now."

In any other setting in which I've ever found myself, that would seem like perhaps the bleakest statement possible. But somehow, for a Salvadoran to say that, even given what relatively little I know from my time here, it was galvanizing. There was no despair in Eduardo's voice when he said it, and when he looked at me and turned to walk away, there was sadness AND fire in his eyes. So many people in El Salvador are already all too used to having only God with them. But given that reality, they know better than I ever will that these situations offer no invitations to lose hope.

I don't know enough about agriculture - here or anywhere - to know what realistic expectations might look like in this scenario. But I do know that what is realistic or pragmatic has never before been able to capture or enclose Salvadorans in despair. (Of course I speak in hyperbole, but not by much.)

Prayers are more than welcome. Turning off the lights and taking other small actions - as well as big ones - in the interest of slowing climate change is all the more welcome. Buying beans from close by instead of beans - or whatever food - from far away wouldn't hurt either.

Happy Halloween. The day when the veil between life and death is at its thinnest. While something rings appropriate that this precariousness would come at such a precarious time of the year, let's remember and reaffirm that none ought to live in such uncertainty. For those of us who worship a God who invited herself to a meal in the home of a tax collector - someone who was not a very good neighbor - now seems like a good time to recommit ourselves to living as good neighbors, on the incomprehensible scale that that word takes on, and refusing to let God be the only one who cares so actively.

Que VIVA!

Yesterday was the Festival de Maíz here in Suchitoto. It is the annual harvest fest that celebrates the pueblo itself (Suchi) as well as the agricultural communities in the surrounding area, of which there are more than 70. It was so much fun! Relatedly, I ate SO much corn-based food - atol de elote (a corn drink - this one wasn't the best I'd had, it's usually more cinnamony), tortas (as sort of fried cornbread), elote asado (roasted corn - though here the corn is different in this part of the year - more chewy/less poppy), riguas (corn pancakes - though not like the ones at Maria's), tamales. All so tasty. (Except the atol, which was just alright.) Also, there was a cow raffle!



The day started out with a procession before mass from one of the barrios to the church. I was on the fence about going, but I am really glad that I did. There wasn't much of a program ahead of it, but each of the zones of communities had a queen and king representing the area with some form of artistic/cultural expression. There were about seven pairs of 'royalty' along with kids with environment-related school project, women with baskets of harvested food, etc.

Throughout the procession, we sang and there were occasional chants of "que viva los campesinos," "que viva la Madre Tierra," "que viva Suchitoto." I have to admit, it was pretty cool hearing the nun who leads the interminable pre-mass rosary sessions (and usually holds up mass by 10-15 minutes) shouting "que viva la Madre Tierra, que nos da nuestra vida!" ("Long live Mother Earth who gives us life!")

The one that struck me most, though, was "que viva la iglesia catolica!" My first reaction was, "eh, I feel no real need to wish the long life of an institution that tells so many that they/we are less-than." But then I got to thinking about the real meaning of the phrase "que viva" - it is used for both people/things that are currently living and those that have already died. It expresses a desire for life and THIS I can get behind in the case of the Catholic church - and church institutions in general.

This week marks one year since the ELCA voted to allow pastors to be in committed same-gender relationships and, well, pastors. There are still many open wounds all around. Those who feel they lost the vote in many cases also feel like they are losing their church and this is no small matter. (As many times as I hear "good riddance" and "their loss," I can't help but cringe and be reminded that it is our loss, too, when people and congregations choose to leave.) And at the same time, the pain of many years and several votes to keep things as they were doesn't just go away with a vote and a year, either. So there is healing to be done on all sides (to the extent that there are ever really sides to these things.)

In the midst of the pain - and the immense joy - I consider this to be a move toward being a more living church, more fully alive in proclaiming a gospel of liberation and reconciliation. Maybe even something God could be proud of? I think the Catholic church today has many, many opportunities to take similar steps. I hope that in the face of these new (and sometimes scary) opportunities, the institutional church opts to truly be a living body. It could take its examples from within its own history - from all of the history of the church, but especially from recent liberation movements in all parts of the world. And so, que viva la iglesia catolica. (And the Lutheran one, as well. We certainly have plenty of ground to cover ahead of us.) That we might live into the promises we try to give voice to.

Yesterday wasn't all inspirational revelations and corn-eating, though. The saddest news from the day: as today wears on without a phone call, it is becoming ever clearer that I did not win the cow.

"...for me it is good to be near God"

Well. I had clearly never read Psalm 73 before I got today's GodPause.
3 For I was envious of the arrogant; I saw the prosperity of the wicked.

4 For they have no pain; their bodies are sound and sleek.

5 They are not in trouble as others are; they are not plagued like other people.

These early verses work well with a conversation I was having with myself on the way to the Mennonite Bake Shop this morning. (For anyone coming to Xela - this is a must, especially if you like whole wheat bread, granola, good yogurt, donuts, etc.)

On my way there, I saw a wallet on the ground, clearly emptied out and thrown. A few steps farther, I saw the torn up remains of the photos of two children. This was the part that made me sad - the loss of the money was, certainly, a difficulty for the former owner of the wallet. But it is not common to have photos here, especially of family. So these photos of kids (a son and daughter? niece and nephew? grandchildren? godchildren?) were very likely among relatively few. One of those losses bigger than the monetary loss.

Then a few blocks past this, there was a little corner with a slightly more secluded space where clearly many people had pooped over the last few hours. I've realized in the last few weeks that I can also now often tell the difference between urine on the ground - human or dog. (It's not so scientific - generally the dudes here pee on the wall, not directly on the ground. It's more of a height thing.) For some reason I feel less weird about stepping in dog pee.

Another reality of life here is that people tend to be really friendly on the streets. I've noticed this less as "out of the ordinary" than have my fellow students from places like LA and New York. Herein lies my point in all of this: None of the things that I have seen is peculiarly, intrinsically Guatemalan - they happen everywhere.

I think this is one aspect of what makes it so easy to feel at home here. But it also causes a great dissonance between my experience and that of most Guatemalans. I am pretty clearly the among the arrogant mentioned in the psalm. That's not an uncommon reality when I read or listen to biblical readings, but rarely is it so clearly spelled out in ways that describe the mundane parts of my life. My body works well and has not been marred by malnutrition, violence, or lack of medical care. I have access to all the food I could ever want, such that I do sometimes feel like my eyes will bulge out of my head after a good meal. Even as I travel here, I know in the back of my mind that I can rely on my nationality to protect me from most physical crime, given the history of enormous violence in this part of the world on the part of my country. Cultural imports here from the US are unquestioned and taken at face value as being positive. (Example: One of my housemates teaches health classes to kids - sex ed to 5th and 6th graders, food classes to 1st graders. With the younger ones, they play "Good food/Bad food" - the kids ALWAYS label McDonald's as "good food" because it comes from a restaurant.)

11 And they say, "How can God know? Is there knowledge in the Most High?"

We are pretty comfortable not knowing - or assuming that most folks don't know the things that make us uncomfortable. Most in the US don't know about the School of the Americas, the history of US intervention here, or the currently rampant impunity in the face of human rights atrocities. (More people die in Guatemala each day now than during the 36-year civil war - and only 2% of the crimes are ever even investigated.) And this is comforting in moments when we choose inaction - at least our neighbors will never know.


Last week I took a walk to Parque Central in the evening with two other women from the Casa. We met two grown men - both fairly drunk, but still functional - who talked with us about philosophy and poetry. When people ask what I studied in school and I tell them "religion," it usually sets off a great stream of philosophical questions that I am supposed to have the answer to. I'm not usually especially impressive in this situation and that is at least doubled in Spanish. So when one man asked what he should do (very generally, open-endedly), the only thing that came to mind that fit my language skills was to tell him to keep hope. He sort of sighed and said that he knew that that was important. Then he paused and asked, "But for how long?"

CAFTA

I am in the midst of writing an exam on trade, particularly trade liberalization in Central America. Obviously, one of our main foci is CAFTA, the Central American Free Trade Agreement. It is an agreement between the US and Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua, and Costa Rica which largely openned borders between the countries. It has had (and will continue to have) troubling impacts particularly in the agricultural sectors of the Central American countries.

When we drive around town, there is a lot of graffiti. One of the most common phrases is CAFTA NOS MATARA (CAFTA will kill us).

So I would like to recommend an article to folks about the process by which CAFTA was negotiated. It is by a man we met with earlier this week and was published in Revista Envío, a journal published by the Nicaraguan campus of the Central American University.

¨CAFTA will be like a brand-name Hurricane Mitch¨

Related to CAFTA (and a throwback to our last country), one indication of the desired relationship between El Salvador´s political establishment and the US: the Salvadoran negotiating team signed CAFTA sight unseen. A document of more than 3000 pages and they didn´t even bother to look at it first. (The relationship is often described as one where Salvador is the step-child trying to gain the love of the US.)

Food and...

[Note: I started typing this on Tuesday, the day after our classes started, but didn´t have time to finish. Plenty more has happened since then, but I wanted to finish this thought first.]

Yesterday was a very good day. As I was reflecting on what made it that way (calling my family for the first time, a good conversation in class, fun group activities), I realized that food had a lot to do with it. For the first time since we got our host families, yesterday´s meals all included something other than pasta, rice, or potatoes. At breakfast I was met with a large plate of papaya, pineapple, watermelon, and banana. Lunch and dinner were broccoli, rice, and salsa. It got me thinking.


It is amazing how closely tied my mood is to my eating habits. (My family will testify.) When I eat well I feel good physically, but also emotionally and spiritually. The thing is, that is such a privileged fact to even know about myself. It requires a long enough period of access to fresh, good food that I know it makes me feel wonderful.


Now, I live in a world (heavens, a city) where most people do not know what that feels like. I was going to write ¨know that such a reality exists,¨but not only would that be hyperbole, my guess is that most people know damn well what I and millions of other people sleep well each night despite our relatively full knowledge that their realities exist.

And I don´t reall know what my active response is. To quit eating quality food (that is, to stop supporting local, small-scale farmers and the public policy that allows me that food) seem like a pretentious but ineffective attempt at solidarity. It seems to me that solidarity doesn´t mean that we all agree to accept, for eternity, the wost conditions in existence in the name of equality. That seems a whole lot more like giving up, and the more I learn -- and the more overwhelmed I get -- the more I want to continue. As dad interprets the psalm (141? 145? one of them) verse ¨my tears are my food,¨the more I cry and scream, the more fuel there is under the fire.

So we have come full circle back to food. Not really sure where this leaves me. This will, I´m sure, be a pretty constant thought train through the rest of the semester (rest of my life). It continues to unfold in my mind.