An Experiment in Failure

Today concludes my third observance of Lent. It was my most profitable and least effective observance yet. I think the paradox is the point.

Some of you know the struggle the Lenten fast was for me this year. Too trivial, and it undercut the point of observance; too meaningful and it undercut the reality of the life I’ve been continually granted.

I hit upon my plan after carefully evaluating my purpose in Lent. It was a chance to identify with death in order to better identify with new life. My plan was simple—kill myself. That is, cut away some areas of my life where I catered to desire, traded utility for indulgence.

Stop laughing.

I planned it as an ongoing project: 40 days of quashing indulgence whenever I saw it. A day and a half had produced a list long enough to engage my attention for the next 38.5.

My cold was the first thing to throw it off.

Not even a week in, and I wasn’t indulging to hit snooze—I was just getting the sleep I needed in order to function as a teacher. I had a responsibility to my students. It was a necessity. So was the long shower—it really reduced the physical ravages of the cold.

You’re in a body too. You know what comes next.

I was actually hungry. The snacks were better than a full meal. I didn’t want to indulge. A little sugar would help me focus. It would be rude to refuse such an offer. My priorities had to shift. Others had expectations. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. I had planned this time, knowing I would need to relax.

So after forty days, the old me is still alive and well.

I’m starting to get it.

Lest We Forget

I spent my last day as full-fleged American engaged in that universal pastime of the privileged-—shopping. I was a little surprised to find myself strongly conflicted and happy to find it a spiritual dilemma.

The thing about shopping with your mom as an adult is that you’re never really sure what she’s buying and what you are. By rights, I should be buying all of my own things and then some. It’s really my turn. I mean, after all, she’s put out the money and effort to get me where I am. It’s time to return the favor. At the same time, she’s wanting to be a mom still—especially since I don’t have another dedicated female assigned to me.

As it turned out, my mom was willing to buy things for me, but only on certain terms. Basically, she had to be sure that I was going to really enjoy them. It was a good starting place.

Let me remind you that for my first year in China I made a single clothing purchase. It was enough athleticwear to play a game of basketball with some students (anyone unaware of my passion for exercise may be informed by discovering I’d moved around the world without a decent pair of shorts and t-shirt.). My reason for declining purchases was simple enough—I didn’t need anything. I felt bad enough as it was wearing a new outfit to class every day while I could identify my students, with notable exceptions, as effectively by the outfit they wore each week as I could by their unique faces or fingerprints—each of them had one, and they were always wearing it.

My suitcase was still unpacked, but I knew it was practically filled. It had been about at its limit flying east and I was only going to make a little room by leaving behind clothes I never got around to wearing.

Nothing in the various stores’ seductively overloaded racks struck quite the right tone. I satisfied my mom’s taste inquiries by relating that my style was defining itself into a few more simple, versatile pieces—especially favoring whites and blacks. I found none of the shirts quite as fitting as the blue striped shirt I’d found at that thrift store just shy of five years ago. I knew because I was wearing it.

Prices continued to shock me. I know Americans get paid American salaries in American dollars, but I still couldn’t stomach spending 350RMB on a shirt I’d be buying only because it seemed to fit the schema of a valuable shirt—decent fit, versatile, comfortable, simple. Sure the quality would be good. Yes, the look was refined. No, I hadn’t made much of the clothiers in China. But still.

I was considering if I should just plan to pay a little extra to fill a bag beyond the weight limit with clothes I knew I could fit in my closet after I got rid of those I never wore.

I walked out with a sweater and a shirt as a belated birthday gift from my mom. Both will get a lot of use. Both were on clearance. Both would attire me quite appropriately for the Kingdom life I’m finding in China.

Soft Tissues for Silent Cries

Few people command as much of my respect as my grandfather. When I think about how little I really need to study Chinese, I remember my grandfather picking up Spanish as a sextegenarian for those occasional uses he creates. Few in my generation can say they first understood email because of their grandfather or wish they were as productive as he. No one has more completely and compellingly shattered the truck-driver stereotype. It was a deep honor when family friends compared my voice to his. People noting my willingness to learn how to do something I’m interested in are merely observing the flickering shadow cast by my grandfather.

I could go on. Suffice it to say he has always been far along a path I would be honored to follow.

My first call to arms in the war against social injustice sounded in my grandfather’s voice. He was a gentle warrior. Family visits usually included the passing of a little stack of tri-folded copy paper covered with updates on the fight to protect the innocent. My grandfather had spent countless hours collecting, networking, assembling, two-finger typing, verifying, crying over and distributing the information in those newsletters. I was proud to visit churches or friends and see my grandfather’s heart on their lobby table or countertop.

I’ve heard him berate politicians and watched him organize protests and rallies. I’ve joined him on overnight journeys to distant demonstrations. I’ve seen the tears well up in his eyes when he holds a baby that was supposed to be aborted. I’ve heard his voice choked with tears as he considers the extremity of the grace he’s experienced. I’ve watched his heart break for others who haven’t felt that grace.

I don’t really know what my activism will look like, but I know it will happen. This is a change I’ve seen coming and even claimed for a while, but has not yet transpired. When my students ask me why I’m here, my answer is the same as when I got here: Because I want to help people. It’s just more true now. When they ask why I would leave a more developed country to come here, I can honestly say ‘Because people are more important to me.’ I always knew there were problems around me, but I’ve not really seen my role in addressing them.

May that change me enough to become like my grandpa.

I Finally Felt It

I have a new roommate and a new appreciation for life.

See, I had a birthday last week. If you missed it, don’t feel bad. More people than I could remember remembered it for you. And I’ve always had a sort of soft spot for underplaying my birthday anyway. This one was a little different, though.

I didn’t have any big party or anything, and I’m glad. But I got every form of birthday greeting invented since the Qing Dynasty. One friend that was away started the day off by having another friend come to my dorm to deliver a gift and card. Text messages started rolling in from friends, colleagues and bosses. Various ecards got themselves delivered to my inbox. I had voice mails from home waiting when I got back from a nice lunch with Vic and May. The birthday wish that had been left on my door had an addendum from an English-speaking Japanese teacher. A few friends made contact via IM. Karyn, Kelly and Divena, with their powers combined, secured me both the turtle I’d been thinking about buying and homemade dessert (two separate items for those of you that were concerned about it) for our Friday night meeting, even though it was Chinese take-out night. Another couple of friends provided candy and Chinese study aids to be the last gifts of the day (though not the weekend). I even looked forward to checking the hateful new wall with its full load of birthday messages.

To revel in such an outpouring of love seems to counter my claim of preferring an understated birthday. This was a special birthday, though. It reminded me of the countless contributors to the life I was measuring. Each variant of those two words (or four characters) came from someone that had in some way touched my life. A person without whom I would be different. Weaker. Poorer.

My camera-shy new roommate
My camera-shy new roommate

I offer sincere thanks both to those who have made me this twenty-three year old and for them.

And to those of you who didn’t say anything, no hard feelings. You just missed your chance to be thanked.

But I’m still thankful for you.

Aside: For those of you who were kind enough to refrain from asking what must be the most pointless question of the ages, this time it actually does feel different. I feel as if I’m transitioning from ‘college age’ to ‘young adult’. I guess that means I see myself as needing to think a little more long-term. I’ve been trying to do so for a while now, but it was a good reminder. I have nothing to report on that front, but I’m more aware now. And rest assured if i felt this one, I won’t feel another for a good long while. And I will be annoyed if you ask.

Head and Shoulders, Poesy and Prose

At long last, I break my silence. About this election, I mean.

I begin with an oft-attributed and commonly restated quotation that goes something like this:

“Any man who is not a socialist when he is twenty has no heart; any man who is a socialist when he is forty has no head.”

This bit of wisdom wrenched from the unheard mouth of Francois Guizot was passed to me by my grandfather a couple of years ago. My grandfather is a very wise man.

And, really, few statements so accurately summarize this election.

Cherishing clarity over brevity, I shall now elaborate. Obama’s vision and charisma are truly inspirational. His world where the smallest person is valued and protected is worth striving for. And who better to lead us there than a disadvantaged guy who skyrocketed past the prejudice on a potent combination of pure ambition and an unnamed-higher-power(s)-given ability?

The only problem is that, despite the catchy slogan, I can’t believe in it. And who better to turn to for a dose of reality than the maverick turned skipping calf who has lived long enough to know that happy dreams are quickly broken in the prison camp of life? Grand plans of principle and caring oft go awry when executed by flawed people. McCain knows just how flawed people really are and will stand firm against insubstantial dreams of better days.

Obama knows it’s broken and wants to fix it without bothering to figure out what went wrong in the first place. He’s going to reshuffle some parts, gild the rough spots and hope for the best. McCain has watched it break and is going to make sure nothing comes near it to further damage it (side note: that means it doesn’t get fixed either).

I had a friend recently theorize the difference between liberals and conservatives results from the complexity with which they see the world. I hereby layer another filter on the discussion. Perhaps the difference is determined by the chronological direction they look for guidance in their policies.

Take, for example, the opening citation. What perception! The glorious complexities of government solved by a simple adage. The political feuds of countless generations reduced to a single guiding aphorism. Call me a liberal, and I’ll boldly proclaim this truth to guide my nation into a glorious future of understanding and advancement. Gone are the squabbles over political leanings. We shall relegate all such enlightened notions to history.

As a conservative, I’ll consider the history of this bit of wisdom. It has been taken completely out of context, had its noted notions of government exchanged to address contemporary concerns, had its ages and syntax molded to fit various eras, and been inaccurately heard from the mouths of multiple people. It is most often mis-attributed to Winston Churchill, who most probably never had such notions, and it is often remedially drawn from the works of George Bernard Shaw, who most definitely repudiated the idea. Power-grabbing, glory-sharing, name-dropping, content-wrangling. It’s how people work—and all to claim the power of credulity.

And where does this leave a hopeful young person attempting to make an informed decision? I want to see things get better as much as any Bolshevik, and I’m about as fed up with the current system of doing things. However, I differ from my century-old revolutionary counterparts in simile in that I have been taught a bit more about history. Don’t misunderstand, I don’t think Barak is a communist or would turn the US into the setting of future James Bond missions. I don’t really think he’ll do anything of his own at all, but that’s a different discussion.

I suppose that’s why I usually vote conservative. But I still have seven weeks to dream.