Gateways (The Final 30 DPC Post in America!)

  Today is my last 30 Day Photo Challenge post in America. Like I said yesterday, this has been such a wonderful creative exercise for photography’s sake but also in terms of me mentally and internally preparing for Africa this summer. Should you care to have a look, I compiled all the photographs onto one page under the pages on this blog sidebar (look to your right, or just click here). As it draws to an end, I wanted to capture the essence of the entire project in one image. After my religion class this morning (John’s back!) and some continued conversations with friends I have decided on the following prompt:

Day 30: A Photograph of My Reality Right Now.

  Prior to coming to Mount Holyoke I was made a promise to myself, a promise to treasure every second of being in this beautiful, beautiful place. And I believe I have fulfilled this promise thus far, and I fully intend to continue to uphold it in the coming three years. But it’s just that- I only have three years left! Where did these treasured moments flee to?

  But these moments, precious as they are and have been to me, do not lose their significance as the year comes to a close. Because I am blessed enough to know and realize that I am going on to another enormous adventure this summer in Uganda.

  As I’ve expressed in this blog before, I am not nervous about going to Uganda. Well, not really. There are the nerves about medications and sickness and getting on my planes on time, but no twisted stomach knots. I am absolutely terrified, however, of who I am going to be coming back to the states on August 15^th. How will I change? What will I retain? Will I even want to return?

  A few weeks ago I had a lovely dinner with one of my dearest friends, Saran, with whom I shared my anxieties. When I expressed my nervous restlessness pertaining to my return to the states post-Uganda, she looked me very intensely in the eyes and said “Lizzie, you must live in the world you have been given. This is your reality right now. Live into your reality right now.”

  Thus, the prompt for today, because besides being blown away by the incredible wisdom expressed by my incredible friend, there was something of an inner stillness she was expressing. There is something so important and necessary and indeed right about living in the present tense. It’s embodied in so many phrases and so many ways and means, but the validity and value of living in the now cannot be underscored. Yes, big picture plans are crucial. Trust me, I’m the one who always has a big picture plan (whether I hold myself to it or not, however, is rather questionable). But if I sit here worrying about who I will be four months down the road, then my time here is wasted and my promise spent. Dually, if I come back from Uganda and refuse to see the gift I have in being here than I will have lost part of what is given to me in Africa. Saran herself told me, “There is nothing that I can give you that Africa cannot.”

  My reality right now are impending exams and papers. My reality right now is my friends and roommates who need me and whom I love and need. My reality right now is a room full of showers and trash cans and grocery stores full of food.

 When I sat in on the Child Voice International panel, one of the Mount Holyoke students who had spent her summer in Uganda talked about being peacefully restless. In this, she was exploring her anger and frustration at being back in the USA and struggles with reconciling her two worlds. But out of need to get her college education and to carry on, she eventually came to the realization that being “peacefully restless” would allow her to live into her calling post-Uganda while living in the present tense. I was drawn to her phrase, and to the idea of being restless and not taking what we are given in daily meals and government policies for granted. There is a resilience in deciding to not be complacent, in determining that we must question and prod and deem things to be unjust or unfair. But if we are endlessly at odds with all around us, no prodding or yelling or begging for change will make anything happen.

  Today I had my religion class again. Our professor was in South Africa for two weeks for a conference on nonviolence, which was incredible for him (and vicariously, us) but also a bit of a downer because I really love that class and a week and a half without it felt a little empty. Nevertheless, he regaled us today with stories from his wonderful journey. In South Africa, he met the one and only Ela Gandhi, granddaughter to my hero and revolutionary, Mahatma Gandhi.

  As he was telling us how they bonded over Indian food in Durban (and I was coming nearer and nearer to fainting out of sheer awe), he told us of her call to each young person coming into the wider world. He, and Ela with him, were telling us that we stand at a crossroads between two universes in our own world. “There is a world out there,” he said, “where the theoretical models we have discussed and been exploring need to be applied. And I cannot wait to see what you do.”

  So with all of these enormous ideas colliding in my head as I prepare to undergo the lovely two week panic that is exams and paper-writing on campus, I have settled on my image.

  This is a street sign found on campus, next to the memorial to our founder, Mary Lyon. The street name, Gateway Road, is perhaps metaphoric in its original intent but also serves a more practical purpose: this is the street that follows behind the gate to the college.

  I am at the crossroads in my life. I stand at a gateway, in an arch that protects me in my ivory tower from the cares and concerns of paying bills and insurance but also is nourishing my mind with knowledge, food of the soul. I am preparing to embark on a journey that is going to be extremely wonderful and difficult and breathtaking and, in all likelihood, fly by all too quickly. But the thing about gateways is this: they allow us to choose our own paths. Here’s hoping I choose well.

Thanks for everything, friends. You matter in this world. 

---

current jam: "judas" lady gaga (so good. the verdict has been passed.) 

best thing in my life right now: religion class, duh!

days until departure: 35

The Wall (30 DPC: Day 29!)

Day 29: the first thing you see in the morning

  Well friends, as these 30 (+) days are coming to a close, so will my daily blogging. And while this has been a total blast and I've really enjoyed reading all your comments, next week is Reading Week which means I'm getting ready to enter into the lovely academic season that is EXAM season. Thus, the daily posts are coming to a close so I can crank out my last Religion paper and stuff my head chock full of French pronouns, key ideas on contemporary Russian culture, and anthropological terms for kinship systems. Rest assured, the posts will resume once I'm in the clear and consequently diving into packing for Africa. Never a dull moment, friends. Never a dull moment. 

  However exam season dually means that I am mere days away from the conclusion of my first year in college...SWEET DEAD WASHINGTON, they weren't kidding when they said college was going to fly by! This fact brings up a whole soup bowl full of emotions and thoughts, so if I'm honest there probably will be an enormous thoughts in my head post after I've begun processing the end of my first year. 

  But you're not reading me today for moans about exams! The prompt says what I see in the mornings, self. Get to it.

  So were I to be exactly precise pertaining to what I first see in the morning, I perhaps would depict my alarm clock- but you've already seen that here. And then, were I to be more brutally honest, I'd tell you that I'm not really cognizant of my surroundings in the mornings until I'm in the shower, but you've also already seen that here. So I decided, after this roundabout of thought that I'd show you something BRAND NEW (to you, at least) and more relevant to the thought behind the post.

  After this long-wind-ed-ness I present:

A Virtual Tour of (some of) Lizzie's Wall, a.k.a. The Second to Last 30 DPC America Post. 

So you may have noticed, I have a bit of an obsession with posters. Hey, I never promised to be a wallflower...ba-dum-ching! This collection depicted above is really a small sliver of the sheer amount of paper things I own- there's another half of this wall not shown, as well as another wall, plus my room back home. I like pretty pictures, okay?

But the real "first thing" I see when I wake up is this black-and-white photograph taken from an issue of National Geographic:

My dear friend, Ian, actually cut out the same picture on the same day as me (we're telepathically linked, apparently). What I love about this is the simpleness; it's such an odd picture of this little man who apparently drove around the country with this mobile church. It's reminiscent of the circuit riders in early America, but with a whole new context. I always kind of giggle when I really look at it (rather than bleary-eyed falling out of bed, which is the more daily occurrence) but I also just like how it makes me think. 

Next to this lovely photograph is normally another postcard, but since ticky-tak hates me we'll move along to this watercolor painting my friend made me in high school after watching the Invisible Children documentary for the first time:

In fact, today is the 25 hours of silence for 25 years of war in Northern Uganda, sponsored by Invisible Children. Once again, I couldn't participate but if you want more information you definitely should go to their website. They're wonderful.

As for the painting, this is one of my favorite favorite favorite things on my wall. It's beautiful, but it also speaks so much as to what I can never articulate when speaking to my passion for Africa. She titled it on the back "Home?"

And to the far right, much less serious is a cut-out from a special issue of People magazine (puke) on Glee (yum!). 

It's dated, obviously, because there's not the angel of a man Darren Criss on it (shut up, I know I'm a fangirl. Moving along...) but I often wake thinking I'm being slushied. Perhaps not the best location...

Above Glee is my metal poster of one of my favorite musicals with one of my favorite actresses of all time, My Fair Lady with the classic and darling Audrey Hepburn. The story for why I love Eliza Doolittle is one for another day, but I bought this in a flea market in the mountains of Virginia after one glance. It's pink with Audrey on it? Done. 

À côté de l'affice du My Fair Lady are some pictures of me with my brothers and grandmother. The first picture, with Tom (whose deviant art account you should totally check out) is from last year prior to an 80s dance. Below that, Mema and I are forever captured being dinosaurs on my graduation day (it's a way cooler picture than me accepting my diploma, for sure). And underneath that Diesel and I before I went to a swing dance (I love ballroom dancing! fun fact!). 

The photographs border my signed Whomping Willows poster (apt, because Sara Michelle from my collab channel just made a video about meeting Lauren Fairweather!). 

Above all this silliness is the record cover of The Sound of Music which Ian bought for me from the local thrift store (we're frequents of the local PTA, to be frank). I. love. this. show. In third grade I cut my hair like Maria, played the CD until it couldn't play anymore, and know the movie by heart. Not one to feel mellow about anything, as is being made more and more apparent. 

Above Maria's jumping frame is my blue hippo postcard I bought at the Met last fall, which is next to my favorite Ghanain painting I procured in Accra last June. It's my favorite because of the baobab tree!

And on the slanty wall that actually faces me when I wake up are a poster from Deathly Hallows, Part 1; a picture of Ellen DeGeneres my friend drew on; a signed Bonnie Gruesen headshot; my signed poster from Much Ado; and a ginormous poster from my favorite film, V for Vendetta. There's also a b&w picture I got for free at another flea market and a post card of Mother Theresa blowing up balloons with a little kid from Calcutta. 

There's also my motto printed on letters along the side, "Choose Love."

So do you have a favorite poster of your own? What greets you in the morning when you open your eyes?

---

current jam: "past in present" feist

best thing in my life right now: chocolate bunnies!

days until departure: 36

Happy Easter! (30 DPC Day 28)

Day 28: A Picture of Your Day Today

Today is Easter (you may have heard!) so I send my well-wishes to all Easter-celebrators everywhere (especially if you're reading this blog!). 

Being far away from my hometown has many perks (exploring a whole new part of the country) but also some major bummers. Case in point: not being home to have Easter with my family. But! Thanks to my darling friend Nora whom you all know from this blog post I had a lovely homemade Easter luncheon this afternoon prepared by her wonderful mother. Benefits of having a friend who went to school very close to home!

We had lovely lemonade and her mom even made Easter baskets for us! Thus the cute little chickies around the glass. 

And before luncheon today Brenna and I went to church, which was lovely.

Anyways, hope you all are having a lovely conclusion to your weekend! See you on the other side.

---

current jam: "doctor what" chameleon circuit//charlieissocoollike

best thing in my life: ACTUAL doctor who last night! even if i only got to watch it this afternoon. SO GOOD. 

days until departure: 37

Food, Glorious Food (30 DPC Day 27)

Day 27: a picture of where you get your food

Yesterday i made a grocery store run (perks os having a Firebolt at my disposal) and as such I though I'd take ya'll on a photographic tour of things I like to buy when in the Big Y!

Have I mentioned how much I dislike bananas? These babies never end up in the basket. 

The great love affair of my life...the cheese section. Cheesecheesecheeesecheesecheeseeeee!

Triscuits go well with...CHEESE. 

If you follow me on dailybooth you know that these cookie bags are kind of my achilles heel...I went through a whole bag yesterday. A WHOLE BAG. Seriously, self, that's problematic. 

Speaking of fresh water availability...

A label of lies. Not real up-to-this-Southern-girl's snuff. 

My best friend from home's parents have lived, off and on, in East Africa for much of their lives. He told me the story once of his mother, after moving back to the states from Kenya, stood in a grocery store sobbing because of the sheer amount of food available to her. I've had similar experiences and, as much as I love Harris Teeter free sugar cookies and the Big Y I'm so eager to grow food in gardens and go to markets this summer. 

I think we lose sight of how much effort it takes to make a meal when all we have to do is purchase frozen, packaged, high-in-preservatives meals from the local grocery store. Or, even more so, I can walk downstairs to a dining hall with more options for food than I need. 

Anyways, I hope you're all having lovely weather (it is unfortunately really gross here) and happy Passover/Holy Saturday to all!

---

current jam: "judas" lady gaga (expect a post devoted to my adoration for this woman on may 23rd when the whole album is released. serious)

best thing in my life right now: radio week has been a complete and total success! AND DOCTOR WHO TONIGHT. 

days until departure: 38

p.s. can you believe only three more days of this daily posting business? it's flown by for me!

Water (30 DPC: Day 26)

If you're curious as to why in this post I mentioned I was leaving Massachusetts at 3 AM to head to NYC, you can now get the full story by clicking here to watch my most recent vlog. Yay multimedia!

Happy Passover, Earth Day, and Good Friday everyone! In honor of Earth Day today, I present  today's prompt:

Day 26: a picture of where you get your drinking water

I think it's a tacit understanding implied here that the ability I have to walk ten feet (maybe) down my hall, turn a tap, and get clean, drink-able water is a treasured gift. 

To provide a frame of reference, here are some statistics about Kampala, the capitol city Uganda, and their drinking water supply. These are taken from the magnanimous water.org nonprofit that is a Lizzie-approved, partnership NGO!

In the greater Kampala area there are 34.6 million people. Of these 34.6 million people, 35% live below the poverty line and 

16.1 million people in the greater Kampala area do not have access to improved water. 

So on this day that we venerate the earth, let us remember while drinking our tea or coffee or water that we are terribly lucky to merely have to turn on the tap for such water. 

If you're so inclined, you can go to the water.org website and make a donation to a sustainably, equitable project that is working to provide clean water and sanitation to rural and urban communities (and not just in Uganda!).

Thanks friends. You're beautiful, and you matter to the world.

---

current jam: "the boxer" simon & garfunkel

best thing in my life right now: my pillow.

days until departure: 39

Feminism in Fashion (30 DPC: Day 25)

Before delving into today’s photographic documentation of my life, I want to provide a few updates pertaining to some contemporary Human Rights issues I’ve discussed in this blog:

• Jon Krakaur, author of Three Cups of Deceit does make the bold claim that the CAI can be salvaged and the schools for the young women can continue to grow, so long as Mortensen steps down. So that’s encouraging! 
• The burqa ban in France (as well as the pending ban on all external displays of religious affiliation) came into effect on April 11^th and since has been met with enormous protest. The estimated 4 or 5 million Muslims in France (of which only 2000 women choose to wear the full-face veil) have erupted into a slew of articles and nonviolent protests, facing enormous fines.
• France, and Italy are intending to deploy teams of military “advisors” to aid the rebels in Libya attempting to overthrow the tyrannical reign of Qaddafi. These teams are UN-sanctioned.

And now, to present the theme of the day:

Day 24: A Photograph of An Outfit You Wore Today

As of this morning I joined the FFB (Feminist Fashion Bloggers, thanks Aly!) group on Google and as such I thought today an appropriate time to address something I feel extremely passionately about: feminism and art.

Thanks for the photo, Grace! I'm wearing a Forever 21 dress, flats I bought at the thrift store, pearls from my mother, a pink ribbon I found in a fabric store, and my (prescription) glasses. Far from practical, you might say. But whatever.

Feminism and art. As I’ve mentioned before here and here I took AP Art History in high school and fell madly in love with the art world. My favorite painter is, undoubtedly and conventionally, Vincent Van Gogh. Earlier this year my Dad took me to the Museum of Modern Art in NYC (MoMA) where “Starry Night” is on display. When I saw the work in person I literally just burst into tears and stood in front of it for twenty minutes in awe.* Perhaps not the healthiest way to love a work of art, but I’m not one for half-assing anything.

But I don’t exclusively love redheaded Dutchmen with big straw hats. Some of my other favorite artists include Caravaggio, Edouard Manet, Hannah Höch, Mark Rothko, Käthe Kollwitz, Picasso, Banksy, Barbra Kruger, Christo & Jean-Claude, and the Guerilla Girls. If you know your Art History, you’ll recognize one of the most famous feminist artists of all time: Barbra Kruger, known for her use of appropriated images and biting statements. Two personal favorites of mine that she’s done:

As a woman I find her incredibly empowering. Her works, so simple, require the viewer to be engaged, to question, to think critically about what she’s saying so brutally. And believe me, as far as feminist artists go, she’s tame compared to some of the other pieces I’ve seen.

But here’s what I love about art: it transcends the gallery wall. And contrary to popular belief, this is not wholly due to Du Champ and Warhol (though I do not attempt to deny their revolutionary works). One of my favorite art forms is in fashion; from Queen Elizabeth I’s banging garb to Gaga’s out-of-this-world costumes (or lack thereof) I think the way we dress can say so much about who we are and, when done right, can really be a living art form. I try to dress every day like I’m stepping out to Van Gogh’s fields or into Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun’s studio with her muse, Marie Antoinette. In West African prints, in 50s high-waisted skirts, in comfy sandals and in my knee-high red high-heeled boots there’s such a spectrum for expression and for boldness.

And since we live in the 21^st century I am fortunate enough to experiment with expression in all mediums of fabric. And this liberation and freedom to explore is, in my mind, is what being a feminist is all about.

Sadly, though, in contemporary feminist discussions so many women- women!- say that other women who wear loose clothing aren’t celebrating their bodies enough, buying into conventions that dictate they have to be thin and if they aren’t they better cover it up. Conversely, there are they who claim women who wear short skirts or busty tops made of tight fabric are degrading themselves by showing so much skin and therefore conforming to the demands of the media for hot, sexy, big-boobed and mega-thin Barbies.

I think that these arguments are stupid and beside the point, an argument I think excellently articulated in a recent 30 Rock episode (surprise!)

In today’s Mount Holyoke News there was an article on Tina Fey and her integration of gender politics in her brilliant comedic work. The article, written by Erica Moulton, declares that “Perhaps without intending it, Fey has emerged as a symbol of the smart working woman and women’s issues lace many of her funniest works.”

This issue is illustrated through an examination at an episode of Fey’s hit show, 30 Rock. In said episode, Fey’s character Liz Lemon ferociously criticizes a rather scantily clad coworker nicknamed “Sexy Baby.” Liz tells the pigtailed, short-skirt woman that she “represent[s] my show and my gender in this business and [she] embarrasses me.” The co-worker tartly replied, “This is who I am. Deal with it.”

Fey herself in a recent interview on NPR (again, I’m taking this from Moulton’s fabulous article) that Liz has the best of intentions in wanting to present women as strong, but she doesn’t realize that Sexy Baby has every right to act and dress the way she does.

This is the new feminism; the belief in equality between the genders and equal opportunity for all, Sexy Babys and ladder-climbing businesswoman all included. There’s this great monologue from Eve Ensler’s piece, the Vagina Monologues (a production I’ve had the pleasure of being in) called “My Short Skirt” that I think beautifully articulates how it can be an empowering thing to wear less clothing:

My short skirt is not an invitation

a provocation

an indication

that I want it

or give it

or that I hook.

 

My short skirt

is not begging for it

it does not want you

to rip it off me

or pull it down.

 

My short skirt

is not a legal reason

for raping me

although it has been before

it will not hold up

in the new court.

 

My short skirt, believe it or not

has nothing to do with you.

 

My short skirt

is about discovering

the power of my lower calves

about cool autumn air traveling

up my inner thighs

about allowing everything I see

or pass or feel to live inside.

 

My short skirt is not proof

that I am stupid

or undecided

or a malleable little girl.

 

My short skirt is my defiance

I will not let you make me afraid

My short skirt is not showing off

this is who I am

before you made me cover it

or tone it down.

What Eve says here I think beautifully embodies what it means to be liberated in your dress. To me, the most important thing about personal fashion is that you are comfortable and feel at ease in what you are wearing. For myself, that means fair trade/thrift store clothing as much as possible, as well as bright clothing that makes me brave. So ladies and gentlemen, wear your jeans and flowy skirts and tight dresses and bow ties (bow ties are cool) and ugly, comfy shoes.  And your sex/gender shouldn’t constrain what you choose to wear. That’s equality, to me.

---

current jam: "concerning the ufo sighting near, highland, illinois" sufjan stevens

best thing in my life right now: i got the job! and sold my camera! and my dad send me an easter care package!

days until departure: 40 days

*And when I watched “Vincent and the Doctor” yesterday for the first time? You better believe there was a pillow-clutching, spellbound, and horribly verclempt Lizzie glued to her computer for the hour.

p.s. If I did a list of my favorite works of art, would you be interested in reading it?
p.p.s. Also, re-did the makeover! Figured out how to change the background back to yellow :D Thanks for your feedback Sam!

Princesses, Nonviolence, and Doctor Who (30 DPC: Day 24)

Day 24: A photo of a celebration

Today's prompt comes, once again, from the collective brainstorming of myself, Brenna, Grace, and our friend Tracy. While contemplating the little things that go on in my life that I care to broadcast in the world, Brenna suggested I depict us at a college party to compare to celebrations in Uganda. I thought this a swell idea.

But if you're looking for scantily clad sorority sisters, you've got the wrong college. Because our college parties usually involve good music and good themes, so I present to you:

The Princes Party

With the roommates in our fine attire and paper crowns

A few weeks back we had a princess party that involved pretty dresses and paper crowns. College is wonderful. But on to bigger things...

Friends, I know that here on this lovely online forum sometimes I pontificate and rant about violations of human rights. Sometimes I ponder the essentiality of nonviolence, concepts surrounding various faith practices, and expound on religious texts. Sometimes I write paragraphs about Uganda and how important it is to me and how much I cannot wait to be in Africa (in just over a month now!).

And I’m feeling all those things today. But you know what else I’m feeling?

I’m feeling it’s high time I told you about this little TV show called Doctor Who and, um, how I’m kind of obsessed with it.

Prepare yourself for a geekish freak out. Because it just so happens that today not only am I being ridiculous teenager obsessed with science fiction, nor a young woman passionate about learning everything I can about the world. Today, I’m going to keel into writing the post that I’ve been so hesitant to expound on, and I’m going to explore themes of nonviolence in Doctor Who. Snort, scoff, and laugh all you like. I freely acknowledge the walking paradox that is my life (thank goodness Futurama’s paradox-proof machine hasn’t consumed me yet…yep. Just went there).

To begin: religion in science fiction is not a new concept. In fact, I’m hoping to be un-waitlisted and fully enroll in a class next semester called “Religion in Science Fiction” (did I pick the right school or what!?) so clearly there are even a few Ivory Tower puff-ups who’ve written on the subject. Probably because we all secretly wish we could travel through time and space with swashbuckling heroes and dashing heroines.

When you think about it, the concept actually makes plenty of sense. The dichotomy between science and religion goes back, hmm, to Copernicus? To Greece? To the domestication of animals? Wherever you contend this tension originates, there’s no denying it’s there. So when Joss Whedon, a professed atheist and science geek, was penning the brilliance that is the Firefly series it made sense that he wanted to explore this tension. In this particular television show the themes were manifested in the character of Captain Malcolm Reynolds (science and lost faith) verses Shepherd Book (a military man turned priest-like figure).

What I like about Joss’ commentary is that the two men, and thus the two ideas, come to respect each other and recognize that there must exist a duality between each one of us. Without the pragmatism of scientific theory and application we as a species could starve or merely stay stagnant. But in Serenity (the show’s finale in film form) Shepherd Book makes quite plain that without faith or belief we are lost in the dark, living without purpose. Book goes so far to say to Mal that “I don’t care what you believe in. Just believe in it.”

This resonates, to me, with much of what I’ve learned in my anthropology and sociology courses this year. In a nutshell this is that modern science is in some ways its own religion in its structure and the power given to it by the people who “believe” in science.

Now, before you start typing away furiously saying I’m a heathen fundamentalist, let me explain. Modern science as a system is trusted by educated people across the globe, and we common folk turn to these educated people for counsel when we are ill or do not comprehend a certain situation (think: going to the doctor’s when you have incessant headaches). Science has many limitations and many more unanswered questions (the doctors may not know how to cure your headaches, but they will take a calculated guess to try to cure you), and much of what we profess to be fact is based on Theory.

Yes, I’m aware that gravity is a theory, just like evolution. I’m not invalidating either theory by any stretch of the imagination- but think about it! People say they “believe in” evolution. Believe in! There’s contention from religious radicals claiming science is an unrighteous path, just as many scientists claim religion is folly and there exists no deity.

And further still, science is informed by culture. We did not diagnose PMS to be an actual medical condition until the 1970s in America. This was dually as a product of the Women’s Movement and because businesses were suffering from women remaining home, with pay, for a week a month while they were “unclean” and “unfit to work.” So the feminists and the CEOs, forgive the simplification, said that being on your period didn’t mean you couldn’t push papers or kick ass in board meetings. So women could take pain killers to quell the cramps and we "medicalized" the hormonal state pre-menstrutation to allow women the opportunity to work. What we decreed to be science was, in fact, decreed as such because of motivations from within the social structure. 

Sound familiar? When these parallels are drawn you can see the connections within massive religious institutions. The church or mosque or whatever is more often than not concerned morally with issues in contemporary society. Thus culture informs religion (why else is there so much dissent?). Yes, going to the doctor is relying on information given that is far more rooted in factual evidence than going to see a minister, but the basic structure of the institutions is what I'm talking about here. 

Back to Shepherd Book and living long and prospering (how far will she sink?!). He told Mal he had to believe in something and for many people, that something is science. Thus, a new kind of religion. One that isn’t mutually exclusive with other faiths (and I contend religious belief systems do not have to be exclusive, but that’s an argument for another time).

So Doctor Who. The show, along with its far darker companion, Torchwood, professes religion to be false and death to merely be the end. And on this blog at least whenever I have made the case for nonviolent practices, it has always been through the lens of a religious context.

Leave it to the Doctor to tell us all that nonviolence is not bound by the Qur’an, or the Bible, or the teachings of my beloved Mahatma Gandhi.

I’m working through the fifth season of Doctor Who and just recently watched the magnificent episode(s) “The Hungry Earth” and “Cold Blood.”

(WHAT FOLLOWS IS A SPOILER ALERT. TURN BACK NOW IF YOU’RE AT ALL LIKE ME AND DETEST SPOILERS!)

 In these episodes the human race comes into contact with another species that have co-inhabited the earth with them since their beginnings, unbeknownst to them: homo reptilia (aka lizard people. ah, science fiction). The homo repitilia have taken three humans hostage, two of whom are the husband and son of an unsuspecting Welsh mother. The humans in turn have a homo reptilia held hostage and the Doctor has decided to burrow into the earth to meet with the homo reptilia’s leader and strike a deal, trading the hostages. Before he leaves, he tells said Welsh mother and the other two humans to “be the best of humanity.” By which he means do not harm the creature that is, in some capacity, to blame for the kidnapping of the other people.

This might be my favorite Doctor Who line I have yet heard, which is saying quite a bit concerning he’s chock full of wonderful lines. But Chris Chibnball, the author of this particular episode, captures in a line what nonviolence- or better, Love- demands of humanity: the absolute best.

I’ve told myself time and time again that anger and violent retorts are easy, a gut reaction to pain or suffering. Being the best every day that we can be requires an absolute commitment to being the best we can be.

Yes, there is violence in Doctor Who. Often the Doctor and his Companions have to make horrible sacrifices, and this episode is no exclusion. But the appeal of the Doctor (besides his excellent one-liners and swell suspenders) is his determination to carry onward despite the pain. And he, who is over 950 years old, does so through nonviolence as much as possible.

It’s not a perfect metaphor, and the show certainly doesn’t always preach Love, but I really love that this is the call the Doctor has as the champion of the human race.
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current jam: "mr. medicine" eliza doolittle
best thing in my life right now: the cucumbers are back in the dining halls!
days until departure: 41 days, 10 hours 


P.S. I gave the blog a bit of a makeover (in case you didn't notice). What do you think?

Three Cups of Deceit (30 DPC Day 23)

Day 23: Main Mode of Communication

While brainstorming a way to depict my main mode of communication as talking without going Rocky Horror on you and posting a picture of my mouth, I learned about a gross deceit on the part of a humanitarian activist whom I once admired. Before I elaborate on that point, however, my main mode of communication is depicted in the image below:

If you’ve read this blog post you now know Brenna quite well (at least, virtually well from my perspective). This was a little party I planned for her birthday where we all went out for a meal and had a lovely time communing with one another!

And it occurred to me, while racking my brain for a deep and provocative and blog-appropriate way to display my main way of sharing my thoughts with the world how much communicating occurs over a meal. One of the big things I had to adjust to coming to college was constantly figuring out meal plans with other people. Not that I’m opposed to eating by myself, but having a meal together is something my family really prized when I was living in NC and that is a value I carried with me to school.

When you’re eating together you’re nurturing your bodies and your soul. Every human being needs sustenance, and sustenance comes in many forms. But because of the necessity of eating to survive it is not an activity to be taken casually, but dually because of the instinctual need we as human beings have to eat meals are a common ritual. Therefore, food can say much about a person; where they come from, what they like and do not like, how they were raised. Sharing this need with other people is a form of what we sociologists (eee!) like to call “solidarity.” While I am not, per se, using that term in its purest or most direct sense, I contend that it is often in sharing what is vital to all of us that we bond on an intimate, perhaps even biological level.

And in more practical, concrete terms having a meal together is a ritual that 1. provides continuity in a crazy schedule/life and 2. is really quite enjoyable. My meal times are hours during the day that I simply sit and get to enjoy being with my beautiful friends on my beautiful campus in this beautiful life I have been given.

Sharing meals with my friends has wrought deeper friendships. While often the dining hall is not the place to share profound wishes or secrets (or whatever) many of the more memorable moments in my first year of college have occurred over a meal.

And coming to the more concrete, planning times and places to meet for these meals requires my other big form of communication: my cell phone.

And perhaps a little obviously, how I communicate with you, my computer:

Fun fact: Grace took this while I was actually writing a blog post!

Now, to what I decreed I was going to elaborate on earlier. In an odd twist of events my depiction of my main mode of communication is akin to what Greg Mortensen claimed to be the act that solidified his friendship with the people of Central Asia.

Which brings me to a (be warned, colorful language) rant: The Three Cups of Deceit.

As you may or may not know, a man by the name of Greg Mortensen wrote a book called Three Cups of Tea about being rescued by villagers in the Himalayan mountains. From this experience he claimed to forge an intense connection to the women of the village (through sharing cups of tea) and wanted to raise funds to build schools in Central Asia.

Turns out he’s full of shit. Pardon my English, but I am pissed off.

I have never read the book itself, though two extended family members sent me copies to read. Just never got to it, but knowing what I did about Greg Mortensen I was a full endorser of his Central Asia Institute (CAI) to build schools for girls in Central Asia.

Until one of my favorite contemporary journalists/authors, Jon Krakaur, did a 60 Minutes exposé revealing how many funds had gone missing, that most of the book itself is a complete fabrication, the existence of “ghost” schools, and the fact that key members of the CAI (two CFOs, 1 project leader, 1 board member all in the states and multiple more in Pakistan) quit because of Greg’s refusal to be transparent with the funds.

On so many levels, this is so hurtful. A powerful story about a daredevil mountain climber (whose parents were Lutheran missionaries in Africa) building a partnership with communities halfway around the world, empowered especially because he wanted to help the young girls, is totally invalidated by his selfish aims.  To me, any good he accomplished with his sob story is tainted by the deceit and self-gratifying false humbleness he painted himself with.  

Excuse me, but what an ASSHOLE. I am so angry because he played on sympathy by painting himself as this incredible humanitarian who, through basic human connection, forged these amazing relationships with people and then began an organization to promote understanding and education for young women. President Obama  himself donated $100,000 of his Nobel Prize money to Greg Mortensen, who himself has been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize.

As Krakaur details in his 79-page exposé (which you can download for free until tomorrow here):

“The first eight chapters of Three Cups of Tea are an intricately wrought work of fiction presented as fact. And by no means was this an isolated act of deceit. It turns out that Mortenson’s books and public statements are permeated with falsehoods. The image of Mortenson that has been created for public consumption is an artifact born of fantasy, audacity, and an apparently insatiable hunger for esteem. Mortenson has lied about the noble deeds he has done, the risks he has taken, the people he has met, the number of schools he has built. Three Cups of Tea has much in common with A Million Little Pieces, the infamous autobiography by James Frey that was exposed as a sham. But Frey, unlike Mortenson, didn’t use his phony memoir to solicit tens of millions of dollars in donations from unsuspecting readers, myself among them. Moreover, Mortenson’s charity, the Central Asia Institute, has issued fraudulent financial statements, and he has misused millions of dollars donated by schoolchildren and other trusting devotees. “Greg,” says a former treasurer of the organization’s board of directors, “regards CAI as his personal ATM.”’ (7)

  This is atrocious. He even went so far as to accuse men who acted as his personal bodyguards and friends of kidnapping and holding him hostage. Krakaur reveals to be an intense fabrication of an already fictional account.

“When the residents of Ladha bid goodbye to Mortenson, they did so with affection, and they believed the feeling was mutual. “Years later,” says Naimat Gul [a man whom Mortensen accused of kidnapping him], “when I scanned through the book T hree Cups Of Tea and read that Greg had been abducted and threatened with guns, I was shocked. Instead of telling the world about our frustration, deprivation, illiteracy, and tradition of hospitality, he invented a false story about being abducted by savages. I do not understand why he did this.”’ (19)

I highly encourage you to read Krakaur’s work on the subject. And as for now, I am at a loss as to what to express other than anger. Yes, some good came from this. But I have a hard time validating anything Mortensen has touched now.

It is people like him who are a) causing us all to be wary of any form of charity/nonprofit work and b) forcing me to question whether it’s even worth it to keep forging ahead. Of course I’m going to keep fighting for human rights universally, but this is just so disheartening.

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days until departure: 42