On Tuesday, I wrote about how Search for Common Ground organized a meeting between community leaders and journalists with the goal of better utilizing media to attain peace in Plateau State. On Wednesday, Search for Common Ground brought together 35 women community leaders and women journalists to discuss how we can increase women’s voices in the media. The goal: to give voice to those typically marginalized by conflict in order to attain a sustainable peace.
The two meetings raised similar issues. However, the character of the two groups could not have been more different. The men spoke of their exhaustion: ten years of conflict, neighborhoods and communities torn apart by violence, children raised on hatred and mistrust challenging their leaders, becoming more extreme, calling for more violence. The emotion was raw and powerful and helped more than anything to put a human face on this conflict.
I expected similar emotion from the women, and I had steeled myself for our meeting the next day. Indeed, one of the first women spoke about her role as a teacher, how she worked with children from some of the worst affected areas and their reactions to growing up in such violent circumstances. Many of the children, during an art therapy session, depicted houses on fire, knives, guns, a bomb. When she asked the child about the bomb, the simple response was, “That is what I will use to take revenge on the people that killed my uncle.” The impact on children was something the men had brought up the day before, but to hear mothers speak about their children gave the issue shape and clarity. There is a whole generation positioned on the razor’s edge of violence, and at times it seems like the slightest breeze could reignite the embers that are smoldering in Plateau State.
What surprised me, then, was the women’s reaction to the violence. Much more so than the men, the women dredged up the past and viewed it with an ugly, black hurt that colored the entire conversation. Rumors of “no go zones” and silent killings abounded, with women from indicted communities countering with their own horror stories about the opposing side. It was honestly shocking to hear women, so often considered the peace makers, speak with such anger and pain. In their voices I could hear the specter of the violence that has consumed these communities for so long and the danger that, in their anger, they may be the ones shaping their children’s views of the conflict.
During the break, I asked one of the journalists, a friend of mine who works for the government-owned television station, why the women spoke about peace with so much vengeance in their voices. She told me that for many of these women, this is the first forum they’ve been given to express their anger, their hurt, the trauma they’ve seen and experienced. The “white papers,” investigations conducted by state and federal government into the Jos violence, have often ignored women’s voices. The various peace committees that have been formed have never included women in positions of authority or opened the door for women to express their hurt. For many, this was the first chance to express that pain, even as it divided them into various accusatory camps.
One common refrain among the women was that the violence was the fault of men, that men committed the violence, men lead the violence. “Women we must tell our men to stop this violence.” In the past, I’ve agreed with this opinion, that war is men’s creation and men’s crime. However, juxtaposed with the hurt of these women, I can only recognize that we are all culpable in violent communal conflict such as this. Young men may commit the violence, but they are often under the exhortations of others. Violent conflict such as this is driven by fear, mistrust, and insecurity. Young men are often expected to take up the mantle of warrior, protector. Even if there are no direct calls for conflict, the pressure in most patriarchal societies is too great to ignore.
So I think we must throw away these gendered opinions of conflict and realize that we all have a stake in our communities. We shouldn’t assume that women are inherently always the victims in conflict, though women and children often suffer more than men. However, denying that women play a role in conflict, both as actors and as victims, denies them the anger and trauma inculcated by extreme violence. Denying them a voice in the peace process, a chance to work through that pain, can rob a community of a chance at sustainable peace. By recognizing our shared guilt, we recognize our shared humanity. Humans are fallible. We are imperfect creatures, and, recognizing that, we can begin to work together to pick up the pieces and rebuild.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
This Is My Home. They Will Bury Me Here.
“We don’t have any other country than Nigeria. Nigeria is our father, is our mother. We must embrace Nigeria.” The old man spoke with a tear in his eyes, which soon led to several, an outpouring of emotion for his home and the changes that have torn at his community over the past ten years.
I’m spending the next three months in Jos, Plateau State, Nigeria, interning with Search for Common Ground (SFCG), an international NGO that focuses on addressing and transforming conflict in some of the world’s most dangerous places. In the past ten years, Jos has been rocked by ethno-religious violence pitting Christians against Muslims, engulfing whole communities in an area known as “The Home of Peace and Tourism.”
This is the first major activity that we’ve undertaken in my time here. The goal: unite religious and community leaders with media partners to promote peace in the region. To this end, today we brought together forty journalists and community leaders to discuss issues they’ve faced over the course of nearly a decade of violence. The man who spoke the above words captured everything at stake in this conflict and, for me, drove home the emotional, human side of violence.
He was a community leader, a Hausa, a Muslim. He had grown up with Christians and Muslims sharing the same space, going to the same schools, working alongside one another as neighbors and friends. From his childhood, he remembered his Christian playmates, and his community has successfully avoided violence in part because community leaders from both sides, Christian and Muslim, have remembered their common humanity and come together to protect one another in times of crisis.
But the strain on these men and women was palpable in his voice, and he perfectly articulated how he and other leaders were “tired.” Tired of the violence, but also exhausted from their attempts to hold back forces that are often outside of their control. The sad truth is that Nigeria suffers from horrible infrastructure, a failing health and education sector, an economy entirely reliant upon oil revenues, and corruption that is endemic to nearly every part of life. Youth unemployment is impossibly high, and it is often young, unemployed men who are the main protagonists in the violence. “It’s people instigating this issue. It’s a government effort, all the industries. No one is working a job. How many industries do we have in Jos, in Kaduna, in Bauchi? How many industries do we have that are working? Most of our children are graduates; when it comes to employment, sorry if you don’t know anybody. You don’t know how, where you will find employment.”1 This man articulated all of these issues in one fell swoop, painting a picture of a conflict far more complex than the simple Muslim/Christian dynamics represented in far too many media depictions of the Jos violence.
But even when these problems are all stacked up, one on top of another, in seemingly insurmountable opposition to any solution, these community leaders are still committed to peace. The stakes are too high to do anything but to continue to strive toward a solution. Thousands have died in Plateau State in the past decade. The violence has displaced hundreds of thousands and caused billions of naira in property damages. Many adolescents cannot remember a time in their lives in which Christians and Muslims trusted one another, let alone lived amongst one another as neighbors and friends. Many worry that these children, knowing nothing but trauma and fear, would carry hatred with them into their adult lives, further alienating any chance of a future peace.
The old man finished his speech in a voice fiery and defiant, his tears giving him the strength to remember a past in which Christians and Muslims were not separated by violence: “We’ve grown up together. We’ve schooled together. We’ve worked together…I was born in Bauchi, but I settled in Jos. They will bury me here. This is my home. Let us go back and tell our people, ‘We will defend our lives and everything for them.’”
For many, it is the loss of this past, a history of tolerance and mutual respect, which gives them reason to continue the struggle for a solution to the violence. Jos was once known as a cosmopolitan city that married various and diverse cultures from all over the country. Now it is known mostly as the front for a battle that could tear apart not only Plateau State, but all of Nigeria. However, with these dialogues, perhaps there is hope for a unified state and a sustainable peace. For the future of Jos, and for its past, I certainly hope so.
I’m spending the next three months in Jos, Plateau State, Nigeria, interning with Search for Common Ground (SFCG), an international NGO that focuses on addressing and transforming conflict in some of the world’s most dangerous places. In the past ten years, Jos has been rocked by ethno-religious violence pitting Christians against Muslims, engulfing whole communities in an area known as “The Home of Peace and Tourism.”
This is the first major activity that we’ve undertaken in my time here. The goal: unite religious and community leaders with media partners to promote peace in the region. To this end, today we brought together forty journalists and community leaders to discuss issues they’ve faced over the course of nearly a decade of violence. The man who spoke the above words captured everything at stake in this conflict and, for me, drove home the emotional, human side of violence.
He was a community leader, a Hausa, a Muslim. He had grown up with Christians and Muslims sharing the same space, going to the same schools, working alongside one another as neighbors and friends. From his childhood, he remembered his Christian playmates, and his community has successfully avoided violence in part because community leaders from both sides, Christian and Muslim, have remembered their common humanity and come together to protect one another in times of crisis.
But the strain on these men and women was palpable in his voice, and he perfectly articulated how he and other leaders were “tired.” Tired of the violence, but also exhausted from their attempts to hold back forces that are often outside of their control. The sad truth is that Nigeria suffers from horrible infrastructure, a failing health and education sector, an economy entirely reliant upon oil revenues, and corruption that is endemic to nearly every part of life. Youth unemployment is impossibly high, and it is often young, unemployed men who are the main protagonists in the violence. “It’s people instigating this issue. It’s a government effort, all the industries. No one is working a job. How many industries do we have in Jos, in Kaduna, in Bauchi? How many industries do we have that are working? Most of our children are graduates; when it comes to employment, sorry if you don’t know anybody. You don’t know how, where you will find employment.”1 This man articulated all of these issues in one fell swoop, painting a picture of a conflict far more complex than the simple Muslim/Christian dynamics represented in far too many media depictions of the Jos violence.
But even when these problems are all stacked up, one on top of another, in seemingly insurmountable opposition to any solution, these community leaders are still committed to peace. The stakes are too high to do anything but to continue to strive toward a solution. Thousands have died in Plateau State in the past decade. The violence has displaced hundreds of thousands and caused billions of naira in property damages. Many adolescents cannot remember a time in their lives in which Christians and Muslims trusted one another, let alone lived amongst one another as neighbors and friends. Many worry that these children, knowing nothing but trauma and fear, would carry hatred with them into their adult lives, further alienating any chance of a future peace.
The old man finished his speech in a voice fiery and defiant, his tears giving him the strength to remember a past in which Christians and Muslims were not separated by violence: “We’ve grown up together. We’ve schooled together. We’ve worked together…I was born in Bauchi, but I settled in Jos. They will bury me here. This is my home. Let us go back and tell our people, ‘We will defend our lives and everything for them.’”
For many, it is the loss of this past, a history of tolerance and mutual respect, which gives them reason to continue the struggle for a solution to the violence. Jos was once known as a cosmopolitan city that married various and diverse cultures from all over the country. Now it is known mostly as the front for a battle that could tear apart not only Plateau State, but all of Nigeria. However, with these dialogues, perhaps there is hope for a unified state and a sustainable peace. For the future of Jos, and for its past, I certainly hope so.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Death on an Imagined Afternoon
I’m standing in a dimly lit hallway, big, blue plastic bucket in hand, staring at a heating element, which looks as if it’s been ripped from an electric kettle and jammed into a giant metal bowl full of boiling water.
This is how I’m going to die: not with a bang, but with ten thousand volts running through my body as I flop around on the floor, upset about thirty gallons of scalding death, and soil myself all in one swift motion.
That’s the image that’s just flashed through my mind. Now what was it that John, the night manager, had told me? “Oh, you want hot water? Okay, first you must take de bohket, go to the end of de hall. There’s a bowl of water. Off de switch,” he turns to the light switch, “You understand? Off de switch,” turning the light off, “off de switch, take water, fill de bowl again, and on de switch.” He turns the light back on. “Don’t forget to off de switch.”
Off de switch. I’m a little reluctant to do even that. Will I flip the breaker when I electrocute myself? Or is this an old-school system where they’ve just saved money on fuses by jamming pennies into a fuse box instead? The difference is crucial: I’ll either lie dead in my own filth until the cleaning lady comes by in the morning, or I’ll flop around like a fish until the penny jammed in the fuse box shoots out and implants itself in some innocent nun’s head. THESE ARE THE THOUGHTS THAT ARE RUNNING THROUGH MY HEAD. Maybe I just shouldn’t bathe.
One of the things I like most about Nigeria is that I’ve lost the sense of security that seems to pervade all of life in the United States. It really makes you appreciate life when you’re constantly sure you might die at any given moment. Even Niger felt different. At least there I couldn’t see the billions of parasites that were going to slowly eat me from the inside out.
Another example: I tried to walk to work exactly one time in the two weeks I’ve lived here. It’s a straight path along a major highway filled with crazy amounts of traffic and smog, and it takes about half an hour. One attempt left me with lungs blacker than a Chinese coal miner’s. Can’t believe I used to enjoy the smell of car exhaust as a kid.
Don’t focus on that last sentence too hard.
So now I take an okada (motorcycle taxi) to and from work every day. I first thought the guys who wear helmets are probably the safest drivers. After several trips, I’m pretty sure they’re just thinking, “Well if we crash, at least I don’t have to worry about my head caving in. Hold on white man!” Okada drivers fall into three types: the crazy, the suicidal, and the “hey, let’s slalom through oncoming traffic!” Ironically, I’ve found that the bikes that are most beat to hell are usually the safest. They can’t really go much faster than a golf cart, and I’m fine with that as long as we’re not rammed by a petrol truck out on a little romp.
So although the probability of certain death reaches 1 the longer I take the okadas or pull hot water to bathe, I’ll keep doing it. In part because of necessity, but also, I think I’ve learned that the continual fear of death really makes you appreciate all that life has to offer even if that means a high likelihood that someone will eventually peel your face off the tarmac with a spatula.
This is how I’m going to die: not with a bang, but with ten thousand volts running through my body as I flop around on the floor, upset about thirty gallons of scalding death, and soil myself all in one swift motion.
That’s the image that’s just flashed through my mind. Now what was it that John, the night manager, had told me? “Oh, you want hot water? Okay, first you must take de bohket, go to the end of de hall. There’s a bowl of water. Off de switch,” he turns to the light switch, “You understand? Off de switch,” turning the light off, “off de switch, take water, fill de bowl again, and on de switch.” He turns the light back on. “Don’t forget to off de switch.”
Off de switch. I’m a little reluctant to do even that. Will I flip the breaker when I electrocute myself? Or is this an old-school system where they’ve just saved money on fuses by jamming pennies into a fuse box instead? The difference is crucial: I’ll either lie dead in my own filth until the cleaning lady comes by in the morning, or I’ll flop around like a fish until the penny jammed in the fuse box shoots out and implants itself in some innocent nun’s head. THESE ARE THE THOUGHTS THAT ARE RUNNING THROUGH MY HEAD. Maybe I just shouldn’t bathe.
One of the things I like most about Nigeria is that I’ve lost the sense of security that seems to pervade all of life in the United States. It really makes you appreciate life when you’re constantly sure you might die at any given moment. Even Niger felt different. At least there I couldn’t see the billions of parasites that were going to slowly eat me from the inside out.
Another example: I tried to walk to work exactly one time in the two weeks I’ve lived here. It’s a straight path along a major highway filled with crazy amounts of traffic and smog, and it takes about half an hour. One attempt left me with lungs blacker than a Chinese coal miner’s. Can’t believe I used to enjoy the smell of car exhaust as a kid.
Don’t focus on that last sentence too hard.
So now I take an okada (motorcycle taxi) to and from work every day. I first thought the guys who wear helmets are probably the safest drivers. After several trips, I’m pretty sure they’re just thinking, “Well if we crash, at least I don’t have to worry about my head caving in. Hold on white man!” Okada drivers fall into three types: the crazy, the suicidal, and the “hey, let’s slalom through oncoming traffic!” Ironically, I’ve found that the bikes that are most beat to hell are usually the safest. They can’t really go much faster than a golf cart, and I’m fine with that as long as we’re not rammed by a petrol truck out on a little romp.
So although the probability of certain death reaches 1 the longer I take the okadas or pull hot water to bathe, I’ll keep doing it. In part because of necessity, but also, I think I’ve learned that the continual fear of death really makes you appreciate all that life has to offer even if that means a high likelihood that someone will eventually peel your face off the tarmac with a spatula.
Monday, June 20, 2011
...And I Can't Stop Smiling
Jos, Nigeria. Capital of Plateau State in Nigeria’s Middle Belt, the geographic region that unites/divides the Christian South from the Muslim North. Over the past decade, Jos has seen interreligious/interethnic violence that has claimed over 3000 lives and displaced hundreds of thousands more. Most recently, a series of bombings on Christmas Eve killed 80 and set off a cycle of violence which spread to neighboring states and throughout the country. Plateau State, in many ways, has come to represent the volatile relationship between Nigeria’s diverse ethnic and religious groups that threatens peace throughout the country.
It is in this turbulent landscape that I will be working for the next ten weeks. I will be conducting an assessment on the violence in Jos to advise the local government on policy considerations and to inform Search for Common Ground’s upcoming project linking religious leaders, civil society activists, and journalists for a series of radio roundtables and media projects aimed at building peace within local communities.
Now that I’ve given a short overview, I have to admit: I have no idea what I’m doing here. Let me rephrase that: when I get right down to it, a significant part of me believes that I shouldn’t be here. I came from small-town, rural Indiana. I got lucky with Peace Corps. Farm kids aren’t supposed to get the chance to do some of the things that I was able to do, and if by some chance they do, it’s more than likely a one-off opportunity that won’t happen again.
Maybe I got lucky. I feel a bit like a fraud, or that I’m faking my way through things because I don’t know anyone else with my background who’s gotten the same opportunities that I have. Some people would probably call it hard work, but I don’t think I work any harder or am any more talented than a lot of other people I know. In fact, most of the time, I think I’m pretty lazy.
But that doesn’t stop me from feeling blessed by coming back to this part of the world. There’s just something about the red clay, the open-air bars, the heat of a raw, tropical sun, the dirt, the smoke, the chaos, all of it that takes something away from me. I don’t know if being here lifts some type of burden from my shoulders or if it simply gives me some internal buoyancy, but I feel lighter nonetheless. Everything is new and familiar at the same time. I feel closer to some sort of raw energy, some basic core of humanity that I don’t feel as strongly in the States. My home is a place that’s much more insulated and safe. It’s comforting and stifling at the same time, like a blanket wrapped too tight. Don’t get me wrong: I love my hometown. It will always be a part of me, but for now, I feel, perhaps like some prodigal son, the need to leave and return.
With Peace Corps, I always felt that I would one day return to Indiana. My life in Niger always seemed very ephemeral. I would not be living in a village for the rest of my life. I would have to leave it and return home. Now, however, I feel as if I’m on a path that will take me far from the place where I was born. I don’t know where this path leads, if or when it will return. But I haven’t forgotten my home. I’m sure I will continue to be filled with a sense of wonder. How did I get here? Who am I fooling, and why haven’t they seen through me yet? It’s a sense of not belonging to this world of international travel and new experiences solely because of my background, not that I’m disadvantaged or hindered in any way, but because I am so thoroughly average. It may be difficult to understand, but I think it stems from a feeling that when there are literally millions of others like you, you’re forced to confront and build who you are and what you want in life, and that is a very scary proposition. Not only are you responsible for your own success but also for your own failure, an insecurity bred from not knowing how much it will hurt when you inevitably fall.
So for me, I am left with only one choice. I will keep moving forward, because even if I sometimes feel like a fraud, there are moments where I can’t help but feel the purest beauty of life, a seeming unity with everything around me, when gravity and time stop and some unknown energy seems to flow through every part of my body. It’s difficult for me to put into words, and it sounds admittedly overly emotional or melodramatic. But really, there’s nothing like sitting under the open sky, a full moon, a stereo system crashing music from Nigerian pop to high life to local Berom hip hop, a fish caught, killed, and grilled all within the last few hours, melting into the background while those around you joke, laugh, and each in their own way celebrate existence. Despite any doubts I may carry with me, I can’t stop smiling. I just can’t stop smiling.
It is in this turbulent landscape that I will be working for the next ten weeks. I will be conducting an assessment on the violence in Jos to advise the local government on policy considerations and to inform Search for Common Ground’s upcoming project linking religious leaders, civil society activists, and journalists for a series of radio roundtables and media projects aimed at building peace within local communities.
Now that I’ve given a short overview, I have to admit: I have no idea what I’m doing here. Let me rephrase that: when I get right down to it, a significant part of me believes that I shouldn’t be here. I came from small-town, rural Indiana. I got lucky with Peace Corps. Farm kids aren’t supposed to get the chance to do some of the things that I was able to do, and if by some chance they do, it’s more than likely a one-off opportunity that won’t happen again.
Maybe I got lucky. I feel a bit like a fraud, or that I’m faking my way through things because I don’t know anyone else with my background who’s gotten the same opportunities that I have. Some people would probably call it hard work, but I don’t think I work any harder or am any more talented than a lot of other people I know. In fact, most of the time, I think I’m pretty lazy.
But that doesn’t stop me from feeling blessed by coming back to this part of the world. There’s just something about the red clay, the open-air bars, the heat of a raw, tropical sun, the dirt, the smoke, the chaos, all of it that takes something away from me. I don’t know if being here lifts some type of burden from my shoulders or if it simply gives me some internal buoyancy, but I feel lighter nonetheless. Everything is new and familiar at the same time. I feel closer to some sort of raw energy, some basic core of humanity that I don’t feel as strongly in the States. My home is a place that’s much more insulated and safe. It’s comforting and stifling at the same time, like a blanket wrapped too tight. Don’t get me wrong: I love my hometown. It will always be a part of me, but for now, I feel, perhaps like some prodigal son, the need to leave and return.
With Peace Corps, I always felt that I would one day return to Indiana. My life in Niger always seemed very ephemeral. I would not be living in a village for the rest of my life. I would have to leave it and return home. Now, however, I feel as if I’m on a path that will take me far from the place where I was born. I don’t know where this path leads, if or when it will return. But I haven’t forgotten my home. I’m sure I will continue to be filled with a sense of wonder. How did I get here? Who am I fooling, and why haven’t they seen through me yet? It’s a sense of not belonging to this world of international travel and new experiences solely because of my background, not that I’m disadvantaged or hindered in any way, but because I am so thoroughly average. It may be difficult to understand, but I think it stems from a feeling that when there are literally millions of others like you, you’re forced to confront and build who you are and what you want in life, and that is a very scary proposition. Not only are you responsible for your own success but also for your own failure, an insecurity bred from not knowing how much it will hurt when you inevitably fall.
So for me, I am left with only one choice. I will keep moving forward, because even if I sometimes feel like a fraud, there are moments where I can’t help but feel the purest beauty of life, a seeming unity with everything around me, when gravity and time stop and some unknown energy seems to flow through every part of my body. It’s difficult for me to put into words, and it sounds admittedly overly emotional or melodramatic. But really, there’s nothing like sitting under the open sky, a full moon, a stereo system crashing music from Nigerian pop to high life to local Berom hip hop, a fish caught, killed, and grilled all within the last few hours, melting into the background while those around you joke, laugh, and each in their own way celebrate existence. Despite any doubts I may carry with me, I can’t stop smiling. I just can’t stop smiling.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
A Return to Academia
I'm quickly approaching two months since I came home from my various travels. In that time, I've been applying to grad schools (a slow and arduous process), freaking out on a regular schedule of give or take once a week, and taking a few classes at my old alma mater, Wabash College.
I've been auditing two classes that I hope will help me get into grad school, but that isn't the sole reason that I'm here. I'm taking Microeconomics because just about every graduate school seems to require it in order to even be considered for a Master's in International Affairs. That was the primary reason I joined the class, but as the semester has gone on, I find myself more and more interested by what I'm learning. It's not so much the graphs and the technical aspects of excel, those I actually barely understand at all. (That's what happens when you take two or three years away from a computer. Things like Excel begin to look even more foreign than when you left.) Instead, I'm more interested in the analytic aspects of economics. I love the calculus behind it. I love the attempt to understand people through their subconscious, everyday habits. My old days as a math team member are coming back to me in the calculus part of it. Back in the day, we went four years without a loss; we pretty much dominated. But economics is more than simply math. Sure it's a social science, but it's also a guide to philosophy and life. Why do people make the decisions that they make? Why does history show us some civilizations succeeding and taking on new technologies while others lag behind? A lot of the time it comes down to an economic argument. Individuals know where their best interests lie, and it helps to explain why the question I saw in development, "Why aren't you doing it our way?" is better asked, "Why do you do it your way?" It's a subtle distinction, but one that's important for understanding different cultures and realizing the adaptability and ingenuity that make humanity amazing. It's a way of looking at the world not through our own personal egoism, but of honestly questioning another person's beliefs to reinforce or change your own.
It's maybe a bit of a deep thought for a basic economics course, but I've found that now that I've been away from academia for a bit, I'm more interested in why we study what we study. I'm taking another class about ethnic conflict and genocide, and because of my intense interest, I just pour myself into the readings. I've noticed though that other students don't. In both classes I'm taking, students fall asleep, don't do the reading, or don't try to fully understand why we're studying what we're studying.
I wonder if I was like this as a student. When I attended Wabash, I occasionally skipped readings, and I'm sure I fell asleep in a class or two. I didn't know how any of this knowledge was going to affect me outside of my own personal growth, and let's face it, personal growth can sometimes take a back seat during a reading of Aristotle. I had no clue what I wanted to do after I finished my undergraduate degree. I was there because it was expected of me. It's nearly impossible to find a job without a degree anymore, and in this increased demand for a degree of any kind, undergraduate education has become sort of like a continuation of secondary school. Sure you're a little more specialized, but you don't have any real idea why you're there other than to keep your "future" on track.
Now that I have a very clear idea of what I want to do, I am so much more focused in class than I have ever been at any other time of my life. I came into the semester four weeks behind the other students. In that time I had a lot of catching up to do, and I did it. It took me a solid week to get through all the readings in Ethnic Conflict, which is taught as a high-level political science course. In those first few weeks, I was basically teaching myself Microeconomics from a book, but I'm pretty sure I got most of it down. But what surprises me is that hardly any of the other students seem to have the same focus. I've been quite confused at times when a class suddenly seems to double in the few days running up to a major test. Where were all these other people, and why haven't they been coming to class?
I don't mean to make Wabash sound like the students are just completely uninvolved or lazy. They aren't. Wabash men make some of the most insightful points and ask some of the best questions I've ever heard from a kid born after 1990 (which is still kind of freaking me out, thinking about that age gap). But like students everywhere, they beg for extra credit, complain that something "wasn't on the study guide for the test," or whine that "there's too much work." I find myself on the side of the professor in all of these complaints. The reading is right there, you have it in your hands. The test isn't trying to trick you, it's just there to assess how much you've been paying attention. If you've read the articles and are interested in the material, your only complaint should be that you had so much more to say in a limited amount of time.
I guess I've got it pretty easy though as an older student. Now that I know what I want to do, what I want to study, and most importantly, why I want to learn what I want to learn, it makes it much easier to buckle down and get to it. I'm interested in what I'm learning. Even if a class is boring, I know that I'll need that information to make some other bigger step in the future. But so many of these students aren't like that. I know I wasn't back then. Maybe part of the reason that young adults seem to need a new age category, something between adolescence and adulthood, is that continued education has become almost a requirement at this stage of American development. A student is often shuttled from high school directly to undergraduate without any real-life experience. Uplifted from his/her parent's house to a dorm, a student doesn't have any better idea of how the world works or what they want their place to be within it. I guess I'm now a proponent of taking a gap year like so many Europeans do, taking time off to gain some experience or travel a bit, see and do new things. I wish I had taken one, but in retrospect, attending a liberal arts college like Wabash didn't hurt too much. I had no idea what I wanted to do, so why not get a little taste of everything? But I was a kid. I'd never even held a real job. It doesn't seem like we really enter adulthood until we start to have real responsibilities, and we don't get those until we finish undergrad, and by then, we're saddled with thousands of dollars of debt and little idea of what happens next. We've been taken care of and sheltered by institutions for our entire lives. Maybe it's time to stop asking young adults to act like their parents if we aren't ever going to expose them to the realities and responsibilities the world asks of it's citizens.
I've been auditing two classes that I hope will help me get into grad school, but that isn't the sole reason that I'm here. I'm taking Microeconomics because just about every graduate school seems to require it in order to even be considered for a Master's in International Affairs. That was the primary reason I joined the class, but as the semester has gone on, I find myself more and more interested by what I'm learning. It's not so much the graphs and the technical aspects of excel, those I actually barely understand at all. (That's what happens when you take two or three years away from a computer. Things like Excel begin to look even more foreign than when you left.) Instead, I'm more interested in the analytic aspects of economics. I love the calculus behind it. I love the attempt to understand people through their subconscious, everyday habits. My old days as a math team member are coming back to me in the calculus part of it. Back in the day, we went four years without a loss; we pretty much dominated. But economics is more than simply math. Sure it's a social science, but it's also a guide to philosophy and life. Why do people make the decisions that they make? Why does history show us some civilizations succeeding and taking on new technologies while others lag behind? A lot of the time it comes down to an economic argument. Individuals know where their best interests lie, and it helps to explain why the question I saw in development, "Why aren't you doing it our way?" is better asked, "Why do you do it your way?" It's a subtle distinction, but one that's important for understanding different cultures and realizing the adaptability and ingenuity that make humanity amazing. It's a way of looking at the world not through our own personal egoism, but of honestly questioning another person's beliefs to reinforce or change your own.
It's maybe a bit of a deep thought for a basic economics course, but I've found that now that I've been away from academia for a bit, I'm more interested in why we study what we study. I'm taking another class about ethnic conflict and genocide, and because of my intense interest, I just pour myself into the readings. I've noticed though that other students don't. In both classes I'm taking, students fall asleep, don't do the reading, or don't try to fully understand why we're studying what we're studying.
I wonder if I was like this as a student. When I attended Wabash, I occasionally skipped readings, and I'm sure I fell asleep in a class or two. I didn't know how any of this knowledge was going to affect me outside of my own personal growth, and let's face it, personal growth can sometimes take a back seat during a reading of Aristotle. I had no clue what I wanted to do after I finished my undergraduate degree. I was there because it was expected of me. It's nearly impossible to find a job without a degree anymore, and in this increased demand for a degree of any kind, undergraduate education has become sort of like a continuation of secondary school. Sure you're a little more specialized, but you don't have any real idea why you're there other than to keep your "future" on track.
Now that I have a very clear idea of what I want to do, I am so much more focused in class than I have ever been at any other time of my life. I came into the semester four weeks behind the other students. In that time I had a lot of catching up to do, and I did it. It took me a solid week to get through all the readings in Ethnic Conflict, which is taught as a high-level political science course. In those first few weeks, I was basically teaching myself Microeconomics from a book, but I'm pretty sure I got most of it down. But what surprises me is that hardly any of the other students seem to have the same focus. I've been quite confused at times when a class suddenly seems to double in the few days running up to a major test. Where were all these other people, and why haven't they been coming to class?
I don't mean to make Wabash sound like the students are just completely uninvolved or lazy. They aren't. Wabash men make some of the most insightful points and ask some of the best questions I've ever heard from a kid born after 1990 (which is still kind of freaking me out, thinking about that age gap). But like students everywhere, they beg for extra credit, complain that something "wasn't on the study guide for the test," or whine that "there's too much work." I find myself on the side of the professor in all of these complaints. The reading is right there, you have it in your hands. The test isn't trying to trick you, it's just there to assess how much you've been paying attention. If you've read the articles and are interested in the material, your only complaint should be that you had so much more to say in a limited amount of time.
I guess I've got it pretty easy though as an older student. Now that I know what I want to do, what I want to study, and most importantly, why I want to learn what I want to learn, it makes it much easier to buckle down and get to it. I'm interested in what I'm learning. Even if a class is boring, I know that I'll need that information to make some other bigger step in the future. But so many of these students aren't like that. I know I wasn't back then. Maybe part of the reason that young adults seem to need a new age category, something between adolescence and adulthood, is that continued education has become almost a requirement at this stage of American development. A student is often shuttled from high school directly to undergraduate without any real-life experience. Uplifted from his/her parent's house to a dorm, a student doesn't have any better idea of how the world works or what they want their place to be within it. I guess I'm now a proponent of taking a gap year like so many Europeans do, taking time off to gain some experience or travel a bit, see and do new things. I wish I had taken one, but in retrospect, attending a liberal arts college like Wabash didn't hurt too much. I had no idea what I wanted to do, so why not get a little taste of everything? But I was a kid. I'd never even held a real job. It doesn't seem like we really enter adulthood until we start to have real responsibilities, and we don't get those until we finish undergrad, and by then, we're saddled with thousands of dollars of debt and little idea of what happens next. We've been taken care of and sheltered by institutions for our entire lives. Maybe it's time to stop asking young adults to act like their parents if we aren't ever going to expose them to the realities and responsibilities the world asks of it's citizens.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Teenage Idiots
I substitute taught today at my former high school. It’s a little extra cash while I’m at home, and the work isn’t too bad. But wow, can it take you back. I’m beginning to feel a distinct gulf between my 18 years growing up in rural Indiana and the seven years I’ve been away at college and in the Peace Corps. This is how my Dad must feel when my brother and I can’t remember watching Soupy Sales as kids. The kids in these high school classes were all born after 1990. In fact, they were all born after 1992, and it’s so difficult for me to conceive of that. I was already in second grade when these kids were born. I remember when the first Toy Story came out. It was in 1995. Think about how long ago that was.
It’s funny to observe these students and compare them to representative television high school dramas. Maybe it’s just the ratings, or maybe it’s the fact that I grew up in some patch of corn in the middle of nowhere, but high school kids aren’t that exciting. Instead, to my outside eyes, they all seem so innocent and naïve. Maybe I’m just projecting my own reality on them, the person I was a decade ago.
Wow, a kid just asked another, “Did you ever see the movie Space Jam?” I think, “Like that’s a movie you have to ask about?” I didn’t know anyone who hadn’t seen Space Jam when I was a kid. Hasn’t everyone seen Space Jam? Evidently, Space Jam has gone the way of Soupy Sales.
Whoa. Stop. Things haven’t got that bad yet.
Going back to school has definitely played into the time warp head trauma of living at home. High school is one of those places you shouldn’t ever have to step foot in again once you’ve left. I wasn’t one of those who were desperately in love with high school. I was quite willing to leave it all behind, the sooner the better.
I think one of the reasons is because I never really fit in to the machismo that’s inherent in high school boys. It’s funny to see it here from a position of authority. There’s an easily identifiable jockeying for position among these guys. It’s an opportunity to be stupid, challenge for position, question authority, and maybe get the attention of one of the cuter girls. It’s kind of like watching the chimps at the zoo.
It actually reminds me a lot of Niger. The one group that I didn’t really spend a lot of time with was the teenage boys. They were the biggest pain in the ass in the entire village. It was the same kind of stuff too. They hung out in groups, cocksure but really not all that confident, the act of immaturity and bravado without that much power. Teenage girls didn’t fall into the typical categories. The typical girl in Niger is married by fourteen and pregnant by sixteen. They’re forced into maturity rather quickly. The guys, on the other hand, usually have to make something of their futures before they can marry. They need to have property of their own to afford a wife, so they’ll usually keep farming the fields or go off to the coast to look for work.
It was always marriage that put the clamps down on these young guys. As soon as they found a wife, they settled down and became respectable members of society. You could hang out with them, play cards, talk about the weather just like the old men, but until they hit that age, they were the most infuriating trial of the day.
It’s amazing to watch the transformation. I feel like it must be something to do with the relationship with elders in a community. In Niger, a man isn’t a man until he’s married. Believe me, I heard this a lot. “You’re not married? But you’re 25? You must not have a penis.” Unmarried men were not yet adults, but they obviously weren’t still children. The gap of adolescence is much smaller in Niger, so men above the age of sixteen fall into this strange gap where they have no real identity in society. They’re no longer dependent, but they’re not really a productive, contributing individual. Men, I wouldn’t say regress, but I can’t think of too many other terms for it. It becomes their own little social circle, subject to its own power struggles but still subservient to the elders in society.
Is it like that with American boys? I remember high school as kind of a, well I shouldn’t write it, but it involves a bunch of guys and a circle. Among the guys (and I’m sure among the girls as well, I don’t know, I wasn’t part of that circle) there was more posturing than personality, more stupidity than substance. I never fit into that, and I still don’t when there are guys of that age about. I don’t think I ever grew into or out of it. I found my own group of friends and tried to ignore the stupidity at large. Of course, we as high school boys still did stupid things, but we kept it in check and didn’t try to dominate others. Must be something with the hormones; whatever we did, we needed an outlet for idiocy.
I might write more about this later, but honestly, I’m not that in to reliving my past, as least not the parts that I’ve tried to leave behind. Just another reason to break out of this box…
It’s funny to observe these students and compare them to representative television high school dramas. Maybe it’s just the ratings, or maybe it’s the fact that I grew up in some patch of corn in the middle of nowhere, but high school kids aren’t that exciting. Instead, to my outside eyes, they all seem so innocent and naïve. Maybe I’m just projecting my own reality on them, the person I was a decade ago.
Wow, a kid just asked another, “Did you ever see the movie Space Jam?” I think, “Like that’s a movie you have to ask about?” I didn’t know anyone who hadn’t seen Space Jam when I was a kid. Hasn’t everyone seen Space Jam? Evidently, Space Jam has gone the way of Soupy Sales.
Whoa. Stop. Things haven’t got that bad yet.
Going back to school has definitely played into the time warp head trauma of living at home. High school is one of those places you shouldn’t ever have to step foot in again once you’ve left. I wasn’t one of those who were desperately in love with high school. I was quite willing to leave it all behind, the sooner the better.
I think one of the reasons is because I never really fit in to the machismo that’s inherent in high school boys. It’s funny to see it here from a position of authority. There’s an easily identifiable jockeying for position among these guys. It’s an opportunity to be stupid, challenge for position, question authority, and maybe get the attention of one of the cuter girls. It’s kind of like watching the chimps at the zoo.
It actually reminds me a lot of Niger. The one group that I didn’t really spend a lot of time with was the teenage boys. They were the biggest pain in the ass in the entire village. It was the same kind of stuff too. They hung out in groups, cocksure but really not all that confident, the act of immaturity and bravado without that much power. Teenage girls didn’t fall into the typical categories. The typical girl in Niger is married by fourteen and pregnant by sixteen. They’re forced into maturity rather quickly. The guys, on the other hand, usually have to make something of their futures before they can marry. They need to have property of their own to afford a wife, so they’ll usually keep farming the fields or go off to the coast to look for work.
It was always marriage that put the clamps down on these young guys. As soon as they found a wife, they settled down and became respectable members of society. You could hang out with them, play cards, talk about the weather just like the old men, but until they hit that age, they were the most infuriating trial of the day.
It’s amazing to watch the transformation. I feel like it must be something to do with the relationship with elders in a community. In Niger, a man isn’t a man until he’s married. Believe me, I heard this a lot. “You’re not married? But you’re 25? You must not have a penis.” Unmarried men were not yet adults, but they obviously weren’t still children. The gap of adolescence is much smaller in Niger, so men above the age of sixteen fall into this strange gap where they have no real identity in society. They’re no longer dependent, but they’re not really a productive, contributing individual. Men, I wouldn’t say regress, but I can’t think of too many other terms for it. It becomes their own little social circle, subject to its own power struggles but still subservient to the elders in society.
Is it like that with American boys? I remember high school as kind of a, well I shouldn’t write it, but it involves a bunch of guys and a circle. Among the guys (and I’m sure among the girls as well, I don’t know, I wasn’t part of that circle) there was more posturing than personality, more stupidity than substance. I never fit into that, and I still don’t when there are guys of that age about. I don’t think I ever grew into or out of it. I found my own group of friends and tried to ignore the stupidity at large. Of course, we as high school boys still did stupid things, but we kept it in check and didn’t try to dominate others. Must be something with the hormones; whatever we did, we needed an outlet for idiocy.
I might write more about this later, but honestly, I’m not that in to reliving my past, as least not the parts that I’ve tried to leave behind. Just another reason to break out of this box…
Monday, October 18, 2010
Underwhelmed
It's been nearly two months since I came back from my various travels and my time in Africa. The cultural readjustment hasn't been as bad as I thought it would be mostly, I think, due to my long, winding road home. However, now I'm faced with the difficulties of living in a place so closely associated with my past and a person with whom I no longer identify.
That person is the old me, and I guess I shouldn't say that I no longer identify with him. It's very difficult for me to be sedentary. Before I left for Africa, I used to get restless, but I could usually distract myself in some way through television or video games, etc. Now, I can't bring myself to take hold of these former distractions. Living without them for nearly three years, I've forgotten how to live with them. As a result, my days have opened up considerably. Filling all those extra hours is the new challenge.
One would think that this is a good thing, and in many ways, it is. I can focus on really grinding through work for the classes I'm taking, buckle down on grad school applications, and get a little light reading and writing done in the spare time in between. However, the reality is that too much free time allows my brain to run wild.
I've had a lot of experience being completely overwhelmed by external forces. My senior year in undergrad, I applied for dean's permission to take six classes, two of which were senior capstone courses, one was a directing class that took up all my time both spare and the time I should have used for basic necessities like bathing, sleeping, and eating. I developed an eye twitch for the month we were in production, but I still somehow managed to walk away from that semester intact. I believed if I could survive that, I could survive anything. The momentum from that semester carried me through comprehensive exams and a double distinction. In Niger, I faced evacuations, dysentery, culture shock, corruption, and any number of other x factors with quite a bit of stress but no lasting side effects (caused by stress anyway, I'm sure the parasites left their mark). Again, if I could survive that, I could survive anything.
The point is that I can handle pressure very well. In fact, I thrive under pressure. It forces me to allocate my resources and really push myself to succeed. What I'm beginning to learn at home, however, is that I cannot handle the feeling of being surrounded by options but without any clear goal of how to take advantage of them. I feel like I'm completely underwhelmed at home, like I've just done all these things, reached the end of the road, and now I'm faced with a variety of paths but no clear idea of where any of them lead. It's frustrating, but worse, it throws my brain into overdrive trying to work out all the details of my options. My mind thrives on possibilities, gorging itself on them like a kid with too many sweets, and as one would expect, consuming too many sweets will eventually make one sick.
I've always overanalyzed, but usually the crazy part of me is held in check by the need to make a decision in some manageable time frame. Now, without any set schedule or itinerary, and stuck at home where I don't have to worry too much about material matters, I feel like I'm just drifting. Time is passing by, I can feel it, but I don't feel like I'm getting any closer to anything I want to do. I feel trapped by an imagined cycle of "If I want this job, I need to do grad school, but in order to get into grad school, I need more experience in the field that I can't get into because I don't have the degree." My brain kicks in and I start thinking about things that have no bearing on my present (like whether I want to study in New York or London, living opportunities, how I'll afford either, what the volunteer opportunities are there, etc.). All of these are future hurdles that I'll have to jump when the time comes, but I can't seem to differentiate present concerns with future. As a result, everything seems more pressing than it is. I get into these moods where my brain just starts grinding and grinding like a computer processor running too many programs at once. It's so busy with all these other things that it can't run even the simplest of tasks without crashing horrifically. Eventually, it's going to burn out.
All this wouldn't be too awful if I had people, events, exciting things to distract me. I love my parents, but I can't get too excited by hanging out with them. I need some peers as well as parents, people who I can relate to, people who share my interests. Unfortunately, there aren't any around. It's part of the fact that rural America has had huge problems with brain drain for years now. There are no jobs, no opportunities for students who've really pushed and excelled throughout high school and college. The only young people that I know in my community are the burnouts, those who've gotten married young, those who are already through a kid or two. I don't mean to sound elitist in any way, but how can I identify with someone with whom I share almost nothing? Just because we went the the same high school, grew up in the same small town, it doesn't mean much. We were already moving apart from one another when they separated the accelerated math and english classes back in junior high. The only thing we share is a background, and that background is only shared by someone looking from the outside. Within the community you have all those stereotypical high school roles. I was a nerd. All the other nerds are gone; they're doing things with their lives outside of rural Indiana. A lot of the burnouts, the ones who used to give me hell because my mother was a teacher, are still here. But we took our separate paths long ago.
I start to go crazy when there aren't people around. I'm like a puppy. I need lots of attention, or at the very least, I need someone around who I can chat with almost non-stop. If I don't speak my mind, speak it out loud, the words get trapped inside my head, and coherent ideas become jumbled as they whirl around in such a tight space. If I'm not writing or speaking constantly when my brain shifts into these high energy periods, I'm paralyzed by hours and hours of confused thought. It's not quite an anxiety attack, but I guess that's about as close as you can get. I've figured that I'm not writing nearly enough these days, so this entry is an attempt to fix that and give anyone who's interested an idea into what the readjustment process has been like for me: namely, I've been overwhelmed by underwhelming circumstances.
That person is the old me, and I guess I shouldn't say that I no longer identify with him. It's very difficult for me to be sedentary. Before I left for Africa, I used to get restless, but I could usually distract myself in some way through television or video games, etc. Now, I can't bring myself to take hold of these former distractions. Living without them for nearly three years, I've forgotten how to live with them. As a result, my days have opened up considerably. Filling all those extra hours is the new challenge.
One would think that this is a good thing, and in many ways, it is. I can focus on really grinding through work for the classes I'm taking, buckle down on grad school applications, and get a little light reading and writing done in the spare time in between. However, the reality is that too much free time allows my brain to run wild.
I've had a lot of experience being completely overwhelmed by external forces. My senior year in undergrad, I applied for dean's permission to take six classes, two of which were senior capstone courses, one was a directing class that took up all my time both spare and the time I should have used for basic necessities like bathing, sleeping, and eating. I developed an eye twitch for the month we were in production, but I still somehow managed to walk away from that semester intact. I believed if I could survive that, I could survive anything. The momentum from that semester carried me through comprehensive exams and a double distinction. In Niger, I faced evacuations, dysentery, culture shock, corruption, and any number of other x factors with quite a bit of stress but no lasting side effects (caused by stress anyway, I'm sure the parasites left their mark). Again, if I could survive that, I could survive anything.
The point is that I can handle pressure very well. In fact, I thrive under pressure. It forces me to allocate my resources and really push myself to succeed. What I'm beginning to learn at home, however, is that I cannot handle the feeling of being surrounded by options but without any clear goal of how to take advantage of them. I feel like I'm completely underwhelmed at home, like I've just done all these things, reached the end of the road, and now I'm faced with a variety of paths but no clear idea of where any of them lead. It's frustrating, but worse, it throws my brain into overdrive trying to work out all the details of my options. My mind thrives on possibilities, gorging itself on them like a kid with too many sweets, and as one would expect, consuming too many sweets will eventually make one sick.
I've always overanalyzed, but usually the crazy part of me is held in check by the need to make a decision in some manageable time frame. Now, without any set schedule or itinerary, and stuck at home where I don't have to worry too much about material matters, I feel like I'm just drifting. Time is passing by, I can feel it, but I don't feel like I'm getting any closer to anything I want to do. I feel trapped by an imagined cycle of "If I want this job, I need to do grad school, but in order to get into grad school, I need more experience in the field that I can't get into because I don't have the degree." My brain kicks in and I start thinking about things that have no bearing on my present (like whether I want to study in New York or London, living opportunities, how I'll afford either, what the volunteer opportunities are there, etc.). All of these are future hurdles that I'll have to jump when the time comes, but I can't seem to differentiate present concerns with future. As a result, everything seems more pressing than it is. I get into these moods where my brain just starts grinding and grinding like a computer processor running too many programs at once. It's so busy with all these other things that it can't run even the simplest of tasks without crashing horrifically. Eventually, it's going to burn out.
All this wouldn't be too awful if I had people, events, exciting things to distract me. I love my parents, but I can't get too excited by hanging out with them. I need some peers as well as parents, people who I can relate to, people who share my interests. Unfortunately, there aren't any around. It's part of the fact that rural America has had huge problems with brain drain for years now. There are no jobs, no opportunities for students who've really pushed and excelled throughout high school and college. The only young people that I know in my community are the burnouts, those who've gotten married young, those who are already through a kid or two. I don't mean to sound elitist in any way, but how can I identify with someone with whom I share almost nothing? Just because we went the the same high school, grew up in the same small town, it doesn't mean much. We were already moving apart from one another when they separated the accelerated math and english classes back in junior high. The only thing we share is a background, and that background is only shared by someone looking from the outside. Within the community you have all those stereotypical high school roles. I was a nerd. All the other nerds are gone; they're doing things with their lives outside of rural Indiana. A lot of the burnouts, the ones who used to give me hell because my mother was a teacher, are still here. But we took our separate paths long ago.
I start to go crazy when there aren't people around. I'm like a puppy. I need lots of attention, or at the very least, I need someone around who I can chat with almost non-stop. If I don't speak my mind, speak it out loud, the words get trapped inside my head, and coherent ideas become jumbled as they whirl around in such a tight space. If I'm not writing or speaking constantly when my brain shifts into these high energy periods, I'm paralyzed by hours and hours of confused thought. It's not quite an anxiety attack, but I guess that's about as close as you can get. I've figured that I'm not writing nearly enough these days, so this entry is an attempt to fix that and give anyone who's interested an idea into what the readjustment process has been like for me: namely, I've been overwhelmed by underwhelming circumstances.
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