Yesterday, my home phone rang. Big deal, right? OK, it was. I rarely use it. Everyone calls me on my mobile. So, 90% of the time, it's a wrong number. 5% of the time, it's a doctor or dentist's office and the rest are people I'd just as soon not call me.
The person on the other end said she was from Alick's Home Medical Care Service. I was prepared to tell her she had the wrong number, until she said she was calling for (gulp), me. Huh?! Alick's is a place for old people! I get depressed just watching their television commercials--the ones showing how they can install this automatic chair that slides up and down the stairs at about 1.6 miles per hour. In the chair sits a woman with a smiling, but rather blank and vacant stare on her face. I suppose they are trying to convince us she's enjoying the ride. My thought is that I hope she isn't going up to get to the lavatory, because, at that speed, she's never going to make it in time. Their commercials are usually followed by TV ads for funeral homes. After all, it's the next logical step. First, you make the visit to Alick's. Before you know it, you're six feet under.
Anyways, the Alick's lady explained that my surgeon wanted me fitted for a thigh high compression stocking to wear after my upcoming hip surgery, in order to prevent blood clots. This means that, now, I actually had to go to Alick's. And, I am going to have to wear some groovy stocking that clearly won't be fashionable at all. I had just come home from a very good trip to Louisiana, and now, I was instantly in a bad mood.
When I arrived at Alick's today, I had to wait for my appointment, and so I wandered around the "store." Now, there are few people who enjoy shopping more than I, but this was not your typical mall type shop. I was confronted with canes (and not the cool, classy kind, but rather, the ones with the four prongs), walkers with the little built in seats, oxygen equipment, those big chairs that raise you up to help you stand, hospital type beds, rows and rows of pill containers, surgical dressing, orthopedic shoes, and on and on and on. I was depressed. I didn't want to think about this stuff.
When I was younger, I used to tease older people about their age--a lot. I don't think I ever let a year go by where I didn't send my parents and my brothers birthday cards that made fun of their age; because, of course, I am the youngest. I don't want to generalize, but I think, as younger people, we see old age as something humorous. That's ironic, since most of us will, one day, get there. Well, I'm not so young anymore. I like to think of myself as middle aged, but, in a recent conversation, the person I was talking to was urging me to consider that I am pushing past that point and that old age is, in reality, just around the corner. Good grief. Already? I haven't even psychologically matured yet. Is my body going to give up before I get a chance to grow up?
I have had gray hair since the age of 14, so I always looked old. But looking old has had its advantages. I was never carded when entering a bar (not that I would have tried to ever do so illegally). I get the senior discount without being asked, even though I am not yet old enough to get it. That's fine. I'm not proud. Looking old, and actually being old are two very different things.
The truth is, I am beginning to fear old age. It is no longer funny, and while I might occasionally tease my older friends or my brothers, I think the jibing has taken a much mellower and much more uncertain tone. I do realize this new found fear isn't healthy or rational. Frankly, dwelling on it is quite a waste of time, as I have absolutely no control over it whatsoever.
So here I sit, reflecting on why I have this fear of aging. Many of my friends, and people I love and respect fall into the category of old. As I wrote that just now, I almost didn't even want to use the word "old". Calling someone old feels much like calling them a bad name, almost as if it's an insult. But, in fact, that isn't the case. I don't mind them being old. In fact, I appreciate the wisdom and grace that has come with their aging. It's just that I don't want to get there myself.
I don't want to get there because of the unknown. We don't really know how we're going to age. I recall a conversation I had, mostly jocular, with my nieces, and later my nephew. My two nieces, after hearing me worry about being alone in my old age, said, "Don't worry Aunt Judy, we'll take care of you." I asked them if they were going to change my diaper. I was greeted with silence. My nephew, on the other hand (and he does pretty well financially) said: "I won't change your diaper, but I'll pay someone to do it." Great. In all seriousness though, I worry that along with becoming wise and aging gracefully, there may also be a certain amount of pain and loneliness. Some people begin to lose their memory. Others develop arthritis and are limited in the physical activities that they can do. As it is, I'm having hip surgery. Deteriorating joints go hand in hand with old age. Welcome to the club, Jude. It's scary.
Ultimately though, fear of aging is linked with fear of death. And, despite being a faithful Catholic, I must admit that I have those moments where the thought of dying and being no more is so frightening that I have to go and put in my DVD of Bridget Jones' Diary just to get the thoughts out of my head. I'm almost ashamed to admit it. As people of faith, we aren't supposed to fear death. "Death, where is thy sting?" and all of that. To admit to fearing death is to suggest that maybe I lack faith.
Well, I don't. Not really. But without doubt, there is no faith. And I can't help that sometimes those doubts do creep into my head. I only hope that, as I continue advancing into old age, they creep into my head less and less and that I change my perspective and am able to age gracefully as well, much like my senior friends.
Today I listened to a podcast by Fr. Jerry Fagin. I ran into him in Louisiana this past week, and told him I had seen the podcast before and tried to play it, but couldn't get it to work. After seeing him, I was reminded of it, and came back to listen to it today. Interestingly, the talk is on the Spirituality of Aging. I looked at that title and thought to myself "oh my." He is a brilliant and interesting professor, and I loved listening to him lecture, but I hesitated, reflecting on the coincidence that I had been musing, grumpily, about old age all day, and here I was preparing to listen to a talk for old people.
The talk, however, while geared towards those who are older, is really relevant for everyone, or at least it was relevant to me. What I took from it was that, as we age, we change our perspective on how we see things, and how we practice our faith and spirituality. I wouldn't presume to dissect it, and the best way to know what he says is to listen to it:
http://norprov.org/spirituality/spiritualityforlateryears.htm. (It does get cut off at the end, sadly, right at the point where he says he is going to end on an "up" note!) When folks age, they do change their perspective of life. I have witnessed this myself, living, for ten years, in the retirement community of Sun City, AZ. The churches, without exception, were packed every single Sunday, unlike those churches and parishes in most of our communities (except for the mega-churches...a subject for another blog). Again, I used to smile at that fact, thinking that, well, the old codgers are getting close to death and it's time to get right with God. In effect, that's really true, although I might say it much less crudely and a bit more compassionately now.
It would be good to change that perspective much earlier in life, before getting old. To achieve a mature spirituality is certainly a goal towards which to strive. However, life experiences contribute to the maturity of our spirituality, and many of those life experiences, of course, come with age.
After I finished listening to this talk, I was filled with a bit more hope. I can't honestly say I'm happily anticipating old age and death. Frankly, that would be sort of sick. I think the only way to glide into old age gracefully is to to continue to nourish faith and focus on spirituality. I do worry that the doubts I have are indicative of, perhaps, a deficient faith; however, something Fr. Jerry said in this podcast really struck me: "In our later years I've come to that place where I have to say that I will not be saved by my fidelity. I will be saved by God's fidelity. It's the faithfulness of God that I have to embrace. The root of our fidelity is God's fidelity in God's never-ending willingness to begin again. No matter how often we fail, no matter how often we compromise, God is persistent in reaching out." I found that very hopeful, and an exceedingly wise insight. I do hope that when God is reaching out to me in my old age, He is patient. After all, I will be moving much slower. Who knows, I may be stuck on that slow moving chair wending its way up my stairs...
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Reflections on Grand Coteau
This week I made a silent retreat at the Jesuit Spirituality Center at St. Charles College, in Grand Coteau, Louisiana. The inner working of my mind and spirit during those days is a subject reserved for me, my amazing director and God. However, it is, for me, impossible to not write about the place. I have visited before, on several occasions; once to make a longer retreat, and once to visit my friend and mentor Fr. Tom. It is difficult to spend time on the grounds there and not be deeply affected in some almost indescribable way—so affected that I am moved to express it.
There is something quite evocative about the College setting and the small town. It’s as if one is actually transported back in time 100 or 150 years. The surrounding stillness and silence are pierced only occasionally by the deep lowing of a big black cow from the neighboring farm, or by the unified song of the multitudes of cicadas joining with the crickets in the evenings. I smile, recalling the warnings of my northern friends that the sound of cicadas signals the arrival of the first frost in six weeks. Sitting here in front of the college at the end of July, I somehow think not…at least not here.
As I wander around the property, I see old buildings with peeling paint and random farm equipment whose purpose escapes me. The grounds are guarded by countless magnificent old giants: enormous oak trees dripping with Spanish moss. Who knows how many years they have stood as sentinels? And, towards the back stand two gigantic oaks, keeping watch over the cemetery, where graves reach back to the early 19th and possibly even 18th century. Strolling through, I note that some markers are so old as to be illegible; however, many are inscribed, in French, and carry old, noble names such as Boudreaux, Gautier and Broussard.
The building of the college is a relic of time gone by, with a somewhat institutional feel; yet, absent the sterility, and, somehow, much more welcoming. There is a certain, indefinable scent to the place—musty, but not in a bad way. Passing through the building, I imagine I can sense the presence of non-threatening ghosts haunting the corridors. One cannot help but think and reflect upon all of the people who walked these halls, in meditation and prayer and study. My own cousin, a Jesuit priest, was most certainly here, and so I feel an even deeper connection to the place.
Out back, behind the college in the simple Jesuit cemetery with unadorned headstones, I discovered, sadly, the names of men I had known from my days at Loyola: Fagot, Rivet, Clancy and Montecino. After discovering the fourth name I recognized, I ceased looking. They paved the way for a new, younger generation of novices who will pass through here, searching their hearts and souls in an attempt to determine if God is calling them to follow down this path, which goes through Grand Coteau. I know such a young man, who will be entering in the fall. May God bless him.
On my final evening here, I sit out on the front porch of the College in a rocking chair. As my decaying hips throb in pain, I wonder to myself, somewhat jokingly, if this is what it’s like to be in an old folk’s home, rocking away, out in the quiet country, and wishing I had a younger body. The humidity is unbelievably thick and heavy in the air, as is typical for a midsummer’s eve in Louisiana. I never, ever minded Louisiana summers. There is something wistful about the near oppressive heat and humidity and dampness of the place that causes one to be strangely content and at peace. The climate is indelibly tied up with the slow and unique culture of the Deep South. Great southern authors have been able to describe it in ways that allow the imagination to see and feel it. I, however, cannot. But the heat and dampness, and the faint scent of decay remind me of magical days gone by, spent with my family and friends long ago here in this state.
But, oh, the insects. I had forgotten that they are as ubiquitous and omnipresent as the God that created them. I am afraid I never quite learned to appreciate them and they are everywhere: spiders falling in your hair (or out of your hair), and cockroaches the size of jumbo jets roaming the hallways and the sidewalks. The other day, I was stung by a bee on my arm while swimming in the huge pool. And, this evening, thoroughly doused in deet, I still feel the dastardly mosquito critters alighting on my arms, legs, ears, fingers and face—on any spot that I may have missed spraying. Their bites leave large, itchy welts to remind me of my time here. All part of God’s creation. When Fr. Tom suggested I see God in nature, I wonder, was he talking about this?
As I leave, I will carry with me prayers: prayers for those who will pass through on silent retreat in the Ignatian style, in search of a deeper understanding of the great Mystery of life. I pray for the novices who begin their journey here as Jesuits. I pray for those wonderful Jesuit priests and brothers who have gone on to a greater reward for service well done. And, most of all, I carry prayers for the great and gentle priests who remain at St. Charles college, serving their God by serving us all. Ad majorem dei gloriam.
Fr. Tom Madden, SJ
Recently, I have had several occasions to reflect back on my years in college and graduate school at Loyola University. I was inspired to reminisce after a chance encounter with an old college friend a week or two ago. And, even more recently, I travelled to Louisiana to undergo a directed retreat with my old Boss, mentor and friend from Loyola. There is so much to think about from my college years-- and most of it good. I studied in New Orleans, and so it goes without saying that it was non-stop fun. By and large, I enjoyed my classes and my professors very much, except for the Statistics class and the creeper who taught it. I could have lived my entire life without that particular experience and am relatively certain I wouldn’t be a lesser person today. Nevertheless, in the end, I proudly took away two diplomas from Loyola. But, more valuable than sheepskin by far was the opportunity to develop and sustain a relationship with the great man I have come to call my mentor in life: Fr. Tom Madden.
A mentor is so much more than a teacher or a counselor. Admittedly, I am not a fan of counselors, but that is based upon a somewhat negative personal experience. I think it is a valid profession, and accept that counselors have assisted many people who find themselves in trouble; however, I really believe that in any successful mentoring relationship, several things have to be in place--things that may or may not necessarily be inherent in counseling relationships. Most importantly, at least for me, the conversation has to be Christ-centered. I think that there needs to be a level of complete trust, which is sometimes difficult to achieve when you’re paying someone to listen to you. And finally, it helps tremendously if the one listening holds personal interest in and genuine affection for the person he or she is listening to.
As for teachers, well, I have had plenty of great teachers at Loyola, and I think of them all fondly and with tremendous gratitude. I was thrilled to see one of my favorites, Fr. Jerry Fagin, this morning at breakfast at the conclusion of my retreat. He is a fantastic man, a great priest and incomparable in the classroom. I still cringe about the day when we were acting up in class, forcing him to sternly tell us to quiet down—something that was NOT in his nature. It was painful—obviously so, because I still feel badly about it and remember it all too clearly. Something tells me that he isn’t hanging on to that particular memory though. He seems to have gotten over it. Back in December, wandering through the halls of Loyola University, I encountered my favorite teacher, with whom I had four classes in Philosophy. Upon saying hello and re-introducing myself, he had the nerve to blurt out “I don’t remember you.” I was shattered. Fine. See if I invite you to my next graduation party Dr. Herbert. You spent the whole time ignoring me and talking to Fr. Rowntree anyways. Dork.
My mentor never forgot me, and that’s because the relationship wasn’t one-sided. I am in no way suggesting that I ever taught the Boss anything. In fact, that’s laughable. That’s VERY laughable. (Wow, I’m still laughing.) But for some reason that I was never able to fathom, I knew without question that Fr. Tom genuinely liked me, and, more importantly, genuinely cared about me. Maybe he saw something redeemable in me, who knows? I am not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. I never felt that the time he spent with me was obligatory on his part. I knew, intuitively, that he was happy to talk to me about whatever seemingly great (and usually pathetically small) problem was troubling me. And, unless he is just a really good actor, I am still certain of his friendship to this day, and am grateful beyond all proportion. I do not question why I am fortunate to be a party in this relationship. I take it as a sign that I must be somewhat special to have earned the affection of such a great man. It is one of the best things in my life.
There are few people in my sphere that can get away with saying some of the things that Fr. Tom has said to me. I will take it only from him because I know two things: 1) He always has my best interest at heart and 2) He’s almost always right. Damn. That can be rather annoying. A word to my friends: don’t try it. Don’t ever try it. You are NOT Fr. Madden.
The Boss is everything you would want in a mentor. Sagacious, kind and gentle, but firm enough to be willing to give you a good kick in the seat of your pants when he sees that you need it. But most of all, what draws me to him, and what drew all of my friends to him as well, is, quite simply, his goodness. Fr. Madden was, for many of us, a compass of morality and the barometer of what was right, true and just. I joked with him recently that the phrase “What would Fr. Madden say?” was uttered so often after our transgressions that it was a mantra. More importantly, it preceded the “What Would Jesus Do” fad by years. We should have marketed it and made bracelets. Disappointing the Boss was just about the worst thing anyone could envision doing. My favorite such story, which illustrates this very point, occurred one evening in the French Quarter, when I was an undergraduate. I was out with a group of friends, and, at about 2:00am, someone suggested the very un-Fr. Madden like idea of entering into one of those seedy, vile places that were quite prevalent in the Quarter. I instantly balked at the suggestion, because it seemed to go against everything I had been taught about right and wrong. My friends were very persistent, and one asked me if I wasn’t curious about going inside. My response went something like this: “Of course I’m curious, but what if Fr. Madden sees me coming out of here.” And the reply from one of my brighter friends: “What would Fr. Madden be doing in the French Quarter at 2 in the morning?” I saw her point. We went in, and I remember being somewhat repulsed by the experience and relieved when we exited. God punished us because when we left to go find the car to return home, it had been stolen. For the record, Fr. Madden wasn’t in the Quarter at 2:00am.
It is difficult, or perhaps, impossible to envision how our lives would be different had we chosen other paths or never met certain people. I cannot say for sure how my life would be altered had I not had the opportunity to know Fr. Madden. When I think of what I have learned from him, and then I mentally remove those things from my psyche, I'm slightly frightened at the thought of what I would be lacking.
What I have learned from the Boss isn’t at all complicated. It is, however, incredibly difficult to master. And this is why I claim him as my mentor—because he has mastered it, and I want, more than anything, to be like him (sans the SJ after my name), and to maybe, once in my life, be able to impact the life of some young person as he has impacted mine. And it basically boils down to this: quietly and humbly live out what you believe without being overly demonstrative. Speak the truth, especially when a person needs to hear it; and if it’s a very difficult thing to say, do so kindly and with love. Treat everyone as Christ would. Be kind, be gentle. Be sincere and honest and wise. Pray. Pray a lot. Make Christ the absolute center of your life. Never utter a harsh word. Strive to be saintly, not sanctimonious. Never be embroiled in scandal. Go where God leads you, even if, maybe, it’s not what you might want. Take time with the people who need you and teach them by word, or example, or both, what it is they need to know. Be congenial, make jokes and laugh when something is funny. Be compassionate. Be mature. ESPECIALLY be mature. Defend what is good and what is right. Always take responsibility for your actions. Don't make excuses. And, most importantly, when someone does something wrong, give them the “you just disappointed Fr. Madden” look, and then…nothing further need be done. Point made.
I suspect, perhaps, that Fr. Tom might be a bit put out with me for writing something akin to a panegyric, because, in the end, he seems to exude humility. But I am reminded of a conversation with a college friend of mine, Steven, years ago, when we were talking about something entirely different. His words to me were something like "For crying out loud, what is this world coming to when you can't tell people how you feel about them?" Nothing earth shattering or especially revelatory, but those words stuck with me. At the end of the day, I think it's important, not only for the person expressing those sentiments to do so openly and honestly; but also for the recipients of those words, in order for them to be aware of how they have affected others in the most positive ways as they go about their lives and ministries. There is, in this world, far too much negativity and it is way to easy to get caught up in an inimical vortex; and, sadly, we become all too used to speaking and thinking that way. So, thanks for everything, Boss. You’re a star. Your life has clearly been lived AMDG and you will always hold a most special place in my heart.
I suspect, perhaps, that Fr. Tom might be a bit put out with me for writing something akin to a panegyric, because, in the end, he seems to exude humility. But I am reminded of a conversation with a college friend of mine, Steven, years ago, when we were talking about something entirely different. His words to me were something like "For crying out loud, what is this world coming to when you can't tell people how you feel about them?" Nothing earth shattering or especially revelatory, but those words stuck with me. At the end of the day, I think it's important, not only for the person expressing those sentiments to do so openly and honestly; but also for the recipients of those words, in order for them to be aware of how they have affected others in the most positive ways as they go about their lives and ministries. There is, in this world, far too much negativity and it is way to easy to get caught up in an inimical vortex; and, sadly, we become all too used to speaking and thinking that way. So, thanks for everything, Boss. You’re a star. Your life has clearly been lived AMDG and you will always hold a most special place in my heart.
Friday, July 16, 2010
A Tale of Two Cities, Part 3
In this lengthy travelogue, I had initially intended to discuss both my first trip to Egypt as well as my time in London; but I have yet to get through the Egypt portion. I find that the mere act detailing parts of my trials and travails through Cairo cause in me a sort of mental exhaustion, and so I had to take a break between my last post and this one. In regards to London, it probably doesn't matter anyways. Most folks have been to London, and, quite frankly, I probably shouldn't be publicizing my antics while living there anyways.
I did have one very great day in Alexandria with two of our students who were studying at the American University in Cairo. I cut a deal with them: I pay for everything, but they plan every portion of the day. The plan would not be a go unless one of them agreed to meet me at my hotel and escort me to the train station at the beginning of the day. In the brief time I had been in Cairo, I discovered that, by far, the most difficult thing was getting around. Walking was dangerous as it involved crossing the streets (see my previous blog post). Taking taxis was the most expedient and least expensive way of going. However, the day before our Alexandria trip, I had an experience that bears repeating. I had walked out of my hotel and down the road a bit to hail a taxi. When the gentlemen pulled over in what seemed to be perhaps a 1973 Fiat, I went to open the door and the door handle came off in my hand. I stood on the street, looking at it wonderingly, and not sure what to do. The taxi driver was getting frustrated with the time I was taking to enter the car, and he actually honked his horn at me, causing me to put the handle up to the window to show him. Upon seeing the handle in my hand, he uttered something in Arabic, which, if you read my other blog posts, you know I did not understand, got out and grabbed it from me, and then guided me to the other side of the car. During the rather harrowing ride, he politely made me an offer or two, which I refused and then, when we arrived to the site I had requested, he demanded that I pay him for the broken door handle as well as the fare. I exited the taxi, handed him 10 Egyptian pounds, which was more than double of what the fare should have been, (rolled up in a wad, as my students had instructed me) and started walking away rather briskly. He yelled after me, but I kept going. Seriously, was it MY fault his car broke?
Anyways, back to Alexandria. One of my students, Scott, gallantly agreed to meet me and escort me to the Ramses train station, where he and Brendan between them obtained some first class tickets to Alexandria. Travel is ridiculously inexpensive. I would recommend a first class ticket. There weren't any available for the return trip, and while it wasn't exceedingly uncomfortable, the door between the cars would not stay shut, and banged throughout the entire journey, causing every single one of us in the car to, at one point, get up and try to repair it (unsuccessfully). It drove us all nuts.
Nevertheless, we arrived in Alexandria, after what I remember to be about a two hour train ride. A word to the women--do NOT use the bathroom at the station. I was scarred for life. I have to say, the guys weren't too thrilled with whatever they witnessed on their side either.
Scott had planned out an excellent day for us and I was impressed at the research he did. First we went to have a look at some impressive Roman ruins at the Roman Theatre. It's a very well preserved amphitheater with a lot of really beautiful mosaic work. Alexandria passed from Greek to Roman rule about 80 BC, and, as you can see, the Romans knew how to build stuff to last.
Also on slate for the day was a trip to Pompey's Pillar, but first, LUNCH. I had a blast eating in Alexandria, because, frankly, it's cheap and you get a ton of food. Anyone who knows me knows I like a ton of food. We went to some local place and I don't have a clue what we ordered, but there were dishes of hummus, tahini, olives, and other things I can't name. I was a happy camper. I love dipping pita bread in stuff. I hope these guys don't mind me posting this photo.
Next, off to Pompey's Pillar. Why would we go all the way to Alexandria to see a pillar? Quite frankly because it's MASSIVE. It's a 25 meter high red granite structure. For those of us who have not mastered the metric system, 25m = 82 feet roughly. Yes, it's big and the diameter isn't anything to scoff at either. It's estimated to weight about 285 tons and is one of the largest monolithic columns ever constructed. I will put pictorial proof below. You can see the little teeny guys at the base. Those are my students. The pillar, by the way, is the largest structure in Alexandria. The column is actually a Corinthian column dating back to about 297 AD. I'll save the history lesson for later.
Alexandria has a surprisingly great museum called the Alexandria National Museum. I say that because of my experience in the Egyptian National Museum in Cairo. In my other blog I noted that, while the contents of the latter museum are beyond belief, the building itself was getting pretty shabby; and it was way overcrowded with so many artifacts that many weren't labelled, but rather, shoved in a dusty corner. The Alexandria National Museum is relatively new. NOTE: don't miss the mummies in the basement. Remember my previous advice: if you're not going to see mummies, don't go to Egypt, because how could you live with yourself when you have to admit to your friends that you went to Egypt and didn't see mummies! The museum details the history of Alexandria from the Pharaonic, Greco-Roman, Coptic and Islam periods. It has some really fabulous artifacts--the one below from the Roman era:
From there we went to see one of the coolest things ever: The Catacombs of Kom El Shoqafa. Sadly, they confiscated my camera, as they don't allow photos, and so I have no pictures. Catacombs are always creepy and therefore you should not miss this opportunity. It was used as a grave site from the 1st-4th century AD but wasn't discovered until 1900 or so when a donkey cart fell into it. I bet the ass was pretty creeped out by falling in a necropolis! Anyways, I had to steal this photo from the internet of the banquet hall in the catacombs. Mourners actually went down there and sat around and feasted. Hmmmm, not my thing really, as I can't imagine sustaining an appetite at a grave site, but here you go:
We then dashed off to the Citadel, but sadly did not get there in time to enter. The Citadel, of course, guards Alexandria from sea attack and it's incredibly picturesque, and therefore, I took an incredible amount of pictures. The Qaitbay Citadel is erected on the same site as the Lighthouse of Alexandria, which was, we all know, one of the Seven Wonders of the World. The Lighthouse is no more, sadly. The fort was build in the 15th century by Mameluke Sultan Qaitbay to defend against those crazy Turks. Now, it's just a very cool tourist attraction.
And as the Citadel is on the shores, I couldn't resist some photos of the sea:
From there we went for one of the best seafood meals I ever had at a place called Samakmak. It's owned by the premiere (retired) Egyptian belly dancer in town. When you walk in, they want you to pick your sea bass off of the platter so they can prepare it. I preferred to let them do it for me. And then the food comes, and comes, and comes. The best part, for me was the seafood tangen which was a stew loaded with crab, crawfish and all sorts of other shellfish. It was amazing. As for the sea bass, it might possibly be the best I ever had. I would argue it certainly was the freshest. And, in the end, it was by far the least expensive amazing seafood meal I ever ate. I can't even remember all the food they brought us, but the tally for three of us was less than $35 total. I have a hard time ordering sea bass and a drink anywhere here and getting out for less than that, just for myself. This was for three of us, and I was full before the main meal came. So, I'm high on Smakmak. Everyone will tell you to eat at the Fish Market, which shows up in all the guide books. We couldn't find it, but in the end, I was happy we didn't.
All in all, a big thumbs up for Alexandria. It's a lot less overwhelming than Cairo, but still contains some amazing and interesting things to see. The air is much cleaner (where ISN'T the air much cleaner?) and it has the advantage of a beautiful location on the Mediterranean. I found that I wasn't harassed as much, and it was a much more relaxing place to be.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Going Back in Time
This week, I had a surprise visitor. I was sitting in my office, daydreaming about walking along the shores of Lake Michigan with the dog and bemoaning the fact that my right wrist and fingers are going numb from too much time on the keyboard, when I heard the little noise my computer makes, signalling that I had received an email.
Looking down on my screen, I saw that it was from a person I hadn't seen in yeeeeaaaars. OK, by years, I'm guessing maybe about 25--when I was in graduate school at Loyola University in New Orleans. And, this particular person was right here on campus, researching in our own Hesburgh Library, and asking if I was, in fact, the person she used to know back at Loyola.
I was.
And I wrote back and told her so.
An hour later, she knocked on my door. How cool.
We also had lunch the next day. And now I am sitting here at my office, and instead of working, I am reflecting upon the experience, which, in my opinion, was a good one. I really enjoyed seeing her and catching up.
College years are very formative ones, and there is (or at least, there should be) quite a bit of development occurring. We encounter what we believe at that time to be the deepest truths of life in classes as well as in those late night discussions in our dorm rooms. And, very importantly, bonding occurs in a way that it will at no other time. It is impossible to envision that you won't be best friends for life with your college buddies.
However, the truth is that times change and so, too, do we. Sometimes, the person you re-encounter does not seem to be the same one you left behind so many years ago, and it isn't easy to pick up where you left off. While it can sometimes be a sad thing, I think it's entirely normal. Educational systems would be complete failures if their students became frozen in time, and ceased to develop beyond the stage of being a college student. The world would be one big "Animal House." Parts of that may seem attractive, but I am not at all enamored with the thought of becoming embroiled in a food fight.
I, for one, have lost track of most of my friends from high school and college, although, happily, social networking has put me back in touch with some, and that alone is the subject for another blog post. Here on campus, we often warn our college students about how they soon will leave here and have to experience life in the "real world". It's a cliche, yes, but in fact, the term does signify something important; and I do think that many students, upon commencement, are shocked when they land, quite abruptly into the sometimes cruel, harsh and unsupportive world the rest of us live in. While I have very few memories that evoke the same powerful feelings of fondness I experience when thinking about my time at Loyola, I also acknowledge that it was a sort of artificial and manufactured world. At no other time in life will one's whole existence be dedicated toward one pursuit while having few other responsibilities or obligations. And, while I think it's a fabulous idea, it's simply not realistic to remain living with large masses of other people of similar age, in crappy, roach infested dorm rooms (which, believe it or not, also invoke feelings of fondness in me), eating school cafeteria food (also, sometimes roach-infested), drinking beer in the Wolf Pub and spending every spare quarter in the Miss (or was it Ms?) Pacman machine. A normal social evening would see us leaving campus at midnight to go out and spend a night in the French Quarter, getting home around 5:00am and still making an 8:00am class. I was grateful to make it to my senior year, where I was not forced into those early morning time slots.
I recall staying up all night playing Trivial Pursuit, which was the big game during my graduate years. We plaed all night, finally falling into bed around 6:00am. Sometimes, I smoked my way through too many cigarettes, as my peers tended to do that sort of thing. I should note here that I am not a smoker. I just smoke other people's.
It was not uncommon to spend a whole evening in discussion with a friend who was facing what seemed to him or her to be a life-altering traumatic episode. Everything seemed life-altering and traumatic during those years though. I suspect most of the conversations had to do with the paths of our love-lives (both real and, in my case, imagined).
Fridays were quarter beer and free oyster days, and sometimes our favorite faculty joined us in the venture to find the best deal in one of New Orleans' seedier bars. We would spend hours hashing out "issues" and debating deep theological subjects--or not. Sometimes, we just sat around, drank beer, ate oysters and laughed. I had control over mixing the hot sauce--the right combinations of Tabasco, horseradish and ketchup.
Here at Notre Dame, I often come face to face with individuals who long for the days of their college experience. Back when I was a Rector in the residence hall, Football Saturdays were a bit of a nightmare. Normal students, of course, were still in bed at 8:00am, sleeping off the effects of whatever excursions they were on the night before. However, I was often confronted with the 50-80 year old alumni, who showed up at Breen-Phillips Hall, wanting to go in and see the rooms they inhabited during their junior year.
As I walked about campus on those football weekends, the air was filled with snippets of stories--parents telling their children about their sophomoric antics, or two "buddies" reminiscing about the time they pulled some prank on Fr. So and So, all the while laughing, perhaps a bit too loudly.
You know, if I could magically transport myself back to that time, I would do it in a heartbeat. The answer to "why" is simply this: it was fun. It was a rare time in life, a bit after adolescence but just before real "adult-hood" where we didn't really have to be responsible. Well, that's not exactly true. Obviously, we had responsibilities to ourselves and our parents--to attend classes and to do the work. We still (or at least most in my circle) believed that we had to live by some moral code and we weren't so self-immersed that we didn't care about others around us. It wasn't exactly a free-for all. But there is something wonderfully indescribable about the college years that invokes an overwhelming feeling of well-being, but also of wistfulness. It is a time that I would love to go back to, but sadly have to acknowledge the reality that it is simply impossible to do so. The experience is definitely tied up with the place (for me, Loyola University in New Orleans), but equally with age and development. I can easily return to Loyola, and I could even enroll in classes (although I suspect my Religious Studies profs would run away screaming if they heard this). But, despite what some of my current friends might say sarcastically, I cannot revert back to that developmental stage in life--somewhat carefree and immature, but yet mature enough to be searching for and trying to absorb those intangible things that will formulate who I am to become as an adult. Quite simply--it was a blast.
Anyways, thanks for visiting MJ. It was great to go back, if only for a few moments.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Idolizing Humans
Heroes. Most of us have used the word to describe someone whom we have idolized or deeply admired. Today, we hear the term used frequently in association with major athletic figures or actors. Names that come to mind, especially recently, are Tiger Woods and Mel Gibson. And look what happened to them.
There's not much point in recounting the recent and very well publicized antics of Tiger Woods. As a fan of the older golf regime (Nicklaus, Palmer, Watson), I never took to Tiger the way the younger golf fans did. But I never disputed that he had become the best golfer in the world, surpassing the many greats who preceded him struggling through Amen Corner at Augusta and battling the severe wind, and the maws posing as bunkers at St. Andrews. He was a hero and idol for many youngsters, who aspired to be just like him. I could imagine that many young kids, out on the golf course, would pretend they were Tiger just before hitting the "shot of a lifetime" and, in making a great shot, emulated his fist pump, as they won their imaginary U.S. Open.
Tiger has fallen from grace and so, seemingly, has his almost infallible golf game. And I wonder, what effect has it on the many people who held him up as almost a sacred figure? Have they become disillusioned with golf? Or just with Tiger. Obviously, it makes no sense to abandon love for the game of golf because of the immoral behavior of one player, and yet, that is exactly what has happened amongst many--especially the younger folks, for whom golf WAS Tiger Woods.
I read some more horrendous news about Mel Gibson today. At one time, I really did hold deep admiration for him. As a somewhat "conservative" Roman Catholic, (however one wants to read into that), I admired Mel because of his apparent idyllic and faithful marriage and his devotion to his large family. He went out on a limb to produce what I thought was an amazing movie, "The Passion of the Christ". Not surprisingly, it was the center of a lot of controversy. I admired his tenacity and steadfastness, which, I assumed, was rooted in his faith. Despite all protestations, he produced the film, and it was extremely powerful. And then, the bottom fell out of Mel Gibson's life. He left his wife and eventually took up with some young women with whom he has had a child. In the meantime, he had run ins with the law, and at one point, apparently intoxicated, spewed horrific anti-Semitic remarks. Now, it appears he has physically abused his new wife, with whom he is also splitting. What a sham.
I am deeply disillusioned with Mel Gibson, to the point that, when I think of him, I just get angry about what a despicable character he has become. He was a role model to me because I thought we shared a common approach to faith. So, should Mel's downfall affect how I view my own faith? Obviously, he is a mere mortal. Mel was never the epitome of Catholic belief. He was never the person of Christ here on earth, and so it would make absolutely no sense for my faith to be affected in any way by the antics of Mr. Gibson.
However, what about the "alter Christus"--the individual who acts "in persona Christi"? I refer, of course, to our Catholic priests. Catholics believe that ordained priests, when celebrating the Sacrament, act in the person of Christ. We believe that, upon their ordination, they do become another Christ--their identities change ontologically. They are to serve the world as representatives of Christ here on earth. How, then, can we not equate them with Christ and with the Church?
Here we are, in the wake of hideous clergy sex scandals of every type. Too many priests are accused of abusing children and teens. And too may of our bishops are acting as administrators rather than shepherds--worrying about "managing" and avoiding litigation, or covering up the hideous sin rather than being the spiritual leaders of their flock--caring for those who have been grievously hurt and dealing directly with the wolves in the fold. It is very, very difficult to not feel a huge sense of disillusionment about the Catholic faith in the midst of this. It is extremely difficult to separate our Catholicism from some of our Catholic priests.
I have been in discussions with too many friends and acquaintances who have had just such an adverse reaction to Catholicism as a result of the behavior of some of our priests and bishops. Some have ceased the practice of their faith. Some who still attend Mass, do so half-heartedly, as a matter of routine, but with much cynicism and suspicion and with negative attitudes towards anyone who is ordained. The faith has been severely injured by this ongoing scandal. How could it not be?
The crux of the problem is, in fact, in the title of this blog post. Actors, golfers, bishops and priests are human beings, all subject to temptation and sin. Witnessing their fall is at once tragic and infuriating. Our deep disillusionment may be a result of idolizing the man.
The body of the Church is made up of people, and people succumb to sin. Obviously our priests and bishops are not immune; and this particular sin has had grave implications certainly for their victims, and also for the life of the Church and the faith of her people. The sad fact is that these horrific behaviors have led many members to turn away from the faith in disgust and disillusionment because they are unable to separate the sin of priests and bishops from the Church and what she stands for and teaches. The wrongdoers will face their Judge, but, in the meantime, it falls to us to somehow begin to mend and rebuild the Church.
This re-building should not ever involve denying, ignoring, rationalizing or covering up what has taken place. Far be it from me to even begin to suggest where we need to go from here. But, despite the belief in the alter Christus, we cannot idolize priests and bishops just as we should not idolize actors or athletes. Human beings are weak. Human beings are frail. I just finished reading "The Courage to be Catholic" by George Weigel, and I agree with his belief that ordained men who have allowed themselves to become involved in sexually abusing children have lost sight of who they are; and have forfeited their priesthood, if they ever accepted it to begin with. They are no longer servants of God and of the Church. One who accepts and believes that he acts in persona Christi would never, could never, be involved in anything so vile and immoral. Therefore, the only possible explanation is that the men who have engaged in these acts have refused and refuted their identities as priests; and therefore they should be treated as the criminals that they are. And they should never be allowed to serve as priests again, in any capacity. The danger to other potential victims, as well as to the souls of the faithful is too great. In turning people away from the Church and the faith, they turn people away from Christ. Jeopardizing the salvation of souls is a pretty grave sin.
It is time to separate the wheat from the chaff and the sheep from the wolves.
O sacerdos! Tu quis es?
Non es a te, quia de nihilo.
Non es ad te, quia es mediator ad Deum.
Non es tibi, quia soli Deo vivere debes.
Non es tui, quia es omnium servus.
Non es tu, quis alter Christus es.
Quid ergo es? Nihil et omnia,
O sacerdos! -- Fulton Sheen
(O priest! Who art thou?
Thou art not from thyself, because thou art from nothing.
Thou art not to thine own self, because thou art a mediator to God.
Thou art not for thyself, because thou ought to live for God alone.
Thou art not of thyself, because thou are the servant of all.
Thou art not thyself, thou who art another Christ.
What therefore art thou? Nothing and everything,
O priest!)
There's not much point in recounting the recent and very well publicized antics of Tiger Woods. As a fan of the older golf regime (Nicklaus, Palmer, Watson), I never took to Tiger the way the younger golf fans did. But I never disputed that he had become the best golfer in the world, surpassing the many greats who preceded him struggling through Amen Corner at Augusta and battling the severe wind, and the maws posing as bunkers at St. Andrews. He was a hero and idol for many youngsters, who aspired to be just like him. I could imagine that many young kids, out on the golf course, would pretend they were Tiger just before hitting the "shot of a lifetime" and, in making a great shot, emulated his fist pump, as they won their imaginary U.S. Open.
Tiger has fallen from grace and so, seemingly, has his almost infallible golf game. And I wonder, what effect has it on the many people who held him up as almost a sacred figure? Have they become disillusioned with golf? Or just with Tiger. Obviously, it makes no sense to abandon love for the game of golf because of the immoral behavior of one player, and yet, that is exactly what has happened amongst many--especially the younger folks, for whom golf WAS Tiger Woods.
I read some more horrendous news about Mel Gibson today. At one time, I really did hold deep admiration for him. As a somewhat "conservative" Roman Catholic, (however one wants to read into that), I admired Mel because of his apparent idyllic and faithful marriage and his devotion to his large family. He went out on a limb to produce what I thought was an amazing movie, "The Passion of the Christ". Not surprisingly, it was the center of a lot of controversy. I admired his tenacity and steadfastness, which, I assumed, was rooted in his faith. Despite all protestations, he produced the film, and it was extremely powerful. And then, the bottom fell out of Mel Gibson's life. He left his wife and eventually took up with some young women with whom he has had a child. In the meantime, he had run ins with the law, and at one point, apparently intoxicated, spewed horrific anti-Semitic remarks. Now, it appears he has physically abused his new wife, with whom he is also splitting. What a sham.
I am deeply disillusioned with Mel Gibson, to the point that, when I think of him, I just get angry about what a despicable character he has become. He was a role model to me because I thought we shared a common approach to faith. So, should Mel's downfall affect how I view my own faith? Obviously, he is a mere mortal. Mel was never the epitome of Catholic belief. He was never the person of Christ here on earth, and so it would make absolutely no sense for my faith to be affected in any way by the antics of Mr. Gibson.
However, what about the "alter Christus"--the individual who acts "in persona Christi"? I refer, of course, to our Catholic priests. Catholics believe that ordained priests, when celebrating the Sacrament, act in the person of Christ. We believe that, upon their ordination, they do become another Christ--their identities change ontologically. They are to serve the world as representatives of Christ here on earth. How, then, can we not equate them with Christ and with the Church?
Here we are, in the wake of hideous clergy sex scandals of every type. Too many priests are accused of abusing children and teens. And too may of our bishops are acting as administrators rather than shepherds--worrying about "managing" and avoiding litigation, or covering up the hideous sin rather than being the spiritual leaders of their flock--caring for those who have been grievously hurt and dealing directly with the wolves in the fold. It is very, very difficult to not feel a huge sense of disillusionment about the Catholic faith in the midst of this. It is extremely difficult to separate our Catholicism from some of our Catholic priests.
I have been in discussions with too many friends and acquaintances who have had just such an adverse reaction to Catholicism as a result of the behavior of some of our priests and bishops. Some have ceased the practice of their faith. Some who still attend Mass, do so half-heartedly, as a matter of routine, but with much cynicism and suspicion and with negative attitudes towards anyone who is ordained. The faith has been severely injured by this ongoing scandal. How could it not be?
The crux of the problem is, in fact, in the title of this blog post. Actors, golfers, bishops and priests are human beings, all subject to temptation and sin. Witnessing their fall is at once tragic and infuriating. Our deep disillusionment may be a result of idolizing the man.
The body of the Church is made up of people, and people succumb to sin. Obviously our priests and bishops are not immune; and this particular sin has had grave implications certainly for their victims, and also for the life of the Church and the faith of her people. The sad fact is that these horrific behaviors have led many members to turn away from the faith in disgust and disillusionment because they are unable to separate the sin of priests and bishops from the Church and what she stands for and teaches. The wrongdoers will face their Judge, but, in the meantime, it falls to us to somehow begin to mend and rebuild the Church.
This re-building should not ever involve denying, ignoring, rationalizing or covering up what has taken place. Far be it from me to even begin to suggest where we need to go from here. But, despite the belief in the alter Christus, we cannot idolize priests and bishops just as we should not idolize actors or athletes. Human beings are weak. Human beings are frail. I just finished reading "The Courage to be Catholic" by George Weigel, and I agree with his belief that ordained men who have allowed themselves to become involved in sexually abusing children have lost sight of who they are; and have forfeited their priesthood, if they ever accepted it to begin with. They are no longer servants of God and of the Church. One who accepts and believes that he acts in persona Christi would never, could never, be involved in anything so vile and immoral. Therefore, the only possible explanation is that the men who have engaged in these acts have refused and refuted their identities as priests; and therefore they should be treated as the criminals that they are. And they should never be allowed to serve as priests again, in any capacity. The danger to other potential victims, as well as to the souls of the faithful is too great. In turning people away from the Church and the faith, they turn people away from Christ. Jeopardizing the salvation of souls is a pretty grave sin.
It is time to separate the wheat from the chaff and the sheep from the wolves.
O sacerdos! Tu quis es?
Non es a te, quia de nihilo.
Non es ad te, quia es mediator ad Deum.
Non es tibi, quia soli Deo vivere debes.
Non es tui, quia es omnium servus.
Non es tu, quis alter Christus es.
Quid ergo es? Nihil et omnia,
O sacerdos! -- Fulton Sheen
(O priest! Who art thou?
Thou art not from thyself, because thou art from nothing.
Thou art not to thine own self, because thou art a mediator to God.
Thou art not for thyself, because thou ought to live for God alone.
Thou art not of thyself, because thou are the servant of all.
Thou art not thyself, thou who art another Christ.
What therefore art thou? Nothing and everything,
O priest!)
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Serving Jury Duty
Most people, at least in my circle, dread the thought of jury duty. My attitude, for a long time, has been that I thought it would be interesting, and I wouldn't mind doing it, but I didn't want it to interfere with my life. In other words, call me to do this during work time, not during the summer, nor around vacation time.
Well, I was called to report for duty this past week. First, they send a form in the mail that has to be filled out and submitted. When I saw it, I started to panic. It's summer! I don't want to spend my summer cooped up in some hot, stuffy jury room, hashing it out with 11 other angry people. I had vacation planned. I want to spend my days swimming and golfing. We get out of 1/2 hour early in the summer, and I can't get out fast enough--dashing home to walk the dog at some park, or to swim at the pool, or to go and hit golf balls. Jury duty sounded really, really depressing.
However, the questions on the form, whose purpose I imagine is to screen folks, did not ask anything that was going to get me out of the pool. After I submitted it, I then received a letter, ordering me to report for jury selection this past Thursday. It was interesting how much I dreaded it. I kept thinking I was going to end up on some big murder trial, such as the O.J one and it would drag on for months, messing up my life and my free time.
I noticed the judge's name on the summons and rejoiced. I knew him! This would get me excused immediately. I won't keep you in suspense. It didn't work. They didn't care. The judge asked me if knowing him would interfere with my ability to be fair and impartial. As they put you under oath prior to answering these questions, and, as Thomas More says, "What is an oath but words we say to God?", I couldn't lie.
During the questioning period, I thought that if I were sarcastic or somehow uncooperative, one of the lawyers would take a disliking to me and opt to remove me. The prosecutor asked me nothing. But when it came time for the defense attorney to ask questions, he turned to me and it went something like this:
DA: Miss Hutchinson, do you have children?
Me: No
DA: Have you ever had children?
Me: No
DA: Do you have any grandchildren
Me: (with very sarcastic look on face, in a blatant attempt to belittle DA) How could I have grandchildren if I've never had children?
It was my hope that the DA would hate me after that. But he laughed. The judge laughed. The prosecuter laughed. Even the guy facing two class D felony accounts laughed. Damn.
I was the first one chosen.
The judge explained that this trial was not at all like the ones we see on television-and that we would be finished at day's end. This made me relax somewhat.
I have to say I did not enjoy my experience of jury duty. At the end of the trial part, we were put into a dingy room to deliberate. I was immediately chosen as "foreperson". I thought about arguing this, but it was already 5:00pm, and I didn't want to be there all night, so I started talking. I expressed my opinion that I thought he could be guilty on the first count (forcibly resisting a law enforcement officer), but not necessarily of the second (battery of law enforcement officer). As we discussed, I realized that some people were opposed to my way of thinking. But they were a minority. One guy disagreed with me on the first count, and two folks disagreed with me on the second count. But the problem is that they would not argue, or discuss in any persuasive way why they thought this way. In the end, what I saw happening, despite my repeated attempts to get them to sway us, was a sort of detached caving in. We all, frankly, just wanted to go home, and the decisions had to be unanimous.
I hit real frustration when the alternate juror, who was allowed to sit in the deliberations but was not supposed to say anything said "If I wuz on this jury, we'd all be goin' home now, because he's not guilty." And then later he said "I hope that y'all aren't my jury if I get caught doing something wrong." And then, of course, he told us the guy stood to face 20 years for battery of a police officer. It really filled me with a sense of doubt. Of course, the alternate juror was one of three guys that had been convicted of felonies. And, oddly, in the case of battery of a police officer, all three were selected to be on this panel!
I had written a note to the judge, asking if he could define for us what constitutes "forcible resistance", but he wrote back and said, politely, "no." I find it frustrating that were were asked to consider someone's guilt about an offense that couldn't be defined. For me, that was the crux of the problem. He was clearly (in my mind) resisting the officers (he was not under arrest at the time), but was he forcibly resisting?
So, in the end, the rest of the members of the jury agreed with me, and we came out with a guilty verdict on the first count and a not guilty verdict on the second. I don't think we spent more than an hour deliberating. That's not much time to give to someone whose life is as stake.
The judge told us that if any of us wanted to speak to him at the conclusion of the trial, we could. I was the only one that remained. I asked again if he could define that term for me and he couldn't. It left me feeling unsettled, wondering if we did the right thing. The real unsettling part was knowing that it wasn't truly a unanimous decision on either count; but the folks who disagreed either could not or did not want to voice a persuasive argument the other way.
It left me with a new, and not so positive attitude about our justice system and how just it really is.
Well, I was called to report for duty this past week. First, they send a form in the mail that has to be filled out and submitted. When I saw it, I started to panic. It's summer! I don't want to spend my summer cooped up in some hot, stuffy jury room, hashing it out with 11 other angry people. I had vacation planned. I want to spend my days swimming and golfing. We get out of 1/2 hour early in the summer, and I can't get out fast enough--dashing home to walk the dog at some park, or to swim at the pool, or to go and hit golf balls. Jury duty sounded really, really depressing.
However, the questions on the form, whose purpose I imagine is to screen folks, did not ask anything that was going to get me out of the pool. After I submitted it, I then received a letter, ordering me to report for jury selection this past Thursday. It was interesting how much I dreaded it. I kept thinking I was going to end up on some big murder trial, such as the O.J one and it would drag on for months, messing up my life and my free time.
I noticed the judge's name on the summons and rejoiced. I knew him! This would get me excused immediately. I won't keep you in suspense. It didn't work. They didn't care. The judge asked me if knowing him would interfere with my ability to be fair and impartial. As they put you under oath prior to answering these questions, and, as Thomas More says, "What is an oath but words we say to God?", I couldn't lie.
During the questioning period, I thought that if I were sarcastic or somehow uncooperative, one of the lawyers would take a disliking to me and opt to remove me. The prosecutor asked me nothing. But when it came time for the defense attorney to ask questions, he turned to me and it went something like this:
DA: Miss Hutchinson, do you have children?
Me: No
DA: Have you ever had children?
Me: No
DA: Do you have any grandchildren
Me: (with very sarcastic look on face, in a blatant attempt to belittle DA) How could I have grandchildren if I've never had children?
It was my hope that the DA would hate me after that. But he laughed. The judge laughed. The prosecuter laughed. Even the guy facing two class D felony accounts laughed. Damn.
I was the first one chosen.
The judge explained that this trial was not at all like the ones we see on television-and that we would be finished at day's end. This made me relax somewhat.
I have to say I did not enjoy my experience of jury duty. At the end of the trial part, we were put into a dingy room to deliberate. I was immediately chosen as "foreperson". I thought about arguing this, but it was already 5:00pm, and I didn't want to be there all night, so I started talking. I expressed my opinion that I thought he could be guilty on the first count (forcibly resisting a law enforcement officer), but not necessarily of the second (battery of law enforcement officer). As we discussed, I realized that some people were opposed to my way of thinking. But they were a minority. One guy disagreed with me on the first count, and two folks disagreed with me on the second count. But the problem is that they would not argue, or discuss in any persuasive way why they thought this way. In the end, what I saw happening, despite my repeated attempts to get them to sway us, was a sort of detached caving in. We all, frankly, just wanted to go home, and the decisions had to be unanimous.
I hit real frustration when the alternate juror, who was allowed to sit in the deliberations but was not supposed to say anything said "If I wuz on this jury, we'd all be goin' home now, because he's not guilty." And then later he said "I hope that y'all aren't my jury if I get caught doing something wrong." And then, of course, he told us the guy stood to face 20 years for battery of a police officer. It really filled me with a sense of doubt. Of course, the alternate juror was one of three guys that had been convicted of felonies. And, oddly, in the case of battery of a police officer, all three were selected to be on this panel!
I had written a note to the judge, asking if he could define for us what constitutes "forcible resistance", but he wrote back and said, politely, "no." I find it frustrating that were were asked to consider someone's guilt about an offense that couldn't be defined. For me, that was the crux of the problem. He was clearly (in my mind) resisting the officers (he was not under arrest at the time), but was he forcibly resisting?
So, in the end, the rest of the members of the jury agreed with me, and we came out with a guilty verdict on the first count and a not guilty verdict on the second. I don't think we spent more than an hour deliberating. That's not much time to give to someone whose life is as stake.
The judge told us that if any of us wanted to speak to him at the conclusion of the trial, we could. I was the only one that remained. I asked again if he could define that term for me and he couldn't. It left me feeling unsettled, wondering if we did the right thing. The real unsettling part was knowing that it wasn't truly a unanimous decision on either count; but the folks who disagreed either could not or did not want to voice a persuasive argument the other way.
It left me with a new, and not so positive attitude about our justice system and how just it really is.
The Effects of the Black Bile
Recently, someone said I was melancholic. I have not been able to stop thinking about that statement since then. If I were to define myself, the word "melancholy" or other similar words would not even enter into my thoughts. In fact, I've always thought of myself as just the opposite. Although I did not receive the "class clown" award, I was forever playing pranks, cracking jokes, and cutting up with my classmates. I have been referred to, in the past, as both child-like and, the less complimentary "childish". I have been told I don't know when to be serious. Immature is another word that has cropped up throughout my lifetime. But never, ever, have I been described as anything like morose, saturnine or melancholic.
But, as times change so do people and so too their personalities. I started to pay attention to my general attitude, and even went back and re-read the blogs of the past few months. I have to say that this person may be on to something. My own sense of self seems to be stuck in the past; I have been defining myself as the person I used to be, but am no more. I have been trying to figure out what changed, and why.
In the end, the answer came to me easily, once I began reflecting upon the past. Everyone had childhood dreams. Everyone had goals and ideas of what he or or she was going to do in life. And, in a sense, the fulfillment of those dreams and goals may be, to our limited minds, the definition of happiness. I had many such dreams and goals, just like any other person. I can say that most of them remain unfulfilled. I never had a family, I never attained my dream job. I didn't get the Ph.D, and didn't end up living in the exotic locale. My financial status is so far removed from my goal as a younger person that it is enough to make me laugh--not the sort of laughter that is merry and brings one out of a state of melancholy however; but rather, the cynical chuckle that acknowledges that having money will never be my lot in life.
I have been thinking a lot about why and how some folks actually do achieve their dreams and achieve the goals that they set out before them, and why some of us fail so miserably. I cannot speak for anyone but myself though, and it seems that the answer is a lack of commitment, or maybe more specifically, a loss of fidelity. My goals were all good in the sense that they weren't going to hurt people in the process of attaining them. But yet, they were empty. There was no substance behind them to make me really strive to reach the finish line. I wanted a good job because I wanted a good job, not because there was some passion in me that had to be exercised. I wanted money because I wanted to be able to do whatever I wanted, when I wanted, and not because of some desire, especially, to aid humanity with my philanthropy. I wanted a family because it's what everyone wanted--I never reflected on any deeper meaning of what it means to be a wife and mother. As for the advanced education--frankly, I just like being in school and studying and writing papers.
Why would anyone go out of their way, and suffer and sacrifice to achieve such empty, meaningless goals? Someone who has such shallow aims has clearly not reflected on the deeper question of the meaning of life. Many may argue that there is no answer to this question, but I, as a semi-faithful Catholic, know that there is an answer.
I say that failure to achieve may be the result of a loss of fidelity because I believe we were created for the purpose of loving God, both passively, as the receptor, but also actively, and in so doing, striving to reach the maximum potential that was instilled within us at creation. If we compartmentalize, confining our expressions of faith and devotion to our Creator solely to one hour at church on Sunday, and do not acknowledge that this fidelity should be present at all times, expressed in all things we do, then we really have no choice but to fail in one way or another. This type of failure is, then, clearly a result of a loss of fidelity. And, unsurprisingly, this easily results in a life of aimless wandering, lethargy and, yes, melancholy. The biggest failure then, is not in the lack of achieving the advanced degree or the money, or the job--clearly even the most faithful of persons sometimes suffer big failures. It is in the inability, or perhaps, better put, the refusal, either willful or from pure laziness, to integrate faith in God into every aspect of life, so that each and every act, and each and every spoken word is a reflection of the love of God and acknowledgement of his love for us; which was borne out by the very act of creation. There is no other way to truly know our self, and, therefore, our purpose, unless we know God. And there is no way to know God except to spend time knowing Him.
I'm off to retreat in a few weeks. I suspect I know what I'll be reflecting on. It's too late for the family, the advanced degree and probably the money. But maybe it's not too late to discard the melancholy for something maybe just a little bit better.
But, as times change so do people and so too their personalities. I started to pay attention to my general attitude, and even went back and re-read the blogs of the past few months. I have to say that this person may be on to something. My own sense of self seems to be stuck in the past; I have been defining myself as the person I used to be, but am no more. I have been trying to figure out what changed, and why.
In the end, the answer came to me easily, once I began reflecting upon the past. Everyone had childhood dreams. Everyone had goals and ideas of what he or or she was going to do in life. And, in a sense, the fulfillment of those dreams and goals may be, to our limited minds, the definition of happiness. I had many such dreams and goals, just like any other person. I can say that most of them remain unfulfilled. I never had a family, I never attained my dream job. I didn't get the Ph.D, and didn't end up living in the exotic locale. My financial status is so far removed from my goal as a younger person that it is enough to make me laugh--not the sort of laughter that is merry and brings one out of a state of melancholy however; but rather, the cynical chuckle that acknowledges that having money will never be my lot in life.
I have been thinking a lot about why and how some folks actually do achieve their dreams and achieve the goals that they set out before them, and why some of us fail so miserably. I cannot speak for anyone but myself though, and it seems that the answer is a lack of commitment, or maybe more specifically, a loss of fidelity. My goals were all good in the sense that they weren't going to hurt people in the process of attaining them. But yet, they were empty. There was no substance behind them to make me really strive to reach the finish line. I wanted a good job because I wanted a good job, not because there was some passion in me that had to be exercised. I wanted money because I wanted to be able to do whatever I wanted, when I wanted, and not because of some desire, especially, to aid humanity with my philanthropy. I wanted a family because it's what everyone wanted--I never reflected on any deeper meaning of what it means to be a wife and mother. As for the advanced education--frankly, I just like being in school and studying and writing papers.
Why would anyone go out of their way, and suffer and sacrifice to achieve such empty, meaningless goals? Someone who has such shallow aims has clearly not reflected on the deeper question of the meaning of life. Many may argue that there is no answer to this question, but I, as a semi-faithful Catholic, know that there is an answer.
I say that failure to achieve may be the result of a loss of fidelity because I believe we were created for the purpose of loving God, both passively, as the receptor, but also actively, and in so doing, striving to reach the maximum potential that was instilled within us at creation. If we compartmentalize, confining our expressions of faith and devotion to our Creator solely to one hour at church on Sunday, and do not acknowledge that this fidelity should be present at all times, expressed in all things we do, then we really have no choice but to fail in one way or another. This type of failure is, then, clearly a result of a loss of fidelity. And, unsurprisingly, this easily results in a life of aimless wandering, lethargy and, yes, melancholy. The biggest failure then, is not in the lack of achieving the advanced degree or the money, or the job--clearly even the most faithful of persons sometimes suffer big failures. It is in the inability, or perhaps, better put, the refusal, either willful or from pure laziness, to integrate faith in God into every aspect of life, so that each and every act, and each and every spoken word is a reflection of the love of God and acknowledgement of his love for us; which was borne out by the very act of creation. There is no other way to truly know our self, and, therefore, our purpose, unless we know God. And there is no way to know God except to spend time knowing Him.
I'm off to retreat in a few weeks. I suspect I know what I'll be reflecting on. It's too late for the family, the advanced degree and probably the money. But maybe it's not too late to discard the melancholy for something maybe just a little bit better.
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