Yes, long title. No, I'm not changing it.
So, um... I'm not the kind of person who looks at stats. Really, I'm not. But usually, when I'm offline for a few days, it's not really a big deal. So today, when I log in, I'm thinking, "Hmm, what should I tell the small band of followers about today?" And then I see that I've had something like five hundred pageviews in the last week.
Whoa.
Thank you sooo much for reading my blog and caring what I say and stuff. It means A LOT.
Anyway.
WHO SAW THE OLYMPICS OPENING CEREMONY??? Because obviously I did.
Seeing those little kids singing all those songs, and then Keneth Branagh's beautiful recitation of that passage from The Tempest was just... amazing. I literally had goosebumps. I just sat there watching them, and those villagers on all that green grass, like they were in the Shire or something, and I started thinking about what Neil Gaiman says in American Gods. He says that nobody's American, not really. Of course, the obvious exception would be Native Americans, but everybody else came from Europe, or Asia, or Africa. And I couldn't help wondering if I had great-great-great-great-great grandparents somewhere in my history that lived in England, or Ireland, or Scotland, and worked on a little Shire-esque farm.
And I had about five minutes to be sentimental before they started dragging away the Shire and replacing it with Mordor, minus the creepy tower. (They had five creepy towers, actually.) It was kind of cool to see them making those giant rings right there in the arena. At first I was thinking, "Why are there only five? Weren't there nine rings gifted to the race of men and so on?" But then I remembered, "Oh yeah. Olympics. Duh."
Okay, no more Lord of the Rings references. Sorry.
So then James Bond and the Queen in that helicopter... I mean, jeez, the English really no how to laugh at themselves if they're going to pull out all these stereotypes.
And then the adorable hospital kids, which was awesome.
Okay, I should clarify that at the beginning of this whole thing, my darling mother made fish sticks and French fries for fish and chips, you know, so we could pretend we were English and feel posh. Which is odd, since there's nothing particularly posh about fish and chips, but anyway. I had fish fingers and custard. Okay, actually it was one fish finger, and the custard was vanilla Swiss Miss pudding, but still.
And for the record, it was awesome.
Anyway. Hospital kids.
I had a nerd freak-out when J.K. Rowling read that passage from Peter Pan. And the nerd freak-out turned into me floating up to the ceiling and almost dying when a five hundred-foot-tall Voldemort-- with a functioning wand-- grew out of the ground and stared threateningly at that little girl. I mean, yeah, all he could really do was stare threateningly at her. And make a few bangs with the wand. But still.
And I suppose Cruella de Ville and Captain Hook and the Queen of Hearts were all right.
But Voldemort. VOLDEMORT, GUYS!
Who would have thought he could be taken down by Mary Poppins?
Okay, so it was a small army of Mary Poppinsesesezzzz. But I mean, come on. And there was no Dick Van Dyke, and no tap dancing penguins! Disappointment.
So then there was Mr. Bean. And then that explosion of pretty much all the best music ever.
You can't help but wonder why England pulled out all these stereotypes.
I think it's a British thing. Because, you know, they're like the Hipster Country of the world. So maybe they knew that we would laugh at them, so they pulled out all these famous British-y things to make us laugh, so that they could laugh at us for laughing at them. So then really, they have the last laugh. Or something.
CONSPIRACY!
I was gonna stick around for the torch, to see if David Tennant popped up somewhere, but I got bored around the M's of the Parade of Nations. I think they should do that part first.
And then, today... BATMAN!!!
I'm not going to spoil it for anyone, but suffice it to say that it was REALLY AWESOME.
When I got home, I thought about all this stuff. I just sat for a while, thinking about superheroes and the Olympics (which inevitably led to some side-thoughts about the Hunger Games), and how amazing it would be to be part of something like that. I mean, how amazing must it feel for all those volunteer dancers and little kids with angel voices and J.K. Rowling and that girl with the crazy hair who was in the sketch dedicating to the guy who invented the Internet to say that they were apart of the 2012 London Olympics? How cool is that they can tell their kids, and grand kids, and maybe even great-grand kids, that they were part of something that one day will only be a couple of sentences in a history book?
And what about Christian Bale (or Bruce Wayne if you prefer)? How must he feel, knowing that he is the role model of literally millions of kids? How cool is it to know that for decades, little boys have zoomed around their living rooms, pretending they were him? He probably won't even be in history books, but he still matters, because everybody knows who he is.
And then I realized something. I mean, maybe I'm naive, only thinking about this now, but here it is anyway: Things matter because we say that they do. Like, for instance, Adele? She's an incredible singer, and because a lot of people in the world have decided that being a good singer matters, she matters. And a long, long time ago, there were little g gods. They weren't exactly upstanding citizens of their communities. They weren't even particularly nice. But the people all decided that they mattered-- they came to a consensus nature being controlled by something mattered, so they decided on Zeus and Poseidon and Hades and Athena and Apollo and Artemis and all those other ones. But when the people moved on, when a different ruler captured them, Zeus and his ilk didn't matter anymore. It was Diana and Mars and Pluto and so on, they mattered when the Romans took over.
Okay, so my point is, things only matter because we say so. And things don't matter because we say so. Which, in a way, makes us powerful, and in another way is very, very scary. I mean, think about it: We decide what matters. We decided that the Olympics matters, because we decided that speaking a language that everyone can understand-- one of teamwork and friendship-- was more important than wars and politics. And we decided that superheroes matter too, because we think that good should always be a little more powerful than evil. At least, I like to think that the general public decided that.
But other things matter to individuals too. I mean, if you just look at sports and Superman, everything is coming up roses. But what about other things?
Like, for instance, the headlines these days! All you hear about is this celebrity breaking up with that one, this politician saying something dumb, and this is today's body count. Why is it that we've decided that tabloids matter? When did we decide that the private relationships and family lives of people in movies was more important than our relationships with our own families? You can argue all you want that this isn't the case, that you don't read those headlines, even that celebrities are famous and should be setting an example-- but that doesn't change the fact that we publish their divorce trials and don't even glance at the stats that say we're going through spouses like Voldemort's going through Horcruxes.
Why do pregnant teenagers and kids on drugs matter more than the kids who don't get into trouble at all? Why does four years of high school drama matter more than the rest of your life? Why does it matter so much to us that the stupid kid at McDonald's got your order wrong again, when there are kids that would be happy with anything if they got to eat that day? Why does it matter so much that that kid over there is gay? Do you know him? Do you know his story? When did all of this crap become so important? When did we decide that any of this matters?
If you think about it, all that stuff seems kind of dumb.
What if enough people decided that it matters that kids go hungry all around the world? What would happen if people chose to say that it matters that some people don't get the chance to choose their political leader? And what about war? What if everyone got tired of politicians telling them what to believe and where to point their guns, and they just... stopped?
You know. Food for thought.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Sweet Charity and Why Our Culture is Lovesick
Last night, darling Mum took me to see a musical called Sweet Charity at the Civic Center in Oklahoma City.
*SPOILER ALERT* If you intend to see Sweet Charity and don't want me to ruin it, scroll down a bit until you see the picture for the movie Sweet Charity and keep reading.
*brief/awkward pause*
Okay, for everyone who's still here: Sweet Charity is about a girl named Charity Hope Valentine (and apparently she's not in anyway associated with Audrey Hepburn or her alias, Holly Golightly) who lives in New York City in the sixties. She's a *ahem* "dance hostess"- or, as Charity's friends and coworkers Nickie and Helene put it, "the Rent-a-Body Business".
The first part of the musical is kinda raunchy because a lot of the scenes take place at the Fandango Ballroom, where Charity works, and they give a few examples of dancing-but-not-really-dancing that you might have scene in clubs and bars in the sixties. But there's a lot to be said for the way the whole dance hostess business is portrayed. They don't candy-coat it. It makes you uncomfortable because you're not supposed to like it. And every single one of the girls working there wants out, but they don't know how to get out.
Charity has lots of strange little adventures, and a very long line of crummy boyfriends under her belt. In fact, the last one, Charlie, pushed her in the lake and stole her handbag, which was naturally full of money. Then, she meets this guy (who's a lot like Adrian Monk) when they're both trapped inside an elevator at the YMCA. His name is Oscar Lindquist, and he's very claustrophobic, so she calms him down while their stuck, and when they eventually get out, Oscar asks her on a date. They go to this hippie gathering under a bridge called "The Rhythm of Life Church" which is led by this guy called Daddy, and after they are both thoroughly freaked out by all the potheads, and after the "service" is broken up by the fuzz, Charity agrees to go on another date with Oscar.
She's kept the fact that she's a dance hostess on the down low, but she intends to tell him about it when they go on a trip to Coney Island. They get stuck on a ride, (they have a knack for finding broken machinery) only this time Oscar is comforting Charity, who is terrified of heights. She still can't bring herself to tell him about her true line of work, especially since Oscar has now declared her "a virgin in the most poetical sense of the word." But eventually, she breaks down. She leaves the Fandango Ballroom for good, and meets with Oscar at a diner. There, sitting back-to-back because Charity doesn't want Oscar to look at her, she tells him everything, and Oscar passionately declares that none of it matters, because he already knew anyway, and right there he asks her to marry him.
This is the part where I got thoroughly excited. If a couple as quirky and odd as Charity Hope Valentine and Oscar Lindquist can make it in the world, there must be somebody for everybody. Right?
But the show's not over yet. The dance hostesses of the Fandango Ballroom, the owner Herman, the janitor, and the Ballroom's Three Regular Customers Since 1954 have a surprise party for Charity, and all of them pitched in and bought her a seventeen dollar cake. Oscar shows up and takes Charity on a walk through the park so they can talk. He goes on to say that he keeps thinking about all the "other men" Charity has been with, and that he can't marry her, because if he did, he would "destroy her"- a ludicrous assumption, considering everything else has gone so swimmingly. He then accidentally pushes Charity into the same lake Charlie did at the beginning of the show, and after much hesitation and wringing of hands, Oscar runs away, just like Charlie did, showing that he was no different than any of the other guys Charity has known.
Charity has to pull herself out of the lake. Remarking that at least she still has her money, she goes walking through the park and is met by some hippies who hand her flowers. And then, a voice over from "Daddy" says, "And she lived Hopefully Ever After."
At first, I just sat there, blinking. Excuse me? A musical where the protagonist has not found her true love? Are you kidding? Is that even allowed in musicals? Who cares about being hopeful?! Musicals are supposed to be the one place where everything turns out right. I mean, how many people do you know who watch a musical for a healthy whiff of Real Life?
But then I realized something... which will be revealed post-picture.
Welcome back, Unspoiled Friends!
So, story continued:
By the end of the show, I just kept thinking the same thing that Princess Pea shouts in The Tale of Desperaux: "Love! Why must everyone always speak of love?"
I like happy endings, which means I have a problem with real life. My mom said that the whole point of the show was that after everything Charity had been through, she pulled herself out of the lake and walked off with her head held high. But I mean, a girl's going to get tired of thinking, "Maybe this time it'll work out." And she's going to get tired of having to pull herself out of a lake every time she thinks she's found The One. Eventually, finding that she's back where she started, she might just stay in the lake and never come out again. I would.
I mean, it just sucks, you know? And it's not very rewarding, and there's no point in it.
So, I asked myself, why does she keep doing it? Why does she continuously allow herself to be in a situation where some rotten jerk has the option to push her the lake and run away?
For those of you who have read The Tale of Desperaux, I'm sure another line has crossed your mind about now:
"Reader, do you think it is such a terrible thing to hope when there is really no reason to hope at all? Or is it (as the soldier said about happiness) something that you might just as well do, since, in the end, it really makes no difference to anyone but you?"
I don't know the answer to that. I only know that everybody does it. Yes, even you, rolling your eyes and shaking your head- don't sit there and pretend like no one can see you. Cynics are the worst offenders.
Everybody, in my opinion, has love. But your love is a lot like a wad of cash: It's your choice what you do with it. And that's where we all get tripped up.
Some people spend their love. They go out, and they spend it all on people they don't really need. People like Charity and the Giving Tree, who gave everything she had to the boy because she loved him, until she was nothing but a stump because he hadn't nourished her in return. Some people would say that's the way you should be, but I don't think so. I mean, there comes a point when you have to stop. If all you do is spend and spend and spend, hoping for somebody to reimburse you, you'll wind up an unhappy debtor.
There's people who are pretty reckless with their love. They're a lot like Charity, thwarted romantics, but unlike her, when the love runs out they become hopeless. Then they wind up slipping through the cracks, in the slums of the world, drowning their sorrows in drugs and booze. And the thing is, they think they're out of love, but they aren't. They still have some left. It just hurts a lot, and since it hurts so much, they avoid it and drink more or smoke more or do whatever they have to do to make the hurt go away. And that's why they're all so sad.
And then there's people who hoard love. They keep it all to themselves so they don't end up like the reckless ones in the above paragraph. They love objects instead, because an object, like a stamp collection or basketball trophies, or an antique lamp worth thousands of dollars- well, it may not be able to love you, but at least it can't break up with you either.
There are also people who invest their love. They don't keep it all to themselves, but they don't go spending it with hopes of a refund later either. Instead, they're patient and they watch the stock market, and when they see something to their liking, they put in a small sum. If things go well, they get some back, and then they put in a bit more, and they get more back, and they go on like this until we see an old married couple dancing to a song that nobody else knows but them. And if things go poorly, they might need a while to recuperate, but then they move on and find a new company to invest in, because that's business, and sometimes you lose.
I think the big problem is that the three other categories are looking for someone ideal, someone flawless, someone who won't mess up. And they meet someone, and they see their flaws, and they get scared and run away. But investors know something that the others don't. They know you don't love a personality, which after all is only a vague idea. You love a person. A human being. Someone who puts their pants on one leg at a time. They've made mistakes, sure, but so have you. You don't love the mistakes, and they're not asking you to. But just because you don't love their mistakes doesn't mean that you don't love that person. You love them in spite of what they've done.
See, that was Oscar's problem with Charity. He saw a mistake, and he didn't like it. He thought that because the mistake made him uncomfortable, he didn't love Charity anymore. He misread his feelings, and Charity wound up in a lake.
So.
I have a feeling that I have a very, very wet future ahead of me...
*SPOILER ALERT* If you intend to see Sweet Charity and don't want me to ruin it, scroll down a bit until you see the picture for the movie Sweet Charity and keep reading.
*brief/awkward pause*
Okay, for everyone who's still here: Sweet Charity is about a girl named Charity Hope Valentine (and apparently she's not in anyway associated with Audrey Hepburn or her alias, Holly Golightly) who lives in New York City in the sixties. She's a *ahem* "dance hostess"- or, as Charity's friends and coworkers Nickie and Helene put it, "the Rent-a-Body Business".
The first part of the musical is kinda raunchy because a lot of the scenes take place at the Fandango Ballroom, where Charity works, and they give a few examples of dancing-but-not-really-dancing that you might have scene in clubs and bars in the sixties. But there's a lot to be said for the way the whole dance hostess business is portrayed. They don't candy-coat it. It makes you uncomfortable because you're not supposed to like it. And every single one of the girls working there wants out, but they don't know how to get out.
Charity has lots of strange little adventures, and a very long line of crummy boyfriends under her belt. In fact, the last one, Charlie, pushed her in the lake and stole her handbag, which was naturally full of money. Then, she meets this guy (who's a lot like Adrian Monk) when they're both trapped inside an elevator at the YMCA. His name is Oscar Lindquist, and he's very claustrophobic, so she calms him down while their stuck, and when they eventually get out, Oscar asks her on a date. They go to this hippie gathering under a bridge called "The Rhythm of Life Church" which is led by this guy called Daddy, and after they are both thoroughly freaked out by all the potheads, and after the "service" is broken up by the fuzz, Charity agrees to go on another date with Oscar.
She's kept the fact that she's a dance hostess on the down low, but she intends to tell him about it when they go on a trip to Coney Island. They get stuck on a ride, (they have a knack for finding broken machinery) only this time Oscar is comforting Charity, who is terrified of heights. She still can't bring herself to tell him about her true line of work, especially since Oscar has now declared her "a virgin in the most poetical sense of the word." But eventually, she breaks down. She leaves the Fandango Ballroom for good, and meets with Oscar at a diner. There, sitting back-to-back because Charity doesn't want Oscar to look at her, she tells him everything, and Oscar passionately declares that none of it matters, because he already knew anyway, and right there he asks her to marry him.
This is the part where I got thoroughly excited. If a couple as quirky and odd as Charity Hope Valentine and Oscar Lindquist can make it in the world, there must be somebody for everybody. Right?
But the show's not over yet. The dance hostesses of the Fandango Ballroom, the owner Herman, the janitor, and the Ballroom's Three Regular Customers Since 1954 have a surprise party for Charity, and all of them pitched in and bought her a seventeen dollar cake. Oscar shows up and takes Charity on a walk through the park so they can talk. He goes on to say that he keeps thinking about all the "other men" Charity has been with, and that he can't marry her, because if he did, he would "destroy her"- a ludicrous assumption, considering everything else has gone so swimmingly. He then accidentally pushes Charity into the same lake Charlie did at the beginning of the show, and after much hesitation and wringing of hands, Oscar runs away, just like Charlie did, showing that he was no different than any of the other guys Charity has known.
Charity has to pull herself out of the lake. Remarking that at least she still has her money, she goes walking through the park and is met by some hippies who hand her flowers. And then, a voice over from "Daddy" says, "And she lived Hopefully Ever After."
At first, I just sat there, blinking. Excuse me? A musical where the protagonist has not found her true love? Are you kidding? Is that even allowed in musicals? Who cares about being hopeful?! Musicals are supposed to be the one place where everything turns out right. I mean, how many people do you know who watch a musical for a healthy whiff of Real Life?
But then I realized something... which will be revealed post-picture.
Welcome back, Unspoiled Friends!
So, story continued:
By the end of the show, I just kept thinking the same thing that Princess Pea shouts in The Tale of Desperaux: "Love! Why must everyone always speak of love?"
I like happy endings, which means I have a problem with real life. My mom said that the whole point of the show was that after everything Charity had been through, she pulled herself out of the lake and walked off with her head held high. But I mean, a girl's going to get tired of thinking, "Maybe this time it'll work out." And she's going to get tired of having to pull herself out of a lake every time she thinks she's found The One. Eventually, finding that she's back where she started, she might just stay in the lake and never come out again. I would.
I mean, it just sucks, you know? And it's not very rewarding, and there's no point in it.
So, I asked myself, why does she keep doing it? Why does she continuously allow herself to be in a situation where some rotten jerk has the option to push her the lake and run away?
For those of you who have read The Tale of Desperaux, I'm sure another line has crossed your mind about now:
"Reader, do you think it is such a terrible thing to hope when there is really no reason to hope at all? Or is it (as the soldier said about happiness) something that you might just as well do, since, in the end, it really makes no difference to anyone but you?"
I don't know the answer to that. I only know that everybody does it. Yes, even you, rolling your eyes and shaking your head- don't sit there and pretend like no one can see you. Cynics are the worst offenders.
Everybody, in my opinion, has love. But your love is a lot like a wad of cash: It's your choice what you do with it. And that's where we all get tripped up.
Some people spend their love. They go out, and they spend it all on people they don't really need. People like Charity and the Giving Tree, who gave everything she had to the boy because she loved him, until she was nothing but a stump because he hadn't nourished her in return. Some people would say that's the way you should be, but I don't think so. I mean, there comes a point when you have to stop. If all you do is spend and spend and spend, hoping for somebody to reimburse you, you'll wind up an unhappy debtor.
There's people who are pretty reckless with their love. They're a lot like Charity, thwarted romantics, but unlike her, when the love runs out they become hopeless. Then they wind up slipping through the cracks, in the slums of the world, drowning their sorrows in drugs and booze. And the thing is, they think they're out of love, but they aren't. They still have some left. It just hurts a lot, and since it hurts so much, they avoid it and drink more or smoke more or do whatever they have to do to make the hurt go away. And that's why they're all so sad.
And then there's people who hoard love. They keep it all to themselves so they don't end up like the reckless ones in the above paragraph. They love objects instead, because an object, like a stamp collection or basketball trophies, or an antique lamp worth thousands of dollars- well, it may not be able to love you, but at least it can't break up with you either.
There are also people who invest their love. They don't keep it all to themselves, but they don't go spending it with hopes of a refund later either. Instead, they're patient and they watch the stock market, and when they see something to their liking, they put in a small sum. If things go well, they get some back, and then they put in a bit more, and they get more back, and they go on like this until we see an old married couple dancing to a song that nobody else knows but them. And if things go poorly, they might need a while to recuperate, but then they move on and find a new company to invest in, because that's business, and sometimes you lose.
I think the big problem is that the three other categories are looking for someone ideal, someone flawless, someone who won't mess up. And they meet someone, and they see their flaws, and they get scared and run away. But investors know something that the others don't. They know you don't love a personality, which after all is only a vague idea. You love a person. A human being. Someone who puts their pants on one leg at a time. They've made mistakes, sure, but so have you. You don't love the mistakes, and they're not asking you to. But just because you don't love their mistakes doesn't mean that you don't love that person. You love them in spite of what they've done.
See, that was Oscar's problem with Charity. He saw a mistake, and he didn't like it. He thought that because the mistake made him uncomfortable, he didn't love Charity anymore. He misread his feelings, and Charity wound up in a lake.
So.
I have a feeling that I have a very, very wet future ahead of me...
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Poverty Simulation (or, Why I Like Sleeping in a Bed)
So, I know there is no excuse for being gone so long, that all of you have been incredibly bored, that you thought I ditched you for a luxurious beach, etcetra, etcetra.
All of these things are totally untrue, and don't even try to tell me that they are.
Let me 'splain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up:
I went on a mission trip with my church on Friday. We went to First Indian Church of the Nazarene in Oklahoma City (which seems rather misleadingly like it only ministers to Native Americans) and fixed it up a little. We repaired the walls of the sanctuary and repainted them, some kids painted a swing set for the kids, we did landscaping around the church, we remodeled the youth room, repainted the youth building, and picked up lots of trash. There was sanding and spackling and sealing oh my.
I think I should also add (rather smugly) that we managed this in roughly two days. Yes. Yes, yes youth group is TOTALLY beast.
Now, as if becoming a construction worker wasn't enough, we had it sprung on us at the end of the second day that we would be participating in a poverty simulation for thirty-six hours in order to identify with poor and homeless whom we served. Bit of a nasty shock, and I would have liked to know about that minor detail beforehand, but it turned out to be okay. More than okay, actually.
First, I suppose I ought to explain the idea of a poverty simulation to the laymen among us. It basically means that for thirty-six hours (or whatever length of time has been established) you become homeless. WITH ADULT SUPERVISION AND IN GROUPS, OF COURSE. And let me tell you, it is very extremely not fun. They gave us forty dollars of fake money in an envelope, and you could pick four possessions out of the stuff you packed to keep with you for the duration of the simulation.
No, let me correct myself: if you were not one of five lucky, randomly selected guests, you were allowed this privilege. If you were me, or one of the four other poor unfortunate souls selected, your ticket was drawn and you were homeless.
That's right. I was made Lowest of the Low. Cast out where there was Weeping and Gnashing of Teeth. I had even spent a frantic five seconds trying to strategically pick my items in my mind.
But it was okay. My little sister shared sleeping bags with me, and there were other girls around who gave me some of their play money to pay for whatever meals I needed. Almost everyone slept outside, because sleeping inside cost a whopping twenty bucks. Also, we had to wear clothes salvaged from a local shelter that handed out second-hand clothes to unfortunates. (Sidenote: My sister, who is basically Primrose Everdeen, somehow wound up with matching pink clothes. How...)
Sleeping outside sucked. It really did. We were allowed to come inside the church to quickly use the restroom- no pulling a Pursuit of Happyness while we were in there- and if we were thirsty, well, there was a perfectly good hose to use. It was hot, so Mattie and I slept on top of our sleeping bag. Even though we managed NOT to die of heat exhaustion, there were still flies and mosquitoes eating us alive, and we were also on the ground, which was not comfortable at all. I think I got about five hours of sleep total, and I kept waking up and remembering where I was. It was not pleasant.
To think that there are other people who have to do that all the time.
The next day we went to church with the other homeless people at First Indian. It was pretty amazing. At the beginning, there was this guy named Patrick who was one of the people in the congregation, and he had what looked to me like a small tumor on his cheek. He was just sitting out in one of the pews, and all of a sudden, he just started playing the harmonica. And he played really well, too. I think he was playing a hymn, but I don't remember what it was called. They had a very old-fashioned service, and we sang "Sweet Hour of Prayer," "Revive Me Again," "Rock of Ages," and "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" which for some reason was listed as "Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory" in the hymnal. Then we listened to the preacher read a very long passage from Ephesians (I think) about submitting to people calmly rather than fighting them. He had the standard Deep Preacher God Voice, and it kind of reminded me of services I've attended with me grandparents at their church.
After church, things got really interesting. We broke into groups and we had to go on a "scavenger hunt." This was literal though, since we actually had to go dumpster diving and beg for food. One of the boys in my group, Jacob, went into the first dumpster we saw, and came out with a wallet and a social security card belonging to a Juan Acosta. Mr. Acosta had foreign money in his wallet, and an ID, but there was not much else. It was a nice wallet, too, from American Eagle. We saved it in case he needed it back.
Getting lunch was the tricky part. I was terrified. I didn't know what we were going to do. I mean, let's face it: we were downtown on a Sunday. Nothing was open. We would have to dumpster dive for food, I was sure, and my stomach curdled at the thought, even though it hurt because I was hungry and hadn't eaten breakfast (I couldn't pay for it, being homeless/without Fake Money).
We tried a few restaurants, and they were all closed. Then we came to a Subway, which was open, and figured we might as well try to get food.
We got much more than that.
Jacob and a girl from our group named Mallory went into the Subway while the rest of us waited at tables outside. They asked an employee if she had any leftovers for us to eat. The employee, a woman named Diane, sort of looked them up and down and said, "Y'all hungry?" Jacob and Mallory sort of nodded meekly, and Diane told them to wait while she served another customer. She came back with two sandwiches, which we later learned were part of her own lunch.
Jacob and Mallory arrived outside triumphantly with the six-inch beauties, which our group leader began to cut into pieces. However, two elderly security guards saw us and asked why on earth she was doing that. We explained that the seven of us were sharing. The two men immediately whipped out twenties without even hesitating and said, "Go on in there and buy yourselves lunch. Keep the change." I was so overwhelmed. We all were. These gentlemen didn't even know us or anything about us. They just handed over their money to six dirty teenagers and an adult without even batting an eye.
Just then, Diane stuck her head out the door said, "How many of y'all are there? Get inside!"
In the end, each of us split three five-dollar foot-longs. Diane was so concerned for our safety that in the end, our group leader explained that we were a youth group working at First Indian, information we were originally supposed to omit. Even then, she and her coworker were still very eager to know things like whether or not they fed us (not exactly) and where we were sleeping (outside). She shook her head when she heard that, saying that it wasn't safe, and looking genuinely relieved when we told her that it was a fenced in yard guarded by an off-duty police officer. When our group leader explained that we were trying to identify with the poor and their sufferings because that's was Jesus had done, she and a few other people in the store actually started to cry. Another complete stranger gave us money to give to the church.
Diane went the extra mile. She allowed us to fill up our water bottles with cold water from the soda fountain, gave us candy and cookies that were too crumbly to be sold, and warned us to keep away from a couple of certain men, providing us with sufficient descriptions so we would keep our eyes peeled. Jesus was in Subway, and I'm still not sure whether He was her or us. Either way, two more gaggles of kids from our youth group were fed on her generosity that day.
Later, we had a very different experience. We passed through the Devon Tower (also known as Isengard) on our way back to the church, to cool off if only for a few seconds and to see what time it was. There we met a man wearing a nice, crisp suit with shiny cuff links. I'm not sure what his job was, he was clearly a pretty wealthy man. When we asked him what time it was, he whipped out his iPhone and said in a not-particularly-friendly voice that it was nearly four. We thanked him and promptly left the building, knowing a bad vibe when we bumped into it. Once all of us had left, I turned around and saw him making sure that the doors had closed securely behind us.
I was surprised that I wasn't really offended. I would have boiled at his actions under normal circumstances- but then, under normal circumstances I would have been wearing nicer clothes, I would have showered recently, and I probably would probably only ever go to a place like the Devon Tower on a school field trip. Mostly, I remember feeling sorry for him. He was clearly a rich man, and he therefore had a good job, but in spite of all of that, he was so ignorant. Ignorance is a poverty that in some ways is even worse than the monetary poverty millions suffer through every day.
Back at church, I heard incredible stories of people who had also gone to Subway and eaten thanks to Diane, a group who had received hot dogs from another homeless man, a group that collected money by holding up a sign and begging, even a group that had to figure out how to eat on less than four dollars. What came next was in some ways even worse than being in downtown Oklahoma City for an afternoon.
Dinner was a surprise, but everyone would have to eat it, so we were all pretty wary of what it might be. Breakfast had been Cheetos and root beer for anyone who had bought, and we were expecting everything from a turkey dinner to road kill. When we got there, everyone drew Popsicle sticks. Mine had Europe written on it in purple marker. When I came in, I saw people that were obviously missionaries wearing clothes from different countries. A man in the sort of clothes one would wear to Hawaii on vacation led me to a high table on the stage. It had a nice table cloth, although I couldn't help but notice that another table next to mine had flowers and wine glasses. I looked around and saw everyone else being seated on the floor at various stretches of fabric.
Suddenly, it all clicked. I was Europe. I would get a good meal. But the countries on the floor were about to get a lot less food than I was. I immediately felt guilt and dread spread through me. I would have to sit up here on this stage while everyone watched me eat. It was disgusting. I was glad my stool was facing away from everyone so I, at least, wouldn't have to see their faces. Our meal was nice enough, including a delicious apple pie. I ate as much as I could, but I still felt horrible.
The table next to us, I immediately realized, was America. Two kids sat at the table. Their server was a very loud woman who spoke with the air of someone had was trying to ignore the awkwardness in the room, while at the same trying to put on a show. She served the kids steak, baked potatoes, and rolls. There was much more on the table than two grown-ups could eat, let alone kids just entering high school. Towards the end of the meal, a youth worker and our youth pastor's two kids brought in their dogs and fed them what steak the American table hadn't managed to consume. I turned my stool away from the rest of the kids on the ground as the dogs were fed, while protests could be heard from the crowd. The Americans were also served huge ice cream sundaes, heaped with whipped cream and sprinkles. I felt sorry for them. I felt awkward eating an ordinary healthy meal, but they were the stars of the show.
After everyone finished eating, it was explained that we had just participated in a World Banquet, an exercise which encompasses regions around the world and foods that an average person might have on a regular day. Latin America was served bean burritos, Africa had a tortilla and sweet potatoes, India probably didn't get much either, and China was given a scoop of rice about the size of a small child's fist.
Then we all sat on the floor and watched a video about poverty. I thought I knew roughly what to expect, since I've watched similar videos at school before. I was wrong. The video covered poverty all around the world, and told the stories of children living on the streets, people living in leprosy colonies, and families working in the Payatas in the Philippines.
The story of the Payatas struck me most. This is a literal mountain of garbage in the Philippines, around fifty feet high, where families live (for lack of a better word) and work as scavengers. For long hours every day, adults and children as young as four dig through the trash, searching for recyclable items that the put in bags and carry to trucks that come ceaselessly up and down the mountain. They also look for anything salvageable, like broken toys, that they might repair and sell or use in their own tiny shacks. Children who work in the Payatas dump site are often covered in scratches from jagged bits of metal, and diseases like typhus spread like wildfire through the people.
If that wasn't bad enough, on July 10, 2000, there was a violent storm that caused a fifty foot wall of trash to come down on the little group of shanties where the people lived. Shacks that weren't crushed caught fire, as people had been burning lamps or stoves to keep warm. Around 300 people were killed in the tragedy- many of them children- although even now, twelve years later, there is still no firm headcount of the people who were killed. Still hundreds more were left without homes.
Here are some statistics that I hope blow your mind as well:
~ In 2010, 14.5% of American households (17.2 million, by the way) were "food insecure"; this is the highest number ever recorded in the U.S.
~ In 2010, 46.9 million people lived in poverty in the U.S. The number of people in poverty had increased by 9.6 million from 2007.
~ 20.5 million Americans live in extreme poverty. A family of four lives in extreme poverty if their income is less than $10,000 a year.
~ 16.3% of Americans do not have health insurance.
~ In 2011 there were 636, 017 homeless people in America. (Sidenote: Just off the top of my head, that's more people than there are children in the foster care system. This is a number we could use to start a small city.)
~ In 2010, 6.2 million Americans spent more than half of their income on rent. (Sidenote: There were six million Jews killed in the Holocaust. Also, the population of Oklahoma is only 3,791,508 people, just a little over half.)
I'll go ahead and stop, but you get the picture.
It makes me so mad that this still exists. We live in a world where technology is commonplace, where modern medicine can cure so many diseases that had no cure even a hundred years ago. I thought that the human race had come so far, but now I see that only part of it has. Even though I knew there were homeless people in America, I didn't realize the extent of the problem. I had always thought that poverty was something that was more of a problem in foreign countries, where little children have swollen bodies from malnutrition. It was still wrong, and I still wanted to do something about it, but it wasn't something I felt was immediately in front of me.
Now, as I write, July 4th is only an hour away, but I have never felt less like celebrating. Why should I, when our country allows people to live in such misery? I thank God that I have what I have and that I am in a position to help. These numbers- numbers that come from real people in our own backyard who have names and stories- should not be so high. It's wrong. Jesus talks about the poor in the Bible constantly, and he walked with those rejects of society in order not just to minister to them, but that he might understand their pain. And to some extent, he did. Jesus was born an illegitimate child to a woman who was almost certainly a teen mom, regardless of the fact that she was about to marry, and as a Jewish carpenter and later a wandering missionary, he wasn't exactly the richest guy on the block. And if he walked among the poor and served them, then dadgumit, I'm going to do it, too.
(Here are the links for the statistics I got: www.endhomelessness.org; www.worldhunger.org)
All of these things are totally untrue, and don't even try to tell me that they are.
Let me 'splain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up:
I went on a mission trip with my church on Friday. We went to First Indian Church of the Nazarene in Oklahoma City (which seems rather misleadingly like it only ministers to Native Americans) and fixed it up a little. We repaired the walls of the sanctuary and repainted them, some kids painted a swing set for the kids, we did landscaping around the church, we remodeled the youth room, repainted the youth building, and picked up lots of trash. There was sanding and spackling and sealing oh my.
I think I should also add (rather smugly) that we managed this in roughly two days. Yes. Yes, yes youth group is TOTALLY beast.
Now, as if becoming a construction worker wasn't enough, we had it sprung on us at the end of the second day that we would be participating in a poverty simulation for thirty-six hours in order to identify with poor and homeless whom we served. Bit of a nasty shock, and I would have liked to know about that minor detail beforehand, but it turned out to be okay. More than okay, actually.
First, I suppose I ought to explain the idea of a poverty simulation to the laymen among us. It basically means that for thirty-six hours (or whatever length of time has been established) you become homeless. WITH ADULT SUPERVISION AND IN GROUPS, OF COURSE. And let me tell you, it is very extremely not fun. They gave us forty dollars of fake money in an envelope, and you could pick four possessions out of the stuff you packed to keep with you for the duration of the simulation.
No, let me correct myself: if you were not one of five lucky, randomly selected guests, you were allowed this privilege. If you were me, or one of the four other poor unfortunate souls selected, your ticket was drawn and you were homeless.
That's right. I was made Lowest of the Low. Cast out where there was Weeping and Gnashing of Teeth. I had even spent a frantic five seconds trying to strategically pick my items in my mind.
But it was okay. My little sister shared sleeping bags with me, and there were other girls around who gave me some of their play money to pay for whatever meals I needed. Almost everyone slept outside, because sleeping inside cost a whopping twenty bucks. Also, we had to wear clothes salvaged from a local shelter that handed out second-hand clothes to unfortunates. (Sidenote: My sister, who is basically Primrose Everdeen, somehow wound up with matching pink clothes. How...)
Sleeping outside sucked. It really did. We were allowed to come inside the church to quickly use the restroom- no pulling a Pursuit of Happyness while we were in there- and if we were thirsty, well, there was a perfectly good hose to use. It was hot, so Mattie and I slept on top of our sleeping bag. Even though we managed NOT to die of heat exhaustion, there were still flies and mosquitoes eating us alive, and we were also on the ground, which was not comfortable at all. I think I got about five hours of sleep total, and I kept waking up and remembering where I was. It was not pleasant.
To think that there are other people who have to do that all the time.
The next day we went to church with the other homeless people at First Indian. It was pretty amazing. At the beginning, there was this guy named Patrick who was one of the people in the congregation, and he had what looked to me like a small tumor on his cheek. He was just sitting out in one of the pews, and all of a sudden, he just started playing the harmonica. And he played really well, too. I think he was playing a hymn, but I don't remember what it was called. They had a very old-fashioned service, and we sang "Sweet Hour of Prayer," "Revive Me Again," "Rock of Ages," and "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" which for some reason was listed as "Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory" in the hymnal. Then we listened to the preacher read a very long passage from Ephesians (I think) about submitting to people calmly rather than fighting them. He had the standard Deep Preacher God Voice, and it kind of reminded me of services I've attended with me grandparents at their church.
After church, things got really interesting. We broke into groups and we had to go on a "scavenger hunt." This was literal though, since we actually had to go dumpster diving and beg for food. One of the boys in my group, Jacob, went into the first dumpster we saw, and came out with a wallet and a social security card belonging to a Juan Acosta. Mr. Acosta had foreign money in his wallet, and an ID, but there was not much else. It was a nice wallet, too, from American Eagle. We saved it in case he needed it back.
Getting lunch was the tricky part. I was terrified. I didn't know what we were going to do. I mean, let's face it: we were downtown on a Sunday. Nothing was open. We would have to dumpster dive for food, I was sure, and my stomach curdled at the thought, even though it hurt because I was hungry and hadn't eaten breakfast (I couldn't pay for it, being homeless/without Fake Money).
We tried a few restaurants, and they were all closed. Then we came to a Subway, which was open, and figured we might as well try to get food.
We got much more than that.
Jacob and a girl from our group named Mallory went into the Subway while the rest of us waited at tables outside. They asked an employee if she had any leftovers for us to eat. The employee, a woman named Diane, sort of looked them up and down and said, "Y'all hungry?" Jacob and Mallory sort of nodded meekly, and Diane told them to wait while she served another customer. She came back with two sandwiches, which we later learned were part of her own lunch.
Jacob and Mallory arrived outside triumphantly with the six-inch beauties, which our group leader began to cut into pieces. However, two elderly security guards saw us and asked why on earth she was doing that. We explained that the seven of us were sharing. The two men immediately whipped out twenties without even hesitating and said, "Go on in there and buy yourselves lunch. Keep the change." I was so overwhelmed. We all were. These gentlemen didn't even know us or anything about us. They just handed over their money to six dirty teenagers and an adult without even batting an eye.
Just then, Diane stuck her head out the door said, "How many of y'all are there? Get inside!"
In the end, each of us split three five-dollar foot-longs. Diane was so concerned for our safety that in the end, our group leader explained that we were a youth group working at First Indian, information we were originally supposed to omit. Even then, she and her coworker were still very eager to know things like whether or not they fed us (not exactly) and where we were sleeping (outside). She shook her head when she heard that, saying that it wasn't safe, and looking genuinely relieved when we told her that it was a fenced in yard guarded by an off-duty police officer. When our group leader explained that we were trying to identify with the poor and their sufferings because that's was Jesus had done, she and a few other people in the store actually started to cry. Another complete stranger gave us money to give to the church.
Diane went the extra mile. She allowed us to fill up our water bottles with cold water from the soda fountain, gave us candy and cookies that were too crumbly to be sold, and warned us to keep away from a couple of certain men, providing us with sufficient descriptions so we would keep our eyes peeled. Jesus was in Subway, and I'm still not sure whether He was her or us. Either way, two more gaggles of kids from our youth group were fed on her generosity that day.
Later, we had a very different experience. We passed through the Devon Tower (also known as Isengard) on our way back to the church, to cool off if only for a few seconds and to see what time it was. There we met a man wearing a nice, crisp suit with shiny cuff links. I'm not sure what his job was, he was clearly a pretty wealthy man. When we asked him what time it was, he whipped out his iPhone and said in a not-particularly-friendly voice that it was nearly four. We thanked him and promptly left the building, knowing a bad vibe when we bumped into it. Once all of us had left, I turned around and saw him making sure that the doors had closed securely behind us.
I was surprised that I wasn't really offended. I would have boiled at his actions under normal circumstances- but then, under normal circumstances I would have been wearing nicer clothes, I would have showered recently, and I probably would probably only ever go to a place like the Devon Tower on a school field trip. Mostly, I remember feeling sorry for him. He was clearly a rich man, and he therefore had a good job, but in spite of all of that, he was so ignorant. Ignorance is a poverty that in some ways is even worse than the monetary poverty millions suffer through every day.
Back at church, I heard incredible stories of people who had also gone to Subway and eaten thanks to Diane, a group who had received hot dogs from another homeless man, a group that collected money by holding up a sign and begging, even a group that had to figure out how to eat on less than four dollars. What came next was in some ways even worse than being in downtown Oklahoma City for an afternoon.
Dinner was a surprise, but everyone would have to eat it, so we were all pretty wary of what it might be. Breakfast had been Cheetos and root beer for anyone who had bought, and we were expecting everything from a turkey dinner to road kill. When we got there, everyone drew Popsicle sticks. Mine had Europe written on it in purple marker. When I came in, I saw people that were obviously missionaries wearing clothes from different countries. A man in the sort of clothes one would wear to Hawaii on vacation led me to a high table on the stage. It had a nice table cloth, although I couldn't help but notice that another table next to mine had flowers and wine glasses. I looked around and saw everyone else being seated on the floor at various stretches of fabric.
Suddenly, it all clicked. I was Europe. I would get a good meal. But the countries on the floor were about to get a lot less food than I was. I immediately felt guilt and dread spread through me. I would have to sit up here on this stage while everyone watched me eat. It was disgusting. I was glad my stool was facing away from everyone so I, at least, wouldn't have to see their faces. Our meal was nice enough, including a delicious apple pie. I ate as much as I could, but I still felt horrible.
The table next to us, I immediately realized, was America. Two kids sat at the table. Their server was a very loud woman who spoke with the air of someone had was trying to ignore the awkwardness in the room, while at the same trying to put on a show. She served the kids steak, baked potatoes, and rolls. There was much more on the table than two grown-ups could eat, let alone kids just entering high school. Towards the end of the meal, a youth worker and our youth pastor's two kids brought in their dogs and fed them what steak the American table hadn't managed to consume. I turned my stool away from the rest of the kids on the ground as the dogs were fed, while protests could be heard from the crowd. The Americans were also served huge ice cream sundaes, heaped with whipped cream and sprinkles. I felt sorry for them. I felt awkward eating an ordinary healthy meal, but they were the stars of the show.
After everyone finished eating, it was explained that we had just participated in a World Banquet, an exercise which encompasses regions around the world and foods that an average person might have on a regular day. Latin America was served bean burritos, Africa had a tortilla and sweet potatoes, India probably didn't get much either, and China was given a scoop of rice about the size of a small child's fist.
Then we all sat on the floor and watched a video about poverty. I thought I knew roughly what to expect, since I've watched similar videos at school before. I was wrong. The video covered poverty all around the world, and told the stories of children living on the streets, people living in leprosy colonies, and families working in the Payatas in the Philippines.
The story of the Payatas struck me most. This is a literal mountain of garbage in the Philippines, around fifty feet high, where families live (for lack of a better word) and work as scavengers. For long hours every day, adults and children as young as four dig through the trash, searching for recyclable items that the put in bags and carry to trucks that come ceaselessly up and down the mountain. They also look for anything salvageable, like broken toys, that they might repair and sell or use in their own tiny shacks. Children who work in the Payatas dump site are often covered in scratches from jagged bits of metal, and diseases like typhus spread like wildfire through the people.
If that wasn't bad enough, on July 10, 2000, there was a violent storm that caused a fifty foot wall of trash to come down on the little group of shanties where the people lived. Shacks that weren't crushed caught fire, as people had been burning lamps or stoves to keep warm. Around 300 people were killed in the tragedy- many of them children- although even now, twelve years later, there is still no firm headcount of the people who were killed. Still hundreds more were left without homes.
Here are some statistics that I hope blow your mind as well:
~ In 2010, 14.5% of American households (17.2 million, by the way) were "food insecure"; this is the highest number ever recorded in the U.S.
~ In 2010, 46.9 million people lived in poverty in the U.S. The number of people in poverty had increased by 9.6 million from 2007.
~ 20.5 million Americans live in extreme poverty. A family of four lives in extreme poverty if their income is less than $10,000 a year.
~ 16.3% of Americans do not have health insurance.
~ In 2011 there were 636, 017 homeless people in America. (Sidenote: Just off the top of my head, that's more people than there are children in the foster care system. This is a number we could use to start a small city.)
~ In 2010, 6.2 million Americans spent more than half of their income on rent. (Sidenote: There were six million Jews killed in the Holocaust. Also, the population of Oklahoma is only 3,791,508 people, just a little over half.)
I'll go ahead and stop, but you get the picture.
It makes me so mad that this still exists. We live in a world where technology is commonplace, where modern medicine can cure so many diseases that had no cure even a hundred years ago. I thought that the human race had come so far, but now I see that only part of it has. Even though I knew there were homeless people in America, I didn't realize the extent of the problem. I had always thought that poverty was something that was more of a problem in foreign countries, where little children have swollen bodies from malnutrition. It was still wrong, and I still wanted to do something about it, but it wasn't something I felt was immediately in front of me.
Now, as I write, July 4th is only an hour away, but I have never felt less like celebrating. Why should I, when our country allows people to live in such misery? I thank God that I have what I have and that I am in a position to help. These numbers- numbers that come from real people in our own backyard who have names and stories- should not be so high. It's wrong. Jesus talks about the poor in the Bible constantly, and he walked with those rejects of society in order not just to minister to them, but that he might understand their pain. And to some extent, he did. Jesus was born an illegitimate child to a woman who was almost certainly a teen mom, regardless of the fact that she was about to marry, and as a Jewish carpenter and later a wandering missionary, he wasn't exactly the richest guy on the block. And if he walked among the poor and served them, then dadgumit, I'm going to do it, too.
(Here are the links for the statistics I got: www.endhomelessness.org; www.worldhunger.org)
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