Truth-seeking: Emily D vs. the Quakers

"Good day, Friend."

"Good day. How is Truth prospering in thy parts?"

Think about how you would respond if someone began a conversation this way.

I might say "Truth prospers in the genuine excitement I see in Raya (who was interviewed very well and gets to travel with Model UN to Greece this year.) Truth prospers in the honest work that most students do to prepare for class.

Truth suffers in the students who cheated on the test I gave in class yesterday. Truth prospers at the avocado stand where, when I hesitated at what seemed like a high price, the young man weighed the bag in front of me and explained the price.

Apparently I choose extremely large avocados."

Early Quakers were not given to idle talk. But this "honesty" is also not what they meant by Truth, according to Wilmer Cooper in his mop-water-soaked pamphlet on Integrity.

Listen to Fox's idea of where Truth is found: "I was to direct people to the Spirit that gave forth the Scriptures, by which they might be led into all Truth."

He does not say "I was to direct people to the Scriptures"; the Spirit was the destination.

Truth, according to Fox, is not about secondhand knowledge of God, but firsthand experience. He hoped we would have experiences of Truth that we felt compelled to obey. I imagine this like a call to a profession- an experience so convincing that "teaching!" or "nursing!" or "coding!" is what I am meant to do, that I obey the call and pursue that path.

For Fox, Truth was revealed through the life and teachings of Christ, so the Scriptures count. But the truth was only "authentic if it was grounded in first-hand experience of the living God."

This week Emily Dickinson showed my class that the pursuit of truth might inspire less-than-Quakerly meditations. We read this poem together.

I LIKE a look of agony,
Because I know it ’s true;
Men do not sham convulsion,
Nor simulate a throe.
The eyes glaze once, and that is death.	5
Impossible to feign
The beads upon the forehead
By homely anguish strung.

We discussed how she seems to revel in the spectacle of death simply because it offers the the satisfying certainty that she is not being lied to. The eyes of someone dying in anguish glaze over, and -op!- now I know you're for real; Now I'll pay attention, enough to register with pleasure the beads of sweat, festively "strung" across your face. No matter that it's a deathly anguish which produced them.

We also studied empathy this week - this poem was an effective counter example.

When I asked the students "Does Ms. Dickinson seem like a Quaker?" many said "Yes!" because of the demonstrated importance of honesty and truth. But if the Quaker understanding of Truth is grounded in our first-hand experience of God, we can hardly rejoice when it is found in the pain of death.

We might look instead at another Biblical reading of Truth that Cooper brings up - one found in the old testament, coming from the word "emeth" and oftener translated "Faithfulness."

That is, the faithfulness of God. My understanding of truth is grounded in my experience of the faithfulness of God. Simply put, I have been taken care of, and given what I need, every single day of my life up till now. That is the truth, and it is the truth upon which I build my faith in tomorrow. 

See the sea, and the settlements

I met Marwan, whom you see strangling Ahmad, last Thursday, when he popped into our #18 bus going to Jerusalem just as it was pulling out of the station. I must have smelt, because the only open seat was next to me. He took it, and I found out he is a graduate of the Friends school and has two kids there now.

"There's a camping trip on Saturday, you should come," he said. It's a good thing I heard about it from him, because the email announcing the trip listed tent and sleeping bag and a torch and outdoor cooking supplies on the "to bring" list, none of which I have. But he assured me I'd be fine, if a little dewy, with blankets.

Well among the about 12 of us who went to Ei Kenya, we schlepped enough stuff to outfit an army, so I ended up with a tent of my own and a sleeping mat (I carried a wok in my free hand going up).

As Marwan, his wife Rania, and their magnificent daughter Leen drove me westward toward our site, we could see the Mediterranean. This is indeed a small country!

We could also see three settlements, areas that Israel has seized and declared part of Israel, where Israelis live, Palestinians are banned, and watch towers survey the surrounding Palestinian villages. Our hill was so delightful I am surprised it too hasn't been established as a settlement. "It's only a matter of time," said Eman, Ahmad's mother.

In the James Joyce stories that my 11th graders are looking at, we're watching for the theme of failures in communication between characters. Our young male narrators often harbor strong feelings of injustice suffered, but don't complain.

InWhen she had gone I began to walk up and down the room, clenching my fists. " 
"Araby," a young boy about to miss out on an outing to the bazaar market fumes. "

In "The Sisters," a boy hearing another man slight his late teacher says "I crammed my mouth with stirabout for fear I might give utterance to my anger. Tiresome old red-nosed imbecile!"

In "An Encounter," another young narrator hears his friend described as naughty, and confides "I was going to reply indignantly that we were not National School boys to be whipped, as he called it; but I remained silent. " 

Leen, above, and the boys in me in
some old storage cave

Why do these boys hold their tongues? Is if for the same reason that the Israelis march into Palestinian territory and take the hilltops they want? Do both the boys and Palestinians know that those in charge won't honor their claim to justice?

It's difficult to say what degree of anger is productive. Proverbs 16:3 says "Better a patient person than a warrior, one with self-control than one who takes a city." Being thoughtlessly reactionary is one thing; standing up for oneself is quite another. Without retaliating by assuming warrior mentality or pledging to "take a city", it feels there must be ways of pursuing justice peacefully. Jeanne, of Ramallah Friends Meeting, doesn't buy Israeli products, and has her own marvelously productive victory garden (complete with nicely symbolic olive tree).

In the face of what feels like injustice, knowing where patience should end, and defiance should begin, is a challenge my students will all face, if they haven't yet. 

Joys, part II

"Are you free?" asked the young woman who stuck her head into my office during the last period.

"Yes."

"For like, ten minutes?"

"Yes."

"I'm looking for someone to practice my MUN speech, I have it on Saturday."

Thus commenced a very impressive presentation by an 11th grade Friends' School student on human trafficking and what the U.N. ought to be doing about it.

"I really want to get it. I want to travel. I've never travelled. I won't travel with my parents before I graduate. I would be able to travel alone. It would feel good and independent."

The Model UN team does get to travel internationally, with trips planned this year to Turkey, Greece, Jordan, and beyond. Even the short trip to Jerusalem, which is a great hassle for most Palestinians, and impossible for some, presents a distant horizon to be reached.

This young woman was impressive because she was so keen to hear feedback. But really, she needed little-- her eye contact, gestures, and delivery were all strong.

Some verses that remind me that I, too, should be constantly seeking feedback in my new job, are

Proverbs 1:5, "Let the wise hear and increase in learning, and the one who understands obtain guidance"

and

Proverbs 12:1, "Whoever loves instruction loves knowledge: but he that hates reproof is brutish."

Even though I am an instructor, receiving instruction is key to my ability to be of service here. This week I observed a colleague's class, and took notes almost constantly. They looked like a court report: "He walked among the rows. Checked a student's homework. Checked his watch. Minimal talking."

My own class ends up being a lab where I tinker-teach to figure out what works for me.

Unexpected meetings with students like yesterday's bring joys that I did not expect given the job description. 

Joys, part I

The task many a teacher doth fear,
I find myself loving, holding dear.

Past the final bell, at my desk I am found,
Stacks of quizzes, essays, handouts, all around.

In my vocation still "wet behind ears"
I might grow to dislike it, over the years.

But now, pen poised, I'm on cloud nine,
"Grand work they are doing, just fine!"

Yesterday's chore, which felt not as such,
Was a vocab quiz for 10A, not much.

Spelling errors, not surprising, were there,
But with "forebearing" and "merky", should one care?

While decoding their scribbling,
I forgot all their quibbling,
And longed to give each a hug, "a la bear".

Such joys we expect with teacher's work,
But hidden pleasures round corners do lurk.

For quite out of the blue, yesterday,
A young woman quite brightened my day.

But my rhyme runs weary,
No, don't become teary!
Just away to the next blog post, away!

Trust

In The Giver, there is a powerful moment when 12-year-old Jonas realizes that it's possible that all the adults in his life might be lying to him.

Jonas is informed that, given his future career path, he is allowed to lie.

"He had never, within his memory, been tempted to lie. Asher did not lie. Lily did not lie. His parents did not lie. No one did. Unless ...

Now Jonas had a thought that he had never had before. This new thought was frightening. What if others--adult-- had, upon becoming Twelves, received in their instructions the same terrifying sentence?

What if they had all been instructed: You may lie?

His mind reeled. Now, empowered to ask questions of utmost rudeness and promised answers--he could, conceivably (though it was almost unimaginable), ask someone, some adult, his father perhaps: "Do you lie?"

But he would have no way of knowing if the answer he received were true." 

Very quickly, the foundation of our sanity crumbles when trust dissolves, or even is questioned. 

In my experience institutions illuminate the uncomfortable wheedling distrust that Jonas feels by making everything official- by having us sign a paper every time we say "yes," "no" or "maybe so." That's why I've been curious and pleasantly surprised by the way interactions and transactions of all types here are characterized by trust. 

I went to the book printer to get copies made of The Giver. I was short 80 NIS (more than $20) and the man at the shop just waved his hand, handed me the books, and said come back tomorrow.

When Nour, the administrative secretary of Ramallah Friends School, needed to reimburse me for my visa costs today, I didn't have the change she needed, and she just gave me the 300 NIH and said to bring me the change later. 

Vegetable prices are so reasonable that I have the feeling, for the first time ever when in a new place, that I am not getting a "tourist" price. There is no song and dance about there being a special price for me, which actually makes me feel much more special.

On the other hand, every classroom, office, closet and bathroom is under lock and key at school. My keychain quadrupled in size on my first day.

Look what I squeegee-ed up

The Palestinian mopping method is to dump soapy water all over the floor, then squeegee it out the door. It works quite well, though turns into rather a scramble if your floors are slanted away from the door.

When I made my first tentative in this activity on Thursday, most of the water gathered under the radiator on the other side of the room, and when I went to remove it, I commented that the wad of paper that lay, now soaked, under the radiator, looked like a Pendle Hill pamphlet, one of the Quaker mini-books written by Friends in residence at Pendle Hill, the Quaker worship and study center in Pennsylvania.

Lo and behold, it was a PH pamphlet.

Fittingly, the pamphlet is called "The Testimony of Integrity" and who knows how long it dwelt under the radiator. So impressed was I by its own integrity that after having initially tossed the partially dissolved booklet, I fished it out of the trash and dried it on the kitchen window sill.

Wilmer A. Cooper begins his pamphlet with a story of a woman who, feeling as though the wellspring of Quaker inspiration dwindled to a trickle, sought a refreshed energy for teaching in George Fox's home town.

Sitting in the church where young George worshipped with his family on First Days (the Quaker phrase for Sundays) this teacher "saw in her mind's eye the boy George Fox." She envisioned that he was puzzled by his neighbors' piety while in Meeting, and relative depravity during the week.

"He saw that there must be a correspondence between one's faith, between what one professed on the Sabbath, and what one does during the daily work week."

Fox recognized the inconsistency, dubbed it wrong, and went on to make integrity a central part of the faith community he founded, the Friends.

In the texts we're reading in my classes this week young boys face questions of "good and bad" which are anything but black and white.

Jonas, the The Giver, learns that choices have been painstakingly removed from his community's life. Everyone is colorblind for instance. When he sees color for the first time, he is angry that such diversity has been withheld. "If everything's the same, then there aren't any choices! I want to wake up in the morning and decide things! I blue tunic, or a red one?"

The real question for Jonas is whether he enlighten his friends and family to their own bland existence.

In James Joyce's story "The Sisters," the narrator, a  young boy, considers the recently-dead priest who was rather a mentor for him. He dreams of the "heavy grey face of the paralytic. I drew the blankets over my head and tried to think of Christmas. But the grey face still followed me. I felt my soul receding into some pleasant and vicious region; and there again I found it waiting for me. It began to confess to me in a murmuring voice and I wondered why it smiled continually and why the lips were so moist with spittle."

Is this a good guy? Can someone give us the heebeejeebees and still be a good influence, or an intellectually safe acquaintance? I'm encouraging my students to allow texts, events, relationships, characters, to be hard to categorize and characterize. It makes them harder to write about, but more realistic.

We'll look at heaps of characters this year who aren't as golden-good as Fox, but have redeeming even heroic, characteristics.

Can't wait. 

Refuges for the language-less

If you ever find yourself in a foreign country where you don't speak the language, let me suggest two activities that make you feel utterly part of something that crosses conventions and reaches souls: silent worship, and spinning.

The Ramallah Friends Meeting (newsletter) is housed in a beautiful meeting house on the main street of downtown Ramallah. Eleven Friends or attenders gathered for worship this Sunday. The unprogrammed hour heard hymns and ministry; that Sibelius tune Finlandia, turned into "This is my Song" pulls particularly at the heart here (video)

This is my song, O God of all the nations,

a song of peace for lands afar and mine.

This is my home, the country where my heart is;

here are my hopes, my dreams, my holy shrine;

but other hearts in other lands are beating

with hopes and dreams as true and high as mine.

I met the legendary Jean, who seems to be the Margaret Wentworth of Ramallah Friends, and she led us all to felafel and hummus- a great way to make more (F)riends.

THEN, last night I felt ready for a nap despite my healthy 8 hours, so I decided getting my blood flowing might do me good. I bought a membership to SOLO Gym, and arrived just as a Spinning class was getting under sweaty way. Oh my gosh. So much fun. 

I cannot say for sure which language the instructor was speaking, but it didn't matter, because the music was so loud no one seemed to be counting on the actual instructions. It's fairly basic, in a class where there's only one action. Well, two-- the woman next to me swatted my elbow at one point and pointed to her own legs, which, like everyone else's were peddling backward at that point. I guffawed (another conveniently universal behavior) and slowed and reversed my whirring steed. 

While waiting in the gathered Meeting, and while spinning in a what felt like a throbbing black box theater, barriers with the Palestinians around me fell away, despite my pitiful Arabic vocabulary. The day in my week with the least conversation was also my most integrated. "Let your words be few, my Friends."

The 100 year old piano (really! Jean said!) that no longer works functions "but gives history."