I heard his voice begin to tremble before I realized he was sobbing. The sun was shooting diagonal rays of light across his lap, forcing him to squint his eyes whenever he turned his head towards the direction where I was seated. That was when I knew our talk had become emotional. Jarda and I had been sitting for the past two hours listening to this man recount his days and experiences as a pastor under the communist regime. At times, the interview was saturated with guarded, sheepish answers to probing questions; and at others, it unfurled with candid and honest reflections.
Tomas Bisek is well-known in dissident circles here in the Czech Republic. He is one of the few pastors in the Evangelical Church who talk at great length about their past in opposition to the former Regime and its secret police, the StB. In the 10 years that he was a pastor in the small village of Teleci (about 7 km away from Policka), Tomas and his family were interrogated numerous times, monitored, harassed, threatened and, most famously of all, listened in on, thanks in part to implanted 'sound devices' in the ceiling of their house. The StB viewed Tomas as a leading intellectual figure in Czech dissident movement, especially the time right before and immediately after the signing of Charter 77 (of which he took part); culminating a few years later with the revocation of his preaching license, the relegation to life as a lumber-jack, and finally, emigration to Scotland in the year 1982.
At the beginning of the year, I know that I had told many of you I was working on a project to interview pastors and learn more about their experiences under communism. I had hopes of speaking with a minimum of five, but since that time, have only been able to hear from three. Tomas, due to health problems stemming from a battle with thyroid cancer, was very difficult to get a hold of: He flies back to Scotland about every other month. Jarda and I waited patiently for the chance to speak with him, which luckily came about a week ago. We had both anticipated this opportunity for quite some time, but had reservations: Would Tomas be well enough to speak for long periods of time? Would he want to speak to two twenty-five-year-olds? Would the questions seem armature and naive? Would I say something to offend him? Would he be short and curt?
I'm happy to say that my worries quickly left as soon as I entered into his quaint house, on one of the few peaceful, quiet streets in Prague. We took our places in the kitchen, across from a window that looked out over the hills and the Vltava River, giving us a prime view of the Cerna Most quarter of Prague, with its array of drab-looking, communist-era apartment buildings. The sun was shining and the temperature was warm enough to go on a stroll in short sleeves. It just seemed destined to be a positive day.
I saw the scar that ran across his throat as a reminder that life is fragile and fleeting. He can't produce saliva, so speaking has become quite a laborious undertaking. Every two minutes or so, a drink must be taken. If he is negligent in this, his lips parch and crack, quickly, right before your eyes (A few times during our interview, this did happen. He was so involved in thinking and talking that he forgot about his present state. This left me feeling guilty: here I was taking his attention off of his current affliction with memories from the past, and for most people it would be a welcome deferment, but when your past is like Tomas', it seemed a little unfair). I had heard from a few of my friends in Policka that the cancer has made him prone to suffer through bouts of extreme exhaustion; they were unsure as to whether he would be willing to answer more than 10 questions, let alone the 25 I had 'cut' down to. But, I had plans to ask 25, and in the end, we talked a whole lot more.
I can't explain to you my immediate feelings at seeing him sob. I knew that the last question was charged with emotion for any pastor, but with Tomas, it felt different. He didn't speak to Jarda or me much about his thoughts on the passing of life, a reality he has, I'm sure, been forced to ponder, but when I asked him about forgiveness and reconciliation, he answered with an openness and honesty that is not seen from Czechs. I believe it stemmed from a yearning to heal.
About 10 years ago the denomination attempted to set up a 'Reconciliation Committee', which would be the main avenue through which pastors, who have struggled with coming to terms with their experiences under communism, would be able to heal and receive counseling. This committee is necessary, because the Evangelical church has a very gray past when it comes to the regime and the forty years of its tyrannical rule. There were pastors who chastised their fellow brothers for being against the regime; there were church members who informed on elders; there was open debate within the seminary; and, the highest 'Synod' council was influenced, at times, by the Communists themselves. What this has led to today, is extreme guilt and shame on the part of some who might now have to live with the fact that they were on the 'wrong side' (not that this applies, because this history is very complicated and the line between 'good' and 'bad' was nearly invisible. But, you can imagine the human anguish for some of the pastors). The committee was a failure in that not one pastor came forward to speak publicly; this was only exacerbated by the fact that one of their colleagues committed suicide: Many believe that shame had pushed him to a point of no return. He didn't reach out for help. Consequently, when I asked Tomas about reconciliation and forgiveness, he answered that it is a pivotal question for the Evangelical Brethren today. I had originally asked the question in hopes of hearing him speak about forgiveness in regards to those who had persecuted him and his family, and to the contrary, I found that it is the church and his colleagues, the men who studied the scriptures, who've found it hardest not to forgive the StB, but themselves. And that is a battle all of us know too well.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Reflections- community and home
About two years ago, I remember writing my thoughts upon leaving for the Czech Republic. I was worried that I would not be accepted into the community, and feel like one who is not wanted, or like a 'foreigner' who doesn't belong. In contrasting this, I spoke about the comforts of Beaver County, home. The bridges that traverse the bends of the Ohio River, the Con-rail rail yards, with screeching and yawning groans that echo up the hills; the river towns that dot the banks as the Ohio winds its way south, turning in a great bend at the confluence of Beaver Creek, near the Beaver County Bowl. I was comforted by chili poured on top of some fries and the grime let over from years of men and women, of the working-class inclination, who've gone to the Brighton Hot Dog Shoppe for a quick lunch. In essence, I was reminiscing about the fact that I had become part of the community in my own small way: I had friends, became comfortable in a routine and could map the roads and by-ways of the county when I closed my eyes: The smells linger and the beat-up road signs that give mile-markers to Pittsburgh and Beaver Falls reveal themselves. I guess, two years ago, I was asking this question: "Would I have that in the Czech Republic?"
I've walked all over this city. There have been some roads that I've only stepped on a few times, but a vast majority of the alleyways and cobblestones of Policka have become well-acquainted with the tred of my boots. Walking outdoors has enable to be meet some people face-to-face; they see me in a hurry, when I'm late for a meeting; they gaze at my scrunched-up face when wind is blasting snow flakes into my ears; they've come to observe me and Jamie when we go on meandering strolls around town, looking in windows and making our way past the local brewery, up into the woods to a place called 'Lebohi'; they also notice when I shave, or when I have a haircut; when I buy rolls and what I normally eat for lunch on a Thursday afternoon. All of this would not be a reality, if I was sheltered and isolated within the climate-controlled comfort of an automobile. If that were how I made my way around Policka, who would I be to those people who walk the same path to work as me? I would never be seen here; found and heard only by the color of my paint job and the muffler of my small, 4-cylinder engine. Cars are not exactly the best way of creating/familiarizing oneself with a new community, or 'home'.
Just this past weekend, Jamie and I found ourselves at the last ball of the winter season. We were invited by our friends Jiri and Renata Blandovi. Upon entering through the giant, wooden door, I was stuck by the amount of people who I've come to 'know'. Now, their names are a definite mystery to me and I really have no idea what their job is, but I do know that I've seen them all before, and they know me. I've nodded to many of these people on the street and seen a majority of them at social gatherings; I know which of them is a good dancer, and which one was a former cyclist on the Czech-national team; I know who is the lock-smith, and which man is the lawyer who graduated with Jiri in 1993. At one point during the night, after about two hours of dancing, drinking and talking, I felt a woman drape her hands across both of my shoulders. Shocked as to who this might be, I immediately turned around in my seat, and was surprised to see standing behind me a woman about the age of 40, with creased cheeks and shortly-cropped hair with multi-colored streaks of yellow and red running throughout. Her eyes were very large and dark, which gave them a look of tenderness, back dropped with a gaze that signified a love for a party. I smelled a little alcohol on her breath. Speaking in direct and rapid Czech, she asked both Jamie and me how we're enjoying ourselves. She told us her name was 'Alena' and she thought both of us were just 'great'. Now, in most situations, I would probably assume that this woman got confused as to who we were, maybe she thought we were long-lost friends or something? But I recognized her as well; I knew her from somewhere. Then, it hit me; she is the woman who works at the bakery! Jamie and I buy eight rolls there every Thursday for our lunch. We're so consistent, that upon us walking in the door, the women who work behind the counter usually have a bag pulled out and are in the early stages of taking the cylindrical bread from its basket under the glass. Having realized who this woman was, I said back to her, "Ahh, Alena, you're our friend from the bakery! We love your rolls!" Her face revealed a deep smile, and her hands gave me two pats on the back--the kind that aunts usually give their nephews and nieces. I made an attempt at introducing myself, but the name Jeremy is so foreign to the Czech ear, that many older-generation 'Polickans' would never be able to pronounce it. I tried three times to slowly tell her my name--even getting right next to her ear--but it was to no avail. I quite trying and was content to leave the conversation there. She turned just as quickly as she had arrived, and went back to her table and her white wine. But, Jamie and I had been greeted by a woman we only knew through the acquaintance that comes with habit and routine, and it was a great feeling.
In some ways I feel I'm more intimately connected to Policka than I am with Ambridge. I mean, how many times have I walked the streets of Ambridge enough to know where in the sidewalk puddles linger after a rain? Have I been down on those streets often enough to get a feel for the movement and habits of the citizens that walk up and down Merchant Street (if there are any)? Have I ever gone gazing through windows and into stores and know who the shop owners are, and which one of them usually carries the best paper, and which one of them has the cheapest candy? In reality, my only investment in 'community living' in Ambridge has been to the gas station, to the eye doctor and the occasional trips to The Maples Restaurant or to Rooks bar--all of which are predicated on me driving to my destination.
I think in the United States we are in a very real crisis of community, and it doesn't just stem from the individualistic mentality of American culture. No, it is very real in how we physically build our 'townships' and our communities. The fact that we in America can have 'communities' that look like Cranberry, PA is almost unbelievable. Cranberry, in no sense of the word, is a community: it is a series of strip malls, targets, wal-marts Barns & Nobles and stop lights. There are houses there, but all of them are of the McMansion sort, laid out in very rational, often boring, rows. Everything looks the same: cars pulse in and out during the summer and winter, but there are no people walking. I think if I was to make a count of the amount of sidewalk that traverses Cranberry (a city that claims to be one of the fastest-growing in America), I would be shocked if I found more than 2 miles, all together. There are no local bakers, no art galleries, no private book stores, no small grocers, no butchers, no local pubs, not even a school. It's appalling. America's communities are dying from a lack of craftsmanship (working in the bakery of Giant Eagle does not count you as a 'Baker' by trade, I'm sorry), and complete destruction of centrality. Pretty soon, I envision that American cities from the East Coast to the sand-flats of New Mexico, will only be culturally unique from each other by the few food offerings that find their way onto the menu of the local Olive Garden: Maybe in Pittsburgh we'll still have our "Pirmanti brothers-style sandwich", and in New Mexico, one can order a spicy bean burrito. Let's face it, with the way all American cultural institutions are going, even our most hallowed and respected 'food-joints' will probably die off and be co-opted into large, more detached corporations.
I guess what I'm saying, is that in Policka, I've found community and place.
When friends ask me what the hardest aspect about leaving will be, I often tell them losing my routine. I know that on Monday, I can go the gym at 5 pm and pay forty krouns. On Wednesday, the waiter at my favorite pub knows exactly what I want for lunch; when I walk in the door, he immediately yells "Pivko?!" from behind the bar, which is him asking if I'll have my regular drink. Before I can even answer yes, he has grabbed a freshly-washed glass and has made the motion to open the tap. He knows what I'll say, I've been going there too regularly for him to guess (in all my life in western Pennsylvania, I've never been so attached to a place, that those who work there know my habits so well that they don't need to officially inquire). I can see the woman in the beige-fur coat, saggy eyes and hap-hazardly applied lipstick, make her morning walk to work. I know when she is late and when we are late by relation to where, along the path, we meet every morning: if she is in the park, we’re both on time, but if we're near the round-a-bout, Jamie and I need to pick up the pace.
So, I guess the answer to my question from two years ago, whether I would be able to find community and comfort in Policka like that of home, has been answered. Now, it seems I'm starting to have the possible-lack-of-community anxiety again, but this time, it's about my 'home'. Hmm, weird...
I've walked all over this city. There have been some roads that I've only stepped on a few times, but a vast majority of the alleyways and cobblestones of Policka have become well-acquainted with the tred of my boots. Walking outdoors has enable to be meet some people face-to-face; they see me in a hurry, when I'm late for a meeting; they gaze at my scrunched-up face when wind is blasting snow flakes into my ears; they've come to observe me and Jamie when we go on meandering strolls around town, looking in windows and making our way past the local brewery, up into the woods to a place called 'Lebohi'; they also notice when I shave, or when I have a haircut; when I buy rolls and what I normally eat for lunch on a Thursday afternoon. All of this would not be a reality, if I was sheltered and isolated within the climate-controlled comfort of an automobile. If that were how I made my way around Policka, who would I be to those people who walk the same path to work as me? I would never be seen here; found and heard only by the color of my paint job and the muffler of my small, 4-cylinder engine. Cars are not exactly the best way of creating/familiarizing oneself with a new community, or 'home'.
Just this past weekend, Jamie and I found ourselves at the last ball of the winter season. We were invited by our friends Jiri and Renata Blandovi. Upon entering through the giant, wooden door, I was stuck by the amount of people who I've come to 'know'. Now, their names are a definite mystery to me and I really have no idea what their job is, but I do know that I've seen them all before, and they know me. I've nodded to many of these people on the street and seen a majority of them at social gatherings; I know which of them is a good dancer, and which one was a former cyclist on the Czech-national team; I know who is the lock-smith, and which man is the lawyer who graduated with Jiri in 1993. At one point during the night, after about two hours of dancing, drinking and talking, I felt a woman drape her hands across both of my shoulders. Shocked as to who this might be, I immediately turned around in my seat, and was surprised to see standing behind me a woman about the age of 40, with creased cheeks and shortly-cropped hair with multi-colored streaks of yellow and red running throughout. Her eyes were very large and dark, which gave them a look of tenderness, back dropped with a gaze that signified a love for a party. I smelled a little alcohol on her breath. Speaking in direct and rapid Czech, she asked both Jamie and me how we're enjoying ourselves. She told us her name was 'Alena' and she thought both of us were just 'great'. Now, in most situations, I would probably assume that this woman got confused as to who we were, maybe she thought we were long-lost friends or something? But I recognized her as well; I knew her from somewhere. Then, it hit me; she is the woman who works at the bakery! Jamie and I buy eight rolls there every Thursday for our lunch. We're so consistent, that upon us walking in the door, the women who work behind the counter usually have a bag pulled out and are in the early stages of taking the cylindrical bread from its basket under the glass. Having realized who this woman was, I said back to her, "Ahh, Alena, you're our friend from the bakery! We love your rolls!" Her face revealed a deep smile, and her hands gave me two pats on the back--the kind that aunts usually give their nephews and nieces. I made an attempt at introducing myself, but the name Jeremy is so foreign to the Czech ear, that many older-generation 'Polickans' would never be able to pronounce it. I tried three times to slowly tell her my name--even getting right next to her ear--but it was to no avail. I quite trying and was content to leave the conversation there. She turned just as quickly as she had arrived, and went back to her table and her white wine. But, Jamie and I had been greeted by a woman we only knew through the acquaintance that comes with habit and routine, and it was a great feeling.
In some ways I feel I'm more intimately connected to Policka than I am with Ambridge. I mean, how many times have I walked the streets of Ambridge enough to know where in the sidewalk puddles linger after a rain? Have I been down on those streets often enough to get a feel for the movement and habits of the citizens that walk up and down Merchant Street (if there are any)? Have I ever gone gazing through windows and into stores and know who the shop owners are, and which one of them usually carries the best paper, and which one of them has the cheapest candy? In reality, my only investment in 'community living' in Ambridge has been to the gas station, to the eye doctor and the occasional trips to The Maples Restaurant or to Rooks bar--all of which are predicated on me driving to my destination.
I think in the United States we are in a very real crisis of community, and it doesn't just stem from the individualistic mentality of American culture. No, it is very real in how we physically build our 'townships' and our communities. The fact that we in America can have 'communities' that look like Cranberry, PA is almost unbelievable. Cranberry, in no sense of the word, is a community: it is a series of strip malls, targets, wal-marts Barns & Nobles and stop lights. There are houses there, but all of them are of the McMansion sort, laid out in very rational, often boring, rows. Everything looks the same: cars pulse in and out during the summer and winter, but there are no people walking. I think if I was to make a count of the amount of sidewalk that traverses Cranberry (a city that claims to be one of the fastest-growing in America), I would be shocked if I found more than 2 miles, all together. There are no local bakers, no art galleries, no private book stores, no small grocers, no butchers, no local pubs, not even a school. It's appalling. America's communities are dying from a lack of craftsmanship (working in the bakery of Giant Eagle does not count you as a 'Baker' by trade, I'm sorry), and complete destruction of centrality. Pretty soon, I envision that American cities from the East Coast to the sand-flats of New Mexico, will only be culturally unique from each other by the few food offerings that find their way onto the menu of the local Olive Garden: Maybe in Pittsburgh we'll still have our "Pirmanti brothers-style sandwich", and in New Mexico, one can order a spicy bean burrito. Let's face it, with the way all American cultural institutions are going, even our most hallowed and respected 'food-joints' will probably die off and be co-opted into large, more detached corporations.
I guess what I'm saying, is that in Policka, I've found community and place.
When friends ask me what the hardest aspect about leaving will be, I often tell them losing my routine. I know that on Monday, I can go the gym at 5 pm and pay forty krouns. On Wednesday, the waiter at my favorite pub knows exactly what I want for lunch; when I walk in the door, he immediately yells "Pivko?!" from behind the bar, which is him asking if I'll have my regular drink. Before I can even answer yes, he has grabbed a freshly-washed glass and has made the motion to open the tap. He knows what I'll say, I've been going there too regularly for him to guess (in all my life in western Pennsylvania, I've never been so attached to a place, that those who work there know my habits so well that they don't need to officially inquire). I can see the woman in the beige-fur coat, saggy eyes and hap-hazardly applied lipstick, make her morning walk to work. I know when she is late and when we are late by relation to where, along the path, we meet every morning: if she is in the park, we’re both on time, but if we're near the round-a-bout, Jamie and I need to pick up the pace.
So, I guess the answer to my question from two years ago, whether I would be able to find community and comfort in Policka like that of home, has been answered. Now, it seems I'm starting to have the possible-lack-of-community anxiety again, but this time, it's about my 'home'. Hmm, weird...
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Oh, Canada.
I am convinced that people yearn to be unique. Ironically, that uniqueness is usually predicated or rooted in characteristics, cultural traits or worldviews that are shared not by one individual, but by millions. So, the person who strives to be ‘different’ or ‘set apart’ is, in the end, just one of a whole.
The Olympics, and my time in Europe, have been interesting backdrops to this reflection. Most Europeans, when speaking about each other, have a funny way of disregarding the cultural habits of some places (Ukraine, Russia, Slovakia) as being a little ‘less’ on the intellectual scale, and upholding those of other places (Italy, France, Spain, Switzerland) as if they can do no wrong as a people and a nation—so sometimes, when talking with Czechs, I am often reminded that they are the pinnacle of ‘culture-making’; it’s just that no one in the world has yet to realize it. On more than one occasion, I’ve heard some Europeans claim pride in the language that they speak: ‘it’s the most difficult on earth (Eurocentric anyone?!); “it’s the most melodic language”; “the greatest literature was written in this dialect.”, and on. Or, if language has been tried and used, Europeans claim uniqueness in lifestyle, in their culinary accomplishments, musical influence, fine arts, way of life—or , love-making prowess.
We Americans jump into this bantering and bickering with our national ‘legends’ of being the proverbial ‘City on a Hill’; or for being the worlds’ first truly multi-cultural experiment, where all were given equal rights in both civic discourse and political engagement; or, we talk of American ingenuity and military triumphs always on the ‘good’ side, never on the ‘bad’; or, we speak of an unheralded cultural influence in film, music, advertisement and business. We are, after all, the worlds lone ‘Superpower’ and doesn’t that have to stand for some kind of…GREATNESS on the part of the American People?
Canadians, on the other hand, have hockey.
I don’t know about many of you, but the way the Canadians were reacting to the Olympics was almost sad: They had pinned their entire national hope and pride on a sport and on ‘owning the podium’. All week I was told through newspaper reports and television how ‘Un-Canadian” it was for the government to make such patriotic-driven, bombastic exclamations about ‘taking the game back’ and yadda, yadda, yadda. I don’t want to chastise them too muh for being that way, because it really is important for the people of a nation to take pride in the things that make them a community and a true nationality set apart from others around them, but I was a little annoyed. Of course, this sometimes is taken to extremes where one claims to reign over all, because of the ‘cultural superiority’ that they shine down upon the others: think of the “white man’s burden” or “the ‘Great Grandfather’, Soviet Russia.”
And ironically, when I heard that the USA would be playing the Canadian team in the gold-medal game, I was more than interested. I wanted to win. I wanted to embarrass Canada. I aggressively wanted to proclaim American superiority over the “Canuks”, not just through cultural influence, but through hockey; a game that I knew if we Americans had one-upped up them in, it would be one of the most devastating blows to Canadian national and cultural identity.
I had, in effect, become what had nauseated me from the beginning: a patriotic, loud-mouth who can’t seem to enjoy the fact that the international world was coming together for games of mutual respect and admiration. I didn’t want to cheer on the USA because I wanted to show my support for athletes. No, I wanted to cheer for the USA to the detriment of another. I wanted to feel good about being ‘American’ for once, not ashamed.
How embarrassing.
I think that it is important for us to remember that when we want to take pride in being a little different, unique or special, or whatever other generic word I can use, maybe we should shed national flags, musical genres, culinary achievements, sports teams, clothing styles, ethnicities and language. The fact of the matter is, is that majority of what we claim to take pride in was never actually chosen by us as individual people; we were born into it, or it happened by chance. This is also why I think national stereotypes are so polarizing, and in the end, completely unintelligent and debased. How can you claim cultural, intellectual superiority over another person just because they were born in America and not in Paris?
Of course, there are times where people really do make their notch in the world by making decisions to align their talents and tastes with uniqueness, but many times—in regards to music, art, fashion, etc—the influence to go down that path was laid not through their own thinking, but through the influence of friends, parents, education, etc.
What I really want as a human being is to be set apart as an individual, all the while knowing that it is nearly impossible to do so; we humans need each other, and we can’t be ‘human’ without having family, friends and co-workers around us. So, I guess the personal attempt at seeking out a truly exclusive place in this earth, as an individual ‘somebody’, is pretty hopeless and futile: We usually end up looking the same anyway, even when we want to be very ‘counter-cultural’.
I guess what I’m saying is, is that the shallow distinctiveness that we get from waving a flag, speaking another language, eating a certain cuisine, is not respectable due to the fact that those usually are passively acquired. I think it would be much more respectable if people claimed exceptionality through making personal decisions to live a certain lifestyle—in as much as it is possible —independently. And, I guess if that is the case, then we could rid of national pride all together (the negative aspects of it, like what I experienced against Canada). Instead, people would group themselves by being ‘healthy-eaters’, ‘appreciators of art’, ‘justice seekers’, ‘polite-to-strangers people’, ‘passionate writers’, ‘thoughtful filmmakers’.
The Olympics, and my time in Europe, have been interesting backdrops to this reflection. Most Europeans, when speaking about each other, have a funny way of disregarding the cultural habits of some places (Ukraine, Russia, Slovakia) as being a little ‘less’ on the intellectual scale, and upholding those of other places (Italy, France, Spain, Switzerland) as if they can do no wrong as a people and a nation—so sometimes, when talking with Czechs, I am often reminded that they are the pinnacle of ‘culture-making’; it’s just that no one in the world has yet to realize it. On more than one occasion, I’ve heard some Europeans claim pride in the language that they speak: ‘it’s the most difficult on earth (Eurocentric anyone?!); “it’s the most melodic language”; “the greatest literature was written in this dialect.”, and on. Or, if language has been tried and used, Europeans claim uniqueness in lifestyle, in their culinary accomplishments, musical influence, fine arts, way of life—or , love-making prowess.
We Americans jump into this bantering and bickering with our national ‘legends’ of being the proverbial ‘City on a Hill’; or for being the worlds’ first truly multi-cultural experiment, where all were given equal rights in both civic discourse and political engagement; or, we talk of American ingenuity and military triumphs always on the ‘good’ side, never on the ‘bad’; or, we speak of an unheralded cultural influence in film, music, advertisement and business. We are, after all, the worlds lone ‘Superpower’ and doesn’t that have to stand for some kind of…GREATNESS on the part of the American People?
Canadians, on the other hand, have hockey.
I don’t know about many of you, but the way the Canadians were reacting to the Olympics was almost sad: They had pinned their entire national hope and pride on a sport and on ‘owning the podium’. All week I was told through newspaper reports and television how ‘Un-Canadian” it was for the government to make such patriotic-driven, bombastic exclamations about ‘taking the game back’ and yadda, yadda, yadda. I don’t want to chastise them too muh for being that way, because it really is important for the people of a nation to take pride in the things that make them a community and a true nationality set apart from others around them, but I was a little annoyed. Of course, this sometimes is taken to extremes where one claims to reign over all, because of the ‘cultural superiority’ that they shine down upon the others: think of the “white man’s burden” or “the ‘Great Grandfather’, Soviet Russia.”
And ironically, when I heard that the USA would be playing the Canadian team in the gold-medal game, I was more than interested. I wanted to win. I wanted to embarrass Canada. I aggressively wanted to proclaim American superiority over the “Canuks”, not just through cultural influence, but through hockey; a game that I knew if we Americans had one-upped up them in, it would be one of the most devastating blows to Canadian national and cultural identity.
I had, in effect, become what had nauseated me from the beginning: a patriotic, loud-mouth who can’t seem to enjoy the fact that the international world was coming together for games of mutual respect and admiration. I didn’t want to cheer on the USA because I wanted to show my support for athletes. No, I wanted to cheer for the USA to the detriment of another. I wanted to feel good about being ‘American’ for once, not ashamed.
How embarrassing.
I think that it is important for us to remember that when we want to take pride in being a little different, unique or special, or whatever other generic word I can use, maybe we should shed national flags, musical genres, culinary achievements, sports teams, clothing styles, ethnicities and language. The fact of the matter is, is that majority of what we claim to take pride in was never actually chosen by us as individual people; we were born into it, or it happened by chance. This is also why I think national stereotypes are so polarizing, and in the end, completely unintelligent and debased. How can you claim cultural, intellectual superiority over another person just because they were born in America and not in Paris?
Of course, there are times where people really do make their notch in the world by making decisions to align their talents and tastes with uniqueness, but many times—in regards to music, art, fashion, etc—the influence to go down that path was laid not through their own thinking, but through the influence of friends, parents, education, etc.
What I really want as a human being is to be set apart as an individual, all the while knowing that it is nearly impossible to do so; we humans need each other, and we can’t be ‘human’ without having family, friends and co-workers around us. So, I guess the personal attempt at seeking out a truly exclusive place in this earth, as an individual ‘somebody’, is pretty hopeless and futile: We usually end up looking the same anyway, even when we want to be very ‘counter-cultural’.
I guess what I’m saying is, is that the shallow distinctiveness that we get from waving a flag, speaking another language, eating a certain cuisine, is not respectable due to the fact that those usually are passively acquired. I think it would be much more respectable if people claimed exceptionality through making personal decisions to live a certain lifestyle—in as much as it is possible —independently. And, I guess if that is the case, then we could rid of national pride all together (the negative aspects of it, like what I experienced against Canada). Instead, people would group themselves by being ‘healthy-eaters’, ‘appreciators of art’, ‘justice seekers’, ‘polite-to-strangers people’, ‘passionate writers’, ‘thoughtful filmmakers’.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Youth Group Olympics
In honor of the Vancouver 2010 winter Olympics Jeremy and I planned our own Olympic games for the youth retreat this past weekend, and man did we have fun. Five "countries" participated in six events (speed skate: short and long track, curling, ski jumping, pairs figure skating and ice hockey)and points were awarded accouring to place after each event. Each team put forth a strong effort in hopes of winning the gold.
It is amazing to think back on all the youth retreats we have been apart of since coming to Policka. I can still remember the first one and not really knowing what we would be able to do since our czech was so limited at the time. However, each retreat we were able to communicate more and more, and for me this retreat was the best. My partner was Filip, who doesn't speak or understand English, but I wasn't nervous, even though my Czech is less than par. We were able to come up with an idea for our country,a rutine for pairs figure skating, and talk about the other events only because Filip was more than willing to understand my broken Czech, and patient enough to repeat himself.
This might have been the last youth retreat for Jeremy and I and also Pastor Jan, but it's not the end of what we have planned for the youth group. Jeremy has three camping trips in the works and we wil continue to meet with the youth every Friday until the end of the school year.
It is amazing to think back on all the youth retreats we have been apart of since coming to Policka. I can still remember the first one and not really knowing what we would be able to do since our czech was so limited at the time. However, each retreat we were able to communicate more and more, and for me this retreat was the best. My partner was Filip, who doesn't speak or understand English, but I wasn't nervous, even though my Czech is less than par. We were able to come up with an idea for our country,a rutine for pairs figure skating, and talk about the other events only because Filip was more than willing to understand my broken Czech, and patient enough to repeat himself.
This might have been the last youth retreat for Jeremy and I and also Pastor Jan, but it's not the end of what we have planned for the youth group. Jeremy has three camping trips in the works and we wil continue to meet with the youth every Friday until the end of the school year.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Cross Country Skiing
I ment to post this a week ago but haven't gotten to it until now. The week has been busy, but also the Olympics has been on so it had sucked up any extra time I've had :)
It seems that our Czech friends have a different sport that they do during ever season. In the spring people start to run and hike again, summer is a time for cycling, and in the fall people go on walks to gather mushrooms and get their final sunny walks and bike rides in before the long winter. Swimming is something people do all year round since there is an indoor pool. And in the winter people ski. There are very few people that I know who don't ski cross country or downhill (or both). But this makes sense since all kids learn to ski at school (that is if their parents do not teach them earlier). At around age 13 the Policka schools take their students on "lyzak" or ski course for a week. This was surprising to me last year because I could never see my class of 215 students being taken a week long trip to the mountains to learn how to ski, however class sizes are a lot smaller here due to the way the school system is set up (only 30 kids).
I really enjoy that families are active together year round. It is important for children to see their parents hiking and skiing, and their grandparents biking and picking mushrooms, because it instills a lifesyle into them. Growing up my family was rather active. My brother and I would play football and baseball out in our yard with our parents, go for bike rides and walks and cross country ski in the winter. And those are the things that I remember. Sure, I also have good memories of sitting in the car on the way to vacation and spending time camping and on the beach, but since my parents were active when I was younger I do believe it is why I enjoy biking, hiking, swimming and skiing. One of my stongest memories from childhood was when my family went night skiing. It was a cold night, without wind, and a full moon lit the sky. We put on our headlamps and skied around the field behind our house. Everything was crisp and sparkled in the moonlight.
So when out friend Hana asked me if I wanted to go cross country skiing with her I was really excited. She was hesitant to ask, since she was unsure if I had ever skied before, but after learning that I use to ski when I was younger her worry became that I would be too fast for her! (go figure) I assured her that I wasn't very fast and that I hadn't been on cross country skies since I was 15 so she had nothing to worry about. We ended up skiing for about 3 hours all around Policka, and had a great time.
Jeremy wasn't able to go with Hana and I since he had been invited to go "motorskiing" with our other friends, Honza and Lukas. For the pictures and videos that I saw, I know they had a good time. They also took Jeremy on his first cross country skiing adventure!
It seems that our Czech friends have a different sport that they do during ever season. In the spring people start to run and hike again, summer is a time for cycling, and in the fall people go on walks to gather mushrooms and get their final sunny walks and bike rides in before the long winter. Swimming is something people do all year round since there is an indoor pool. And in the winter people ski. There are very few people that I know who don't ski cross country or downhill (or both). But this makes sense since all kids learn to ski at school (that is if their parents do not teach them earlier). At around age 13 the Policka schools take their students on "lyzak" or ski course for a week. This was surprising to me last year because I could never see my class of 215 students being taken a week long trip to the mountains to learn how to ski, however class sizes are a lot smaller here due to the way the school system is set up (only 30 kids).
I really enjoy that families are active together year round. It is important for children to see their parents hiking and skiing, and their grandparents biking and picking mushrooms, because it instills a lifesyle into them. Growing up my family was rather active. My brother and I would play football and baseball out in our yard with our parents, go for bike rides and walks and cross country ski in the winter. And those are the things that I remember. Sure, I also have good memories of sitting in the car on the way to vacation and spending time camping and on the beach, but since my parents were active when I was younger I do believe it is why I enjoy biking, hiking, swimming and skiing. One of my stongest memories from childhood was when my family went night skiing. It was a cold night, without wind, and a full moon lit the sky. We put on our headlamps and skied around the field behind our house. Everything was crisp and sparkled in the moonlight.
So when out friend Hana asked me if I wanted to go cross country skiing with her I was really excited. She was hesitant to ask, since she was unsure if I had ever skied before, but after learning that I use to ski when I was younger her worry became that I would be too fast for her! (go figure) I assured her that I wasn't very fast and that I hadn't been on cross country skies since I was 15 so she had nothing to worry about. We ended up skiing for about 3 hours all around Policka, and had a great time.
Jeremy wasn't able to go with Hana and I since he had been invited to go "motorskiing" with our other friends, Honza and Lukas. For the pictures and videos that I saw, I know they had a good time. They also took Jeremy on his first cross country skiing adventure!
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Reflection
To be honest, teaching English can be horrible. The monotony of planning lessons that are always 'interesting' and 'effective', the patience that I must put forth while sitting through an hour of poorly pronounced diphthongs and non-conjugated verbs, the frustratingly slow pace of speech that I must maintain--so slow, that I often forget my train of thought--and the feeling that my 'teaching' might be thoroughly useless, all congeal to produce some very awful days.
Luckily, like all things in life, there is another side of the coin that is usually a little more optimistic; like the fact that by teaching 'language' I can actually communicate with students. Unlike other common subjects that are taught, the foundational base of teaching a language is for communication: the exchange of experiences and stories through spoken words that are generated only through mouth, tongue, and larynx. In a weird way, language is studying people: the culture, the history and even the biology; one must be a student of all three to really 'grasp' a language or speak it 'fluently' (a word that is often thrown around by Czech speakers of English who have never spoken to native speakers. How can you be fluent if you've never met someone whose whole culture, history and art are tied up in the language, and you've only learned it through a textbook? You can't.) Anyways, I don't feel like I'm actually giving any 'knowledge' to my students when they come into my classes. of course, I might help them with some grammatical points or pronunciation, but I'm actually not giving them piles of information to upload into their active memories; to the contrary, I'm just teaching them how to tell stories, how to express feelings, how to recall the past; in effect, all I'm doing is helping them....talk.
At this level, my job can be like a treasure. The first day of the year always brings in new faces with frightened, intimidated eyes. They probably all feel like they will get bowled over by waves of rocks that hit the ground with "Th's" and "V's" (as opposed to "W's")and phrasal verbs. They are reluctant to speak, so the whole class as a group builds barriers around each other, not because of a sense of animosity, but because no one wants to sound like a 'fool'. Often times, the conversation in my 'conversational English class' feels more like an interview: the students don't interact with one another, instead, they just wait for me to lob another question, as if I'm shooting from a mortar cannon and they're waiting for the next round to obliterate them along with their partner: "Maria, would you mind telling me what your favorite sports is?" (Blank stare ensues...)After a few months, the scariness of me (the fact that I speak differently than their English-as-second-language friends) wears off, we begin to come together as a group. Inevitably, a class that starts with 12 students in September, dwindles to about 5 or 6 by March; however, the five that come, are here for year. And with them, the fun really begins to start...
We get to express some of our own opinions in class. We speak quickly, excitedly and, sometimes, incorrectly. I learn about their daily routine and I'm curious to see what they do on the weekend. I find out that one of my students flies gliders around the Highlands of Policka; I hear that another one was once one of the Czech Republics most skilled Morse Code readers; I'm told the sad history of families torn up and destroyed under a ruthless Communist regime. I learn about spouses, children, adventures from their youth, and cross-country skiing competitions. I'm surprised at their interest in me; I'm bombarded with questions: "Do you like the Czech Republic?" "Is it really true that Americans...?" "Who do you think will win the Olympic gold in hockey?" "What will you do when you return back to the United states" "Would you and Jamie want to come over for dinner on Friday?" "My brother has a hockey game on Wednesday, do you want to come?" "Hey, do you like Policka beer?" And on, and on. How lovely it is!
Towards the end of the year, I begin to realize that the motivation behind five who come isn't just to improve their English, but because they actually enjoy the group and view it as a time to socialize with new-found friends.
The young man I used to see at the grocery store who has the movements of a sloth, is actually named Roman. He lives with his parents in an apartment, is fond of American cars and wants to work with computers. The women I used to see pushing her newly-born child in a stroller, is actually Maria. She enjoys reading detective novels and boasts about the fact that she has blond hair. the old woman who hobbled about Policka lugging plastic shopping bags is actually Jarmila. She has three grandchildren, is a master at baking vanilla rolls, is Catholic and personally knew some friends who died at Auschwitz. In reality, I could view each class as just another step in our long introduction to each other. And when I think of it this way, I'm content.
Luckily, like all things in life, there is another side of the coin that is usually a little more optimistic; like the fact that by teaching 'language' I can actually communicate with students. Unlike other common subjects that are taught, the foundational base of teaching a language is for communication: the exchange of experiences and stories through spoken words that are generated only through mouth, tongue, and larynx. In a weird way, language is studying people: the culture, the history and even the biology; one must be a student of all three to really 'grasp' a language or speak it 'fluently' (a word that is often thrown around by Czech speakers of English who have never spoken to native speakers. How can you be fluent if you've never met someone whose whole culture, history and art are tied up in the language, and you've only learned it through a textbook? You can't.) Anyways, I don't feel like I'm actually giving any 'knowledge' to my students when they come into my classes. of course, I might help them with some grammatical points or pronunciation, but I'm actually not giving them piles of information to upload into their active memories; to the contrary, I'm just teaching them how to tell stories, how to express feelings, how to recall the past; in effect, all I'm doing is helping them....talk.
At this level, my job can be like a treasure. The first day of the year always brings in new faces with frightened, intimidated eyes. They probably all feel like they will get bowled over by waves of rocks that hit the ground with "Th's" and "V's" (as opposed to "W's")and phrasal verbs. They are reluctant to speak, so the whole class as a group builds barriers around each other, not because of a sense of animosity, but because no one wants to sound like a 'fool'. Often times, the conversation in my 'conversational English class' feels more like an interview: the students don't interact with one another, instead, they just wait for me to lob another question, as if I'm shooting from a mortar cannon and they're waiting for the next round to obliterate them along with their partner: "Maria, would you mind telling me what your favorite sports is?" (Blank stare ensues...)After a few months, the scariness of me (the fact that I speak differently than their English-as-second-language friends) wears off, we begin to come together as a group. Inevitably, a class that starts with 12 students in September, dwindles to about 5 or 6 by March; however, the five that come, are here for year. And with them, the fun really begins to start...
We get to express some of our own opinions in class. We speak quickly, excitedly and, sometimes, incorrectly. I learn about their daily routine and I'm curious to see what they do on the weekend. I find out that one of my students flies gliders around the Highlands of Policka; I hear that another one was once one of the Czech Republics most skilled Morse Code readers; I'm told the sad history of families torn up and destroyed under a ruthless Communist regime. I learn about spouses, children, adventures from their youth, and cross-country skiing competitions. I'm surprised at their interest in me; I'm bombarded with questions: "Do you like the Czech Republic?" "Is it really true that Americans...?" "Who do you think will win the Olympic gold in hockey?" "What will you do when you return back to the United states" "Would you and Jamie want to come over for dinner on Friday?" "My brother has a hockey game on Wednesday, do you want to come?" "Hey, do you like Policka beer?" And on, and on. How lovely it is!
Towards the end of the year, I begin to realize that the motivation behind five who come isn't just to improve their English, but because they actually enjoy the group and view it as a time to socialize with new-found friends.
The young man I used to see at the grocery store who has the movements of a sloth, is actually named Roman. He lives with his parents in an apartment, is fond of American cars and wants to work with computers. The women I used to see pushing her newly-born child in a stroller, is actually Maria. She enjoys reading detective novels and boasts about the fact that she has blond hair. the old woman who hobbled about Policka lugging plastic shopping bags is actually Jarmila. She has three grandchildren, is a master at baking vanilla rolls, is Catholic and personally knew some friends who died at Auschwitz. In reality, I could view each class as just another step in our long introduction to each other. And when I think of it this way, I'm content.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Freak shows
Have you ever had the feeling that your country/home is so extreme in some way to be considered unique? Or, have you ever had the feeling that the world is staring at you with their jaw dropped, voice aghast at the 'freaks' residing across the ocean? I have. It happened last night.
In between flossing and brushing my teeth, I happened to catch a glimpse of an extremely obese man lying in bed, whining. He needed surgery, or his life would be over; his organs were slowly being crushed under the massive rolls and flaps of fat that had accumulated over seven years of being sedentary and eating unhealthily.
I'm not going to lie; the spot for the upcoming 'documentary' caught my eye, so I hurriedly sat on the couch and waited. The show opened with a picture of America, distorted as if there was a looking glass on the screen running back and forth over the map of America, making some states look bigger. In the background, I heard a thunderous sound like that of a bullfrog, only a few octaves lower. It then cut to a shot of the American flag fluttering gently in a soft breeze, all the while, panning onto the sidewalk giving us a flattering glimpse of obese thighs, butts and stomachs, but never heads; they never show the faces.
Next was the narrator:
"This is America: The fattest nation on earth and home to the world's most obese man."
Ahh, makes me feel good to be a "Yank"!
For the next hour and half I was witness to video clips: hospitals, American flags, fast food, fat people, stomach by-pass of a 1,000 pound person. The cycle continued, although sometimes a little varied: fast-food shot, fat teenager, baby eating a hamburger, 1,000 pound man trying to walk, 800 pound teenager, crying mothers, hospitals. Oh yeah, and the American Flag.
I always wondered where foreigners got crazy stereotypes about the lifestyles of most Americans; impressions usually swing in between the idea that were all INCREDIBLY rich, or were all INCREDIBLY obese. I think I now know why. The show last night was shown on basic Czech television at 9:00 o'clock at night. This means that it was a 'hot' slot and I'm sure it garnered a few million viewers. It was chalk full of statistics, generalizations about the way Americans eat and live, pictures to back up the theories and a whole lot of jiggling guts and legs. For the uninformed viewer, the idea that all of America struggles to get out of bed due to fat tumors hanging off the back of hamstrings would not be a difficult conclusion to make.
My stomach was rolling in the thought that this is what we as a nation have come to represent to the world: gluttony and consumerism gone completely wrong.
An undercurrent throughout the whole broadcast was the documentarian's probing of feelings from the 'skinny' side of the USA. He found that while many average/healthy Americans were shocked and dismayed at the fact that the obesity issue can have such extreme cases (like that of a 1,000 pound man); the over-all reaction was one of pity and remorse for those who suffer in such situations. It was pretty obvious, to the documentarian, that the acquiescence of main-stream, non-obese American culture into apathetically accepting the lifestyle (lack of physical activity; pure ignorance as to healthy eating; a dependence on fast food; pie-in-the-sky surgeries) of their unhealthy neighbors and family members was just as crazy and warped as the fact that there is a 1,000 pound person on this earth. This was best illustrated by the fact that it was the man's own family who kept feeding him FIVE cheeseburgers a day even past the point of immobility, and that NOBODY in the surrounding town spoke out about his lifestyle in the hope of SAVING HIS LIFE, not insulting him as a 'fat' person.
This issue is one that I've been struggling with since I've been here in the Czech Republic. Living here has forced me to view American living with fresh eyes from an outside perspective. While I know that the truth of the matter is that NOT all Americans are obese and that there are some of us who really do struggle with weight for both emotional and genetic reasons, I would be remiss if I didn't point out the fact that our American, fast-paced life style oils the engine upon which this obesity epidemic turns. As long as we continue to live in a cycle that treats time and career as more important than family; that chooses self-aggrandizement over communal responsibility; that lets town centers die; splits itself at the seams over pointless cultural battles over 'right' and 'left'; ignores the fact that our eyes have blinded by blinking fast food and box-chain signs beckoning us to buy more garbage; and that judges the worth of humans not on the fact that are people, but in how much they can consume, then we will always be stuck in an American Nightmare.
My point is to not make all of you reading this feel bad. I am speaking because I'm saddened by the fact that this is who 'we' as Americans have become to the rest of the world. I guess for many of you, what I'm writing will be hard to understand because you've never had the chance to see our culture and our nation from the outside. But I have, and these are reflections that I've been dealing with. To say that I don't like the American style of living would be about accurate. I look forward to being home for the people, but I could do without the constant bombardment of chemically-concocted food, 20 gallon 'fizzinators' and commercialism gone wild. (When I can't even watch a football game anymore without having to sit through 2 minutes of advertisements EVERY 3O SECONDS, it has gotten a little out of hand)
Oh, not to mention the fact that we can't even fathom how to fix our 'Health Care Crisis' until we take seriously the call to live and eat responsibility in our individual lives. But, that is for another conversation.
In between flossing and brushing my teeth, I happened to catch a glimpse of an extremely obese man lying in bed, whining. He needed surgery, or his life would be over; his organs were slowly being crushed under the massive rolls and flaps of fat that had accumulated over seven years of being sedentary and eating unhealthily.
I'm not going to lie; the spot for the upcoming 'documentary' caught my eye, so I hurriedly sat on the couch and waited. The show opened with a picture of America, distorted as if there was a looking glass on the screen running back and forth over the map of America, making some states look bigger. In the background, I heard a thunderous sound like that of a bullfrog, only a few octaves lower. It then cut to a shot of the American flag fluttering gently in a soft breeze, all the while, panning onto the sidewalk giving us a flattering glimpse of obese thighs, butts and stomachs, but never heads; they never show the faces.
Next was the narrator:
"This is America: The fattest nation on earth and home to the world's most obese man."
Ahh, makes me feel good to be a "Yank"!
For the next hour and half I was witness to video clips: hospitals, American flags, fast food, fat people, stomach by-pass of a 1,000 pound person. The cycle continued, although sometimes a little varied: fast-food shot, fat teenager, baby eating a hamburger, 1,000 pound man trying to walk, 800 pound teenager, crying mothers, hospitals. Oh yeah, and the American Flag.
I always wondered where foreigners got crazy stereotypes about the lifestyles of most Americans; impressions usually swing in between the idea that were all INCREDIBLY rich, or were all INCREDIBLY obese. I think I now know why. The show last night was shown on basic Czech television at 9:00 o'clock at night. This means that it was a 'hot' slot and I'm sure it garnered a few million viewers. It was chalk full of statistics, generalizations about the way Americans eat and live, pictures to back up the theories and a whole lot of jiggling guts and legs. For the uninformed viewer, the idea that all of America struggles to get out of bed due to fat tumors hanging off the back of hamstrings would not be a difficult conclusion to make.
My stomach was rolling in the thought that this is what we as a nation have come to represent to the world: gluttony and consumerism gone completely wrong.
An undercurrent throughout the whole broadcast was the documentarian's probing of feelings from the 'skinny' side of the USA. He found that while many average/healthy Americans were shocked and dismayed at the fact that the obesity issue can have such extreme cases (like that of a 1,000 pound man); the over-all reaction was one of pity and remorse for those who suffer in such situations. It was pretty obvious, to the documentarian, that the acquiescence of main-stream, non-obese American culture into apathetically accepting the lifestyle (lack of physical activity; pure ignorance as to healthy eating; a dependence on fast food; pie-in-the-sky surgeries) of their unhealthy neighbors and family members was just as crazy and warped as the fact that there is a 1,000 pound person on this earth. This was best illustrated by the fact that it was the man's own family who kept feeding him FIVE cheeseburgers a day even past the point of immobility, and that NOBODY in the surrounding town spoke out about his lifestyle in the hope of SAVING HIS LIFE, not insulting him as a 'fat' person.
This issue is one that I've been struggling with since I've been here in the Czech Republic. Living here has forced me to view American living with fresh eyes from an outside perspective. While I know that the truth of the matter is that NOT all Americans are obese and that there are some of us who really do struggle with weight for both emotional and genetic reasons, I would be remiss if I didn't point out the fact that our American, fast-paced life style oils the engine upon which this obesity epidemic turns. As long as we continue to live in a cycle that treats time and career as more important than family; that chooses self-aggrandizement over communal responsibility; that lets town centers die; splits itself at the seams over pointless cultural battles over 'right' and 'left'; ignores the fact that our eyes have blinded by blinking fast food and box-chain signs beckoning us to buy more garbage; and that judges the worth of humans not on the fact that are people, but in how much they can consume, then we will always be stuck in an American Nightmare.
My point is to not make all of you reading this feel bad. I am speaking because I'm saddened by the fact that this is who 'we' as Americans have become to the rest of the world. I guess for many of you, what I'm writing will be hard to understand because you've never had the chance to see our culture and our nation from the outside. But I have, and these are reflections that I've been dealing with. To say that I don't like the American style of living would be about accurate. I look forward to being home for the people, but I could do without the constant bombardment of chemically-concocted food, 20 gallon 'fizzinators' and commercialism gone wild. (When I can't even watch a football game anymore without having to sit through 2 minutes of advertisements EVERY 3O SECONDS, it has gotten a little out of hand)
Oh, not to mention the fact that we can't even fathom how to fix our 'Health Care Crisis' until we take seriously the call to live and eat responsibility in our individual lives. But, that is for another conversation.
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