I woke up this morning to gun shots. This was not terribly unusual but the sounds had worked their way into my dream and made my waking experience more unpleasant than it had to be. It was already 5:26, just a few minutes before I had to be up, so I got out of bed and flipped the light switch. No electricity. Shucks.
I retrieved my flashlight and waddled over to my bathroom, then took a flashlight shower. I grabbed my towel and began drying and actually feeling a little pleased at the lack of mishaps thus far, electricity notwithstanding.
It seems I judged too soon. I noticed that I felt a little itchy, but in a weird way as if I was being bitten in a dozen placed at once. I looked at one such place--and found an ant. I shook out my towel and they fell to the floor like rain--like tropical rain, thick and hard.
It seems that some peanut butter from the night before had found its way onto my towel. A little peanut butter is no problem, but hundreds of ants were. In addition to those crawling on the floor, I was covered from head to toe with them, and they were happily chewing whatever piece of real estate they happened to have access to.
When uncomfortable things happen to me, I do my best to learn from the experience. But this time, all that came to mind was clichés, like "sometimes small mistakes can lead to big problems." As Dane Cook would say, "forging some new territory there, Socrates." I think we've all got that one under our belt.
After throwing out "if it looks to good to be true, it probably is" and "it's not always possible to determine the correct course of action," I realized that, in the midst of my cognition, my tiny attackers had not been idle. Already dozens of tiny bumps were erupting from my skin like baby volcanoes, ready to be scratched until blood flowed like lava.
Stupid ants. I brushed them off irritably (and resisted the urge to develop a "there will always be a bigger fish" thought). I realized that, in my determination to make the right decision, I had frozen during the opportune moment: before they had finished biting.
As a missionary, I face that dilemma constantly. I'm representing my home and my God and... well, me. So when somebody asks me a question of any significant depth, I'm prone to over-clarifying the question and over-developing the answer. Meanwhile, the time during which he or she is actually interested in what I have to say has long since passed.
In all honesty, for all my love of communication, I struggle with it a great deal. Sometimes it seems the only way to communicate effectively is to make sure you're intimately acquainted with the conventions of communications of every person you meet. I hate the gnawing hunger of poor communication, and even worse the bitter sickness of miscommunication. What's a foreigner to do?
...Smile. I smile, they smile back. Answer simply, nod encouragingly, and keep smiling. What a relief to know that there are one or two things that extend across cultures. What a relief to know I needn't rely on my imperfect tongue.
Today is laundry day. Time to wash that towel.
Dan
For more about me and my adventures in Haiti, visit my newsletter archive.
Monday, February 26, 2007
HUN Update, February 25, 2007
Hey HUN,
I am twenty years old, and, for the first time since I became a free-thinking human being, my age doesn't end with that loaded syllable: "teen." I've never put much stock in age, but sometimes I can't help but glance backward and wonder: When did I become this person? When did I begin thinking the way I do?
I was talking with Jason (Jean's older son) today, and he was musing about how much he wanted "superpowers." He wanted to fly and be a human torch and be super strong. He finally settled on playing the system--he wanted the power to have any power he wanted. That's Jason; he's the kid who asks the genie for more wishes. Seeing as it wasn't so many years ago that my musings ran along the same lines, you would think I'd be just the person to talk to.
Nope. I said I didn't want any superpowers, but that if I could have anything I wanted, it would probably be a medium pizza. With bacon. Not willing (unfortunately) to indulge my culinary fantasies, Jason asked why I didn't want any superpowers. And then, I said something frighteningly... adult.
In my experience, power is the flashy press agent of a somewhat less glamorous pair: responsibility and limitation. All power implies the responsibility to use that power to cultivate the people or things over which you have power, and further introduces a new set of laws that were usually in the fine print and certainly weren't what you expected when you called the number at the bottom of the ad. The bible says, "to whom much is given, much is required." Spiderman said, "with great power comes great responsibility. I hardly need express how grateful I am that those two are in agreement.
For example. Let's say I'm elected president of the United States by a spontaneous and unanimous vote (I can dream, right?). Some would say I have just become the single most powerful man in the world. But power has a sour taste when it's served with a stack of paperwork every morning, and the bitter addition of futility makes for a singularly unappetizing meal. Because that's what happens when humans with power oppose each other: they arrange the whole system into deadlocks so that if they can't get anything done, at least nobody else can either.
To complicate matters, it seems Mr. President isn't allowed a moment to himself without a couple shady characters with dark sunglasses and expensive suits watching him like hawks. Sure, they nod respectfully and say, "yes, Mr. President, yes," but who is a slave to whom, really? You'll notice that nobody says they "own" power. Because nobody does. They "have" power. Like a horse "has" a rider.
The presidency, of course, is outside of my experience, but something as common as being a parent operates under the same principles. Parents have dictatorial power over their children, but with that power is bundled the responsibility of raising and caring for those children, not to mention a heavily restricted lifestyle.
I have hand-chosen a couple examples, but this model can be applied anywhere. We have power over ourselves; we have power over our environment; at times we are placed in positions of power over other people. Everything that we do, think, and say effects other people, and that is power. It is a universal dynamic in human existence.
What startled me was an implication of my own thinking. I have the power to affect changes in my life. Don't I thereby have a responsibility to do so consistently and in a way that yields positive results? And doesn't that mean I'm limited by maturity to those actions which my principles allow? I suppose I had always considered self-improvement the "correct"option, when in fact it seems it is mandated by my own belief!
Dear friends, family and acquaintances: sometimes philosophy seems like paint; just a colorful veneer that makes the truth more attractive and belies the labor of reality. When have I ever failed to feel unbearably confined? When have I felt unburdened by responsibility? Power is like a mountain side: no matter how high you are, every upward movement is arduous, and downward movement is sudden and dizzyingly rapid.
But there is, if you'll excuse the mixed metaphors, a silver lining to that cloud. Maybe that mountain is steep, but at least I can tell which way is up. How can I improve? I can be more productive at work. I can be more gracious to the people around me. I can manage my time according to my priorities. I can take care of my body. How can I defy gravity (kudos to those who catch the reference)? I can let go of my pet lies--"my time is my own" and "I'm only human" and "I deserve this"--and take responsibility for my actions. I can lay aside personal grievances and forgive and refuse to indulge my childish sense of retribution.
Easier said than done, of course; but it is encouraging to clarify my life's sense of direction, and to grow in my understanding of why I do the things I do. Now, if only I can manage to suspend reality long enough to enjoy another round of "pick the super power."
Haitian Creole Time!
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
I was browsing some creole resources online and found a new way to indicate nasal vowels. As you may remember, when "a," "e," "i," or "o" are followed by an "n," the "n" is silent and the vowel is nasal. For instance, the Creole word for "time" is "tan," and the word is pronounced "tah" except with a nasal "a." Henceforth this will be indicated with a capital "N," so the pronunciation for "tan" will look like this: tahN.
Today we'll learn a couple useful phrases to boost vocabulary and get a feel for the language. It's important to recognize that Haitians tend to throw out tenses--the past tense, especially. For instance, a Haitian will not ask, "when were you born?" He or she will ask you, "when are you born?" The past tense when used with the verb "to be born" is pretty much only used for famous dead people.
I haven't spoken with them in a while : M'pa pale avek yo pandan yon bon ti tan. (mm-pah-pah-leh-ahv-ehk-yo-paN-daN-yoN-boN-tee-taN) The literal translation reads: "I not speak with them in a good little time."
She wants to send her love to her friends at home : Li vlé bay remen'li pou moun-li yo lokay-li. (lee-vleh-bai-ray-meN-poo-moon-lee-yo-lah-kai-lee) The literal translation reads: "She/he/it wants to give love (hers) for people (hers) (plural) house (hers).
Oh good fun. If you're tempted to skip over that bit, remember these important words:
With : Avek (ah-vek)
For : pou (poo)
Them : yo (yo) This can also be added to a noun to indicate a plural.
Speak : pale (pah-lay)
Plenty for today.
----------------------
If you are new to this newsletter and would like some background, please visit my blog, which contains an archive of all my updates. Here is my contact information:
Phone Number: 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters : Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, P.O. Box 407139, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Address for Packages: Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, 2525 NW 55 Court, Hangar #24, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Important: Remember to address it to "Paster Jean Petit-Frére" and write "Attn: Dan" on the back of the envelope or package. Thanks!
God Bless,
Dan
I am twenty years old, and, for the first time since I became a free-thinking human being, my age doesn't end with that loaded syllable: "teen." I've never put much stock in age, but sometimes I can't help but glance backward and wonder: When did I become this person? When did I begin thinking the way I do?
I was talking with Jason (Jean's older son) today, and he was musing about how much he wanted "superpowers." He wanted to fly and be a human torch and be super strong. He finally settled on playing the system--he wanted the power to have any power he wanted. That's Jason; he's the kid who asks the genie for more wishes. Seeing as it wasn't so many years ago that my musings ran along the same lines, you would think I'd be just the person to talk to.
Nope. I said I didn't want any superpowers, but that if I could have anything I wanted, it would probably be a medium pizza. With bacon. Not willing (unfortunately) to indulge my culinary fantasies, Jason asked why I didn't want any superpowers. And then, I said something frighteningly... adult.
In my experience, power is the flashy press agent of a somewhat less glamorous pair: responsibility and limitation. All power implies the responsibility to use that power to cultivate the people or things over which you have power, and further introduces a new set of laws that were usually in the fine print and certainly weren't what you expected when you called the number at the bottom of the ad. The bible says, "to whom much is given, much is required." Spiderman said, "with great power comes great responsibility. I hardly need express how grateful I am that those two are in agreement.
For example. Let's say I'm elected president of the United States by a spontaneous and unanimous vote (I can dream, right?). Some would say I have just become the single most powerful man in the world. But power has a sour taste when it's served with a stack of paperwork every morning, and the bitter addition of futility makes for a singularly unappetizing meal. Because that's what happens when humans with power oppose each other: they arrange the whole system into deadlocks so that if they can't get anything done, at least nobody else can either.
To complicate matters, it seems Mr. President isn't allowed a moment to himself without a couple shady characters with dark sunglasses and expensive suits watching him like hawks. Sure, they nod respectfully and say, "yes, Mr. President, yes," but who is a slave to whom, really? You'll notice that nobody says they "own" power. Because nobody does. They "have" power. Like a horse "has" a rider.
The presidency, of course, is outside of my experience, but something as common as being a parent operates under the same principles. Parents have dictatorial power over their children, but with that power is bundled the responsibility of raising and caring for those children, not to mention a heavily restricted lifestyle.
I have hand-chosen a couple examples, but this model can be applied anywhere. We have power over ourselves; we have power over our environment; at times we are placed in positions of power over other people. Everything that we do, think, and say effects other people, and that is power. It is a universal dynamic in human existence.
What startled me was an implication of my own thinking. I have the power to affect changes in my life. Don't I thereby have a responsibility to do so consistently and in a way that yields positive results? And doesn't that mean I'm limited by maturity to those actions which my principles allow? I suppose I had always considered self-improvement the "correct"option, when in fact it seems it is mandated by my own belief!
Dear friends, family and acquaintances: sometimes philosophy seems like paint; just a colorful veneer that makes the truth more attractive and belies the labor of reality. When have I ever failed to feel unbearably confined? When have I felt unburdened by responsibility? Power is like a mountain side: no matter how high you are, every upward movement is arduous, and downward movement is sudden and dizzyingly rapid.
But there is, if you'll excuse the mixed metaphors, a silver lining to that cloud. Maybe that mountain is steep, but at least I can tell which way is up. How can I improve? I can be more productive at work. I can be more gracious to the people around me. I can manage my time according to my priorities. I can take care of my body. How can I defy gravity (kudos to those who catch the reference)? I can let go of my pet lies--"my time is my own" and "I'm only human" and "I deserve this"--and take responsibility for my actions. I can lay aside personal grievances and forgive and refuse to indulge my childish sense of retribution.
Easier said than done, of course; but it is encouraging to clarify my life's sense of direction, and to grow in my understanding of why I do the things I do. Now, if only I can manage to suspend reality long enough to enjoy another round of "pick the super power."
Haitian Creole Time!
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
I was browsing some creole resources online and found a new way to indicate nasal vowels. As you may remember, when "a," "e," "i," or "o" are followed by an "n," the "n" is silent and the vowel is nasal. For instance, the Creole word for "time" is "tan," and the word is pronounced "tah" except with a nasal "a." Henceforth this will be indicated with a capital "N," so the pronunciation for "tan" will look like this: tahN.
Today we'll learn a couple useful phrases to boost vocabulary and get a feel for the language. It's important to recognize that Haitians tend to throw out tenses--the past tense, especially. For instance, a Haitian will not ask, "when were you born?" He or she will ask you, "when are you born?" The past tense when used with the verb "to be born" is pretty much only used for famous dead people.
I haven't spoken with them in a while : M'pa pale avek yo pandan yon bon ti tan. (mm-pah-pah-leh-ahv-ehk-yo-paN
She wants to send her love to her friends at home : Li vlé bay remen'li pou moun-li yo lokay-li. (lee-vleh-bai-ray-meN-poo-moon
Oh good fun. If you're tempted to skip over that bit, remember these important words:
With : Avek (ah-vek)
For : pou (poo)
Them : yo (yo) This can also be added to a noun to indicate a plural.
Speak : pale (pah-lay)
Plenty for today.
----------------------
If you are new to this newsletter and would like some background, please visit my blog, which contains an archive of all my updates. Here is my contact information:
Phone Number: 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters : Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, P.O. Box 407139, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Address for Packages: Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, 2525 NW 55 Court, Hangar #24, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Important: Remember to address it to "Paster Jean Petit-Frére" and write "Attn: Dan" on the back of the envelope or package. Thanks!
God Bless,
Dan
HUN Update, February 22, 2007
Hey HUN,
Come : Vini (vee-nee)
You come : Ou'vini (oo-vee-nee)
I'm coming : M'ap vini (mop-vee-nee) Full form would be "mwen ap vini"
I am going to come (later) : M'pral vini (mm-pral-vee-nee)
I came : M'te vini (mm-tay-vee-nee)
You come here now! : Ou vini la kounya! (oo-vee-nee-lah-koon-yeh)
Later : Pita (pee-tah) Literally, "more late"
We are going to come later : Nou pral vini pita (noo-pral-vee-nee-pee-tah)
----------------------
If you are new to this newsletter and would like some background, please visit my blog, which contains an archive of all my updates. Here is my contact information:
Phone Number: 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters : Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, P.O. Box 407139, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Address for Packages: Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, 2525 NW 55 Court, Hangar #24, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Important: Remember to address it to "Paster Jean Petit-Frére" and write "Attn: Dan" on the back of the envelope or package. Thanks!
God Bless,
Dan
Last night, I stumbled into my apartment after about twelve hours of everything except eating. I was terrifically hungry, and couldn't have differentiated between a peanut butter sandwich and the Holy Grail. I noticed ants on the table and flicked them away.
I unscrewed the peanut butter lid and got a bit of a shock. Hundreds and hundreds of ants were swarming in my peanut butter jar, mostly in the cap. I slammed the cap on the table and out fell a couple hundred ants. I brushed them off the table and crunched them with bare feet. I don't know that I've ever been so furious at a living creature. That was MY peanut butter!
I then proceeded to take my knife and scoop out every single ant into the toilet. Twenty minutes later, I was able to convince myself that my peanut butter was ant free. I cleaned my knife like wiping blood from a sword, and returned to the table where I brushed off the rest of the ants. My bread was untouched, and I quickly resisted the urge to wonder what that meant about my bread. The sandwiches were quickly made, a water bottle quickly grabbed; with my book and my food and my water, I was in paradise, ants already forgotten.
Bite. Bite. Unscrew water cap. Bite. Swig. CHOKE! Because, as it happens, that was the bottle into which I dumped my bug spray when I filled the bug spray bottle with alcohol. After five minutes of rinsing my mouth and generally dwelling on the unhappy events of the evening, I returned to my sandwiches and my book. And a trustworthy bottle of water.
Skip forward nine hours. I woke and picked up the peanut butter (which I had tied up in a plastic bag) to make breakfast. Nope. The ants found a hole. I spent my shower time once again purging my peanut butter jar. Interestingly, until I thought to myself "WWAD"—"What Would an American Do?"—I never considered tossing the peanut butter. Disclaimer: that's certainly an unfair generalization, but I'm an American, so I get to generalize. So there. Anyways.
An hour later I arrived at the church, hungry but ready to be productive. There was an ant on my desk, and I squashed it out of residual resentment. Thanks to my clumsy finger and the ant's sturdy exoskeleton, I only succeeding in squishing a portion of it. It valiantly attempted to drag itself to safety. It made me think about degrees of problem severity.
1st Degree, me at home, age 15: I'm bored.
2nd Degree, me at work, age 19: I have too much work to do.
3rd Degree, me in Haiti, age 20: I'm hungry and food may not be available in the next twelve hours.
10th Degree, PB Scout Ant, age 25 days: Part of my body has been flattened into the ground, and my intestines are sticking to the table making it more difficult to drag myself away from this dangerous area.
Sure puts my problems in perspective. Still, I have yet to meet the man or woman who thinks, "well, at least it's not worse" and suddenly feels better about life. So how can this apply practically to me, and how can I allow this perspective to give me more grace and patience?
The answer lies in looking at how the ant deals with its problem. It's obviously in a pretty serious predicament, one from which it will almost certainly die. So how does it react? It puts one leg in front of the other. Instead of trying to fix the problem, it does its best to make the problem better.
I've never owned a car that was perfectly reliable, mostly because I've never spent enough on a car to warrant a dependable vehicle. As a result, I'm used to my car breaking down. My good friends know my most common reaction.
I start walking.
I know it will take hours to get home. I know I can probably get somebody to pick me up. But at least the problem is decreasing in magnitude instead of increasing (a psychological escalation in problem magnitude is called "panic"), and if everybody is occupied, I will have already put my solution into action.
I'm not arguing against efficiency. I'm sure the ant wouldn't have refused an ant-medic, if there is such a thing. I do think, though, that if a problem is unmanageably huge, sometimes the only thing to do is try to make it smaller.
I have a lot of duties here, so it's pretty easy for me to attend to the ones that are doable and ignore those that are intimidating to me. Jean wants to build a second level on his church to accommodate all the people who are attending, and he asked me to look into ways to raise money.
To raise nearly two million dollars. Gulp.
Maybe I ought to stop looking at the immensity of the problem, and start with the first hundred dollars. I can find that. And I can move on from there. I want to be in a place where I can say, "if I keep doing what I'm doing right now, the problem will eventually be solved."
So I'm going to go and raise some funds. And put that peanut butter jar somewhere out of reach.
Now, let's learn some Haitian Creole. I'm going to do some review today on basic tense changes.Come : Vini (vee-nee)
You come : Ou'vini (oo-vee-nee)
I'm coming : M'ap vini (mop-vee-nee) Full form would be "mwen ap vini"
I am going to come (later) : M'pral vini (mm-pral-vee-nee)
I came : M'te vini (mm-tay-vee-nee)
You come here now! : Ou vini la kounya! (oo-vee-nee-lah-koon-yeh)
Later : Pita (pee-tah) Literally, "more late"
We are going to come later : Nou pral vini pita (noo-pral-vee-nee-pee-tah)
----------------------
If you are new to this newsletter and would like some background, please visit my blog, which contains an archive of all my updates. Here is my contact information:
Phone Number: 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters : Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, P.O. Box 407139, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Address for Packages: Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, 2525 NW 55 Court, Hangar #24, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Important: Remember to address it to "Paster Jean Petit-Frére" and write "Attn: Dan" on the back of the envelope or package. Thanks!
God Bless,
Dan
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Record Eagle Post, February 20, 2007
Colored Candy Shell
Posted on February 18th, 2007 by Dan Kaschel in Away From HomeIt happened one morning that the sunrise was not so foreign to me. The morning air, thick with unshed dew, was a familiar friend beckoning me awake. The roosters hearkening the new day brought to mind other roosters on a continent far, far away, waking my friend in Africa.
The language still belies comprehension despite my efforts, but speech has patterned itself into discernible syllables that can be weighed and measured and studied instead of the fluid stream of sound that once slipped through the fingers of my mind. And though my vocabulary is small, any human can testify that knowing a few faces in the crowd makes all the difference.
Last night Matthew, the youngest child of my host, warned me of sitting too lightly in the back of the pick up truck. Squinting with the efforts of rallying his scattered English vocabulary, he said: “I know you be good climber an good piano when you grow up, but you just come a little while ago an I don’t want lost you.” I nearly cried. Instead, I promised I would sit down and be careful. How can one fail to be absorbed by such a people?
In short, my colored candy shell has been digested by the acid rigors of this beautiful country, and now I am chocolate, like everybody else.
Dan
For more about me and my travels, visit my Newsletter Archive.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
HUN Update, February 18, 2007
Hey HUN,
It's been a wild and crazy weekend. Jean and Marcia, thanks to a particularly exuberant staff appreciation day, are on vacation until February 23rd. They'll be visiting Florida and Jamaica and a few other parties, but according to Jean, the best part will be chilling out in front of a movie with no redeeming qualities whatsoever and eating pizza, knowing that there is nothing but nothing to be done.
So, since they left two days ago, me and the boys have been club-hopping, hitting crazy parties, drinking, and generally developing our stati (cactus->cacti, status->stati) as moral degenerates. ...Well, not quite. As it happens, they have school off Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, so they have a five-day weekend (and since Jean isn't about, I do, too). Jean asked me to try to make it a productive time for them, so I've been giving piano, computer, and literature analysis lessons to Sarah and Jason. I'm also teaching typing, and have included Matthew in that endeavor. But there was still plenty of time for roller blading (in circles on the driveway), eating (a favorite pastime of mine), and playing games of Hide and Seek in-the-dark. Much fun was had by all.
Speaking of: It occurred to me as I was sitting under a fig tree (just kidding, and sorry to any Buddhists reading this) that, while C.S. Lewis wrote a whole book about The Problem of Pain (as in, if there is a benevolent God, how can there be pain?), there doesn't seem to be that many people squawking about the problem of pleasure. It seems to me that pleasure can be a powerful strike for or against religious ideas. To avoid spending too much on the topic, I'll condense: if an all-powerful god restricts pleasure for any other reason than to increase our pleasure in the future or keeping us safe, then that god is 1) willfully tempting us and 2) has a cruel sense of humor. Since I don't care to follow a god that fits in either of those two categories (and since I believe the god I do follow to be above both), I can thereby state, at least theoretically, that every pleasure not, in and of itself, harmful, has a rightful place in the Christian life .
That means that the church was justified when it finally let up and admitted out loud that sex was okay for married couples, and also when it decided that dancing (but "leave room for Jesus") was not a road to hell. But doesn't it also include pleasures that are under more scrutiny, like drinking and gambling? I don't condone alcoholism or being a poor steward of your money, but I do believe that the two pleasures can be handled responsibly and in a way that honors God.
I'll be very disappointed if I don't get a couple of argumentative responses to this e-mail.
Of course, pleasure is problematic on a very different front, too. The problem with pleasure is that it doesn't come equipped with the warning signs so common among accepted wrongdoing. Theft, murder, and deception all have personal and legal consequences that are painfully obvious. But laziness, tactile pleasure (I try to keep this newsletter family-friendly), and object fixation are all good things gone awry, and it's not hard to convince myself that what I want to do is perfectly okay.
For example. It was a bit of a luxury, but I haven't been spending money on myself, so I decided to treat myself to some grapefruit juice. It was wonderful--my first positive departure from water (dried milk doesn't fit in this category) in six weeks. Jason asked me yesterday if he could have some, and I started to say no. It's imperative to set strong boundaries here, and so I had plenty of moral justification. But that's not why I was refusing. It was because, dang it, this was something I bought for ME and it was my FIRST personal purchase and I DESERVED to reap the ENTIRE benefit of it. I told Jason that there wasn't much left, but that he could finish it.
There's so much to learn here--not just because I'm in a new culture, but also because with these new people my reasons for doing things is clearer to me. If I just keep my eyes open, I think I can really come out of this situation a better person. When I left the States, I was struggling with the fact that my attempts at morality were imploding into self-absorption. The words from Kiterunner rang in my ears as I left: "There is a way to be good again."
Thank God.
And now, let's lighten things up with some Creole. Today, we'll focus on time-related vocab.
Now : Kounya (koon-yeh)
Later : Pita (pee-tah) -- a compound word made of "pi," more, and "ta," late
Today : Jodia (zho-dee-ah)
Afternoon: Apre midi (ah-pray-mee-dee) -- literally, "after midday"
When are you coming? : Kile w'ap vini? (keel-ay-wop-vee-nee)
I am coming now. : M'ap vini kounya. (mop-vee-nee-koon-yah)
And here's a fun little tidbit. "Fe" is a verb that means "to make" or "to do," but it's very flexible within the Creole language. For instance, if you want to say "go away" or "don't bother me," you say "fe respe'w," which translates to something like, "go respect yourself." That made me laugh.
----------------------
If you are new to this newsletter and would like some background, please visit my blog, which contains an archive of all my updates. Here is my contact information:
Phone Number: 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters : Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, P.O. Box 407139, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Address for Packages: Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, 2525 NW 55 Court, Hangar #24, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Important: Remember to address it to "Paster Jean Petit-Frére" and write "Attn: Dan" on the back of the envelope or package. Thanks!
God Bless,
Dan
It's been a wild and crazy weekend. Jean and Marcia, thanks to a particularly exuberant staff appreciation day, are on vacation until February 23rd. They'll be visiting Florida and Jamaica and a few other parties, but according to Jean, the best part will be chilling out in front of a movie with no redeeming qualities whatsoever and eating pizza, knowing that there is nothing but nothing to be done.
So, since they left two days ago, me and the boys have been club-hopping, hitting crazy parties, drinking, and generally developing our stati (cactus->cacti, status->stati) as moral degenerates. ...Well, not quite. As it happens, they have school off Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, so they have a five-day weekend (and since Jean isn't about, I do, too). Jean asked me to try to make it a productive time for them, so I've been giving piano, computer, and literature analysis lessons to Sarah and Jason. I'm also teaching typing, and have included Matthew in that endeavor. But there was still plenty of time for roller blading (in circles on the driveway), eating (a favorite pastime of mine), and playing games of Hide and Seek in-the-dark. Much fun was had by all.
Speaking of: It occurred to me as I was sitting under a fig tree (just kidding, and sorry to any Buddhists reading this) that, while C.S. Lewis wrote a whole book about The Problem of Pain (as in, if there is a benevolent God, how can there be pain?), there doesn't seem to be that many people squawking about the problem of pleasure. It seems to me that pleasure can be a powerful strike for or against religious ideas. To avoid spending too much on the topic, I'll condense: if an all-powerful god restricts pleasure for any other reason than to increase our pleasure in the future or keeping us safe, then that god is 1) willfully tempting us and 2) has a cruel sense of humor. Since I don't care to follow a god that fits in either of those two categories (and since I believe the god I do follow to be above both), I can thereby state, at least theoretically, that every pleasure not, in and of itself, harmful, has a rightful place in the Christian life .
That means that the church was justified when it finally let up and admitted out loud that sex was okay for married couples, and also when it decided that dancing (but "leave room for Jesus") was not a road to hell. But doesn't it also include pleasures that are under more scrutiny, like drinking and gambling? I don't condone alcoholism or being a poor steward of your money, but I do believe that the two pleasures can be handled responsibly and in a way that honors God.
I'll be very disappointed if I don't get a couple of argumentative responses to this e-mail.
Of course, pleasure is problematic on a very different front, too. The problem with pleasure is that it doesn't come equipped with the warning signs so common among accepted wrongdoing. Theft, murder, and deception all have personal and legal consequences that are painfully obvious. But laziness, tactile pleasure (I try to keep this newsletter family-friendly), and object fixation are all good things gone awry, and it's not hard to convince myself that what I want to do is perfectly okay.
For example. It was a bit of a luxury, but I haven't been spending money on myself, so I decided to treat myself to some grapefruit juice. It was wonderful--my first positive departure from water (dried milk doesn't fit in this category) in six weeks. Jason asked me yesterday if he could have some, and I started to say no. It's imperative to set strong boundaries here, and so I had plenty of moral justification. But that's not why I was refusing. It was because, dang it, this was something I bought for ME and it was my FIRST personal purchase and I DESERVED to reap the ENTIRE benefit of it. I told Jason that there wasn't much left, but that he could finish it.
There's so much to learn here--not just because I'm in a new culture, but also because with these new people my reasons for doing things is clearer to me. If I just keep my eyes open, I think I can really come out of this situation a better person. When I left the States, I was struggling with the fact that my attempts at morality were imploding into self-absorption. The words from Kiterunner rang in my ears as I left: "There is a way to be good again."
Thank God.
And now, let's lighten things up with some Creole. Today, we'll focus on time-related vocab.
Now : Kounya (koon-yeh)
Later : Pita (pee-tah) -- a compound word made of "pi," more, and "ta," late
Today : Jodia (zho-dee-ah)
Afternoon: Apre midi (ah-pray-mee-dee) -- literally, "after midday"
When are you coming? : Kile w'ap vini? (keel-ay-wop-vee-nee)
I am coming now. : M'ap vini kounya. (mop-vee-nee-koon-yah)
And here's a fun little tidbit. "Fe" is a verb that means "to make" or "to do," but it's very flexible within the Creole language. For instance, if you want to say "go away" or "don't bother me," you say "fe respe'w," which translates to something like, "go respect yourself." That made me laugh.
----------------------
If you are new to this newsletter and would like some background, please visit my blog, which contains an archive of all my updates. Here is my contact information:
Phone Number: 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters : Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, P.O. Box 407139, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Address for Packages: Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, 2525 NW 55 Court, Hangar #24, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Important: Remember to address it to "Paster Jean Petit-Frére" and write "Attn: Dan" on the back of the envelope or package. Thanks!
God Bless,
Dan
Friday, February 16, 2007
Record Eagle Post, February 16, 2007
It happened one morning that the sunrise was not so foreign to me. The morning air, thick with unshed dew, was a familiar friend beckoning me awake. The roosters hearkening the new day brought to mind other roosters on a continent far, far away, waking my friend in Africa.
The language still belies comprehension despite my efforts, but speech has patterned itself into discernible syllables that can be weighed and measured and studied instead of the fluid stream of sound that once slipped through the fingers of my mind. And though my vocabulary is small, any human can testify that knowing a few faces in the crowd makes all the difference.
Last night Matthew, the youngest child of my host, warned me of sitting too lightly in the back of the pick up truck. Squinting with the efforts of rallying his scattered English vocabulary, he said: "I know you be good climber an good piano when you grow up, but you just come a little while ago an I don't want lost you." I nearly cried. Instead, I promised I would sit down and be careful. How can one fail to be absorbed by such a people?
In short, my colored candy shell has been digested by the acid rigors of this beautiful country, and now I am chocolate, like everybody else.
Dan
For more about me and my travels, visit my Newsletter Archive.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
HUN Update, February 15, 2007
Hey HUN,
I read a poem today that I just had to share. Please read it; I promise you'll like it.
Peas
I eat my peas with honey;
I've done so all my life.
It makes my peas taste funny,
But keeps them on my knife.
------------------------------
I found it in a poetry anthology and it made me laugh.
And think, too. Honey doesn't taste all that good with peas; I've tried it. It doesn't taste bad exactly, but the flavors don't blend that well. I think that sometimes we have to do strange things just because that's the only thing that makes our live livable.
In the name of specificity: as the Michiganders reading this well know, there are times one must use the air conditioning in your car even when it's really cold. When those windows fog up, there's really no alternative. And so the A.C. goes on despite the fact that it's forty degrees outside and you're freezing. It's not precisely convenient and it's even a little counter-productive... but that's what you do because often life demands that we choose between conveniences.
After some contemplative poetry reading, it was time to leave for work. On the ride there, I noticed: the old people in Haiti are awesome. These people don't have wrinkles; they have chasms. They look like they've lived thousands of years and carry all the wisdom of the ages in their cunning minds. Their claw-like hands look strong and capable, as if the craft to which they have been dedicated for so many decades is yearning to express itself once again.
"(Pastor) Jean, your old people are awesome. Maybe that's the reason the older generation is venerated so much here." Note: I was joking.
"Well, not all people treat their elders with respect. Many young people disrespect their elders, and I do not think it goes well with them, because when people do not do what the bible say, it do not go well. Sometime young people disrespect me, but the bible say we should honor everybody even if they do thing that is dishonorable to me, so I still honor them."
Gosh. I was kidding.
But that made me think, too. Why should Christians ignore the facts and treat people as if they were acting differently than they really were? There had to be a good reason. I was thinking so intently that I had to ask Jean to turn the radio down.
This is my idea. I thought to myself that it was most likely a case of God trying to make Christians see people as He sees them. So I thought to myself, "how does God see people that's different from how humans see them?" The answer is that God sees people atemporally; that is, He see what was, what is, and what is to come. So when God looks at a person, He sees their whole life, and hence He sees the only thing possible from that vantage: a creature living precisely how it was created to live. How could it do any different?
So when somebody does something to dishonor or disrespect you, they're doing precisely the same thing as you are; they are living the life they were given as only they can live it. Just because your faults occur at different points in your life and don't happen to be an affront to that person doesn't give you the right to disrespect or dishonor them.
It is crucial to note at this point that this doesn't mean you should let people do what they want because they don't know any better. Everybody is responsible for their own actions, and the bible doesn't command that Christians turn ourselves into limp noodles for universal derision. It simply demands that he or she continually treat his or her fellow creatures with honor and respect.
I think the world would be a better place if everybody did that, Christian or otherwise.
In other news: the laptop screen on the computer I'm using here (Toshiba Satellite 1405-S151) was dropped by whomever carried it from the car to the office yesterday, and now the huge crack running through the middle makes it all but impossible to use. About an eight of the screen still produces readable pixels; the upper left eighth, as it would happen. So I shrink the windows and type everything there. Eventually I'll have to buy a new screen for it, but it's rather expensive so I think I'll wait a little while.
And also: the church is in the process of building a staircase to the second level that hasn't been built yet. Now that's an act of faith! I've tried helping a few times, and the construction workers have humored me by allowing it, but it's hard to hide just how rusty my bricklaying skills are.
And one more thing: just kidding. I won't put it off even a moment longer. Here it is: today's segment ooooooooooof...
LEARN HAITIAN CREOLE! (canned clapping in the background)
Today we're going to beef up our vocab a bit.
With : Avek (ah-vake)
Like : Reme (r*ay-may) This "r" is said in the throat and is almost a "w." I have trouble saying it.
Read: Li (lee) This is also the he/she pronoun.
I would like to eat with you : M'ta'reme manje avek'w (mm-tah-ray-may-ah-vake-oo). Remember - "w"=contraction of "ou"
Lala likes to read with him : Lala reme li ave'l (Lah-lah-ray-may-lee-ah-vay-l) In this example, "avek li" (with him) is contracted to "ave'l." It is worthy of note that, because "li" is also a pronoun, the sentence could also be translated as, "Lala likes him/her with him/her."
----------------------
If you are new to this newsletter and would like some background, please visit my blog, which contains an archive of all my updates. Here is my contact information:
Phone Number: 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters : Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, P.O. Box 407139, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Address for Packages: Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, 2525 NW 55 Court, Hangar #24, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Important: Remember to address it to "Paster Jean Petit-Frére" and write "Attn: Dan" on the back of the envelope or package. Thanks!
God Bless,
Dan
I read a poem today that I just had to share. Please read it; I promise you'll like it.
Peas
I eat my peas with honey;
I've done so all my life.
It makes my peas taste funny,
But keeps them on my knife.
------------------------------
I found it in a poetry anthology and it made me laugh.
And think, too. Honey doesn't taste all that good with peas; I've tried it. It doesn't taste bad exactly, but the flavors don't blend that well. I think that sometimes we have to do strange things just because that's the only thing that makes our live livable.
In the name of specificity: as the Michiganders reading this well know, there are times one must use the air conditioning in your car even when it's really cold. When those windows fog up, there's really no alternative. And so the A.C. goes on despite the fact that it's forty degrees outside and you're freezing. It's not precisely convenient and it's even a little counter-productive... but that's what you do because often life demands that we choose between conveniences.
After some contemplative poetry reading, it was time to leave for work. On the ride there, I noticed: the old people in Haiti are awesome. These people don't have wrinkles; they have chasms. They look like they've lived thousands of years and carry all the wisdom of the ages in their cunning minds. Their claw-like hands look strong and capable, as if the craft to which they have been dedicated for so many decades is yearning to express itself once again.
"(Pastor) Jean, your old people are awesome. Maybe that's the reason the older generation is venerated so much here." Note: I was joking.
"Well, not all people treat their elders with respect. Many young people disrespect their elders, and I do not think it goes well with them, because when people do not do what the bible say, it do not go well. Sometime young people disrespect me, but the bible say we should honor everybody even if they do thing that is dishonorable to me, so I still honor them."
Gosh. I was kidding.
But that made me think, too. Why should Christians ignore the facts and treat people as if they were acting differently than they really were? There had to be a good reason. I was thinking so intently that I had to ask Jean to turn the radio down.
This is my idea. I thought to myself that it was most likely a case of God trying to make Christians see people as He sees them. So I thought to myself, "how does God see people that's different from how humans see them?" The answer is that God sees people atemporally; that is, He see what was, what is, and what is to come. So when God looks at a person, He sees their whole life, and hence He sees the only thing possible from that vantage: a creature living precisely how it was created to live. How could it do any different?
So when somebody does something to dishonor or disrespect you, they're doing precisely the same thing as you are; they are living the life they were given as only they can live it. Just because your faults occur at different points in your life and don't happen to be an affront to that person doesn't give you the right to disrespect or dishonor them.
It is crucial to note at this point that this doesn't mean you should let people do what they want because they don't know any better. Everybody is responsible for their own actions, and the bible doesn't command that Christians turn ourselves into limp noodles for universal derision. It simply demands that he or she continually treat his or her fellow creatures with honor and respect.
I think the world would be a better place if everybody did that, Christian or otherwise.
In other news: the laptop screen on the computer I'm using here (Toshiba Satellite 1405-S151) was dropped by whomever carried it from the car to the office yesterday, and now the huge crack running through the middle makes it all but impossible to use. About an eight of the screen still produces readable pixels; the upper left eighth, as it would happen. So I shrink the windows and type everything there. Eventually I'll have to buy a new screen for it, but it's rather expensive so I think I'll wait a little while.
And also: the church is in the process of building a staircase to the second level that hasn't been built yet. Now that's an act of faith! I've tried helping a few times, and the construction workers have humored me by allowing it, but it's hard to hide just how rusty my bricklaying skills are.
And one more thing: just kidding. I won't put it off even a moment longer. Here it is: today's segment ooooooooooof...
LEARN HAITIAN CREOLE! (canned clapping in the background)
Today we're going to beef up our vocab a bit.
With : Avek (ah-vake)
Like : Reme (r*ay-may) This "r" is said in the throat and is almost a "w." I have trouble saying it.
Read: Li (lee) This is also the he/she pronoun.
I would like to eat with you : M'ta'reme manje avek'w (mm-tah-ray-may-ah-vake-oo). Remember - "w"=contraction of "ou"
Lala likes to read with him : Lala reme li ave'l (Lah-lah-ray-may-lee-ah-vay-l) In this example, "avek li" (with him) is contracted to "ave'l." It is worthy of note that, because "li" is also a pronoun, the sentence could also be translated as, "Lala likes him/her with him/her."
----------------------
If you are new to this newsletter and would like some background, please visit my blog, which contains an archive of all my updates. Here is my contact information:
Phone Number: 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters : Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, P.O. Box 407139, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Address for Packages: Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, 2525 NW 55 Court, Hangar #24, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Important: Remember to address it to "Paster Jean Petit-Frére" and write "Attn: Dan" on the back of the envelope or package. Thanks!
God Bless,
Dan
Sunday, February 11, 2007
HUN Update, February 11, 2007
Hey HUN,
I moved yesterday. While my new locale is certainly more secure--two thick steel doors with a lock and two quarter-inch bolts guard my door, and concrete walls ensure that I will hear my assailant's pickax long before they actually break through--I already miss the room that, for all its imperfections, has been the closest thing I have to a home. Though I shall not miss the three full-height mirrors, one on the wall in front of the bed and one on either side, that makes absolutely sure that the first thing I see every morning is the damage that sleep has inflicted on my weary, unresisting body.
My previous habitat was a guest room within Jean's house, but I have known all along that it was a temporarily dwelling to be vacated when we had readied the guest apartment behind the house. It is built atop a concrete ("concrete" is an assumed adjective around here, but I try to say it often for clarification) shed, but I have found to my delight that with some practice I should be able to pull myself up to my door without ever using the stairs. I miss rock climbing a great deal, and this will provide some opportunity to remind my arms that they won't be idle forever.
My new apartment (and I use "new" in the loosest possible sense of the word) has three rooms: a foyer/living room, a bedroom, and a bathroom. The bedroom is dominated by the queen-sized bed (a mattress on four concrete blocks) and a large metal...object...that I assume to be a shelving unit. The entrance, however, is a decent size and is quite empty except for a plywood table and a number of wooden shelves covered with books. Far be it from me to begrudge shelves of books for taking up space! I shall be sure to peruse them when I have a moment; I'm quite excited. The bathroom is in need of a little TLC--the shower is home to a veritable museum of insectoid life forms, and there are so many ants that it made me wonder for the hundredth time why nobody has properly developed ant cuisine--but with a little love and a lot of gruesome guerrilla warfare, I expect that before long it will be perfectly serviceable.
I spent much of yesterday cleaning. First I did some thorough sweeping, which was an exercise in futility as the dust simply flew up to escape my swaths and settled as soon as I turned my back. It did do some good, though; the room is now free of spider webs, dried vegetation, and one iguana (no, I didn't kill it). To my surprise, one of the things I found on the bookshelves was a sponge still in its plastic. I filled a bucket with water, dragged it up, and began scrubbing in earnest.
Floors in the States just don't get dirty like they do in Haiti. Dirt in Haiti is like a skyscraper, with different strata and rates of rent for each. The top levels, most vulnerable to footprints and sweeping, are left to the surfs and the peasants: dust particles. The next layer is for the commoners, and consists primarily of larger-than-average dust particles and sand. Getting rid of it is like trying to sweep sand off a beach, for all the good it does. The deepest layer is a diabolical grime that clings to the floor "like barnacles to big whale bottoms" (name that Disney movie). As I was sweeping, I could hear it mocking me: "Hah! Brooms? I'm not ticklish."
Suffice it to say that I spent a great deal of time scrubbing, and when I was done, I was left with what may possibly be the most brackish water I have ever seen. I got to my feet, my back and neck doing their best to convince me that perhaps it was about time I started treating them like the old, worn body parts that they were and start assigning grueling tasks to spry teenagers, and looked down at my bucket, then dipped the sponge in to clean it. I lifted it out and squeezed, noticing in passing that the water coming out looked reasonably clean. It made me think.
I get really frustrated with people sometimes. It's hard to see how crappy people can be to each other, and still maintain a positive perspective on humanity. Look at all the awful things we say and do to each other! When I look at people collectively, it's really easy to focus on the evil. My bucket of water, you see, was mostly just water. I doubt if a tenth of it, by volume, was actual dirt. But water is clear, and dirt is opaque, and so for all I could tell it was a bucket of pure mud. It was only by observing the water I squeezed from the sponge--that is, by focusing on the individual instead of the collective--that I understood that, as bad as it looked, the water was still mostly clean. It was encouraging.
It's easy to get caught up in origins and destinations. But time and time again, and I beg you to forgive me this cliché, I find that the lessons are found in the journey between the two. I think that's why God keeps us moving all the time; why He never lets us stay in our comfort zones. Because moving and learning and changing are all interrelated processes, and all are necessary in that one key process of becoming.
And now, let us become better speakers of Haitian Creole.
Let's talk about nouns today, shall we? We're going to talk about three things we do a lot with nouns.
Door : port (port)
A door : yon port (yo*-port) *indicates nasal "n"
Doors : port-yo (port-yo)
The door : port-la (port-lah)
Pretty easy, right? The word "a" is translated as "yon." Words are pluralized by attaching "yo" to the end. But definite articles, I'm afraid, are a little more tricky. For example:
The door: port-la (port-lah)
The car: machin-nan (mosh-een-na*)
The country: peyi-a (pay-ee-ah)
So there are a few different ways to say "the," and it just depends on the noun and how it sounds. There are certainly rules that govern this, but basically the only way to learn it is to hear a lot of vocabulary and get used to hearing it said a certain way.
----------------------
If you are new to this newsletter and would like some background, please visit my blog, which contains an archive of all my updates. Here is my contact information:
Phone Number: 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters: Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, P.O. Box 407139, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Address for Packages: Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, 2525 NW 55 Court, Hangar #24, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Important: Remember to address it to "Paster Jean Petit-Frére" and write "Attn: Dan" on the back of the envelope or package. Thanks!
God Bless,
Dan
I moved yesterday. While my new locale is certainly more secure--two thick steel doors with a lock and two quarter-inch bolts guard my door, and concrete walls ensure that I will hear my assailant's pickax long before they actually break through--I already miss the room that, for all its imperfections, has been the closest thing I have to a home. Though I shall not miss the three full-height mirrors, one on the wall in front of the bed and one on either side, that makes absolutely sure that the first thing I see every morning is the damage that sleep has inflicted on my weary, unresisting body.
My previous habitat was a guest room within Jean's house, but I have known all along that it was a temporarily dwelling to be vacated when we had readied the guest apartment behind the house. It is built atop a concrete ("concrete" is an assumed adjective around here, but I try to say it often for clarification) shed, but I have found to my delight that with some practice I should be able to pull myself up to my door without ever using the stairs. I miss rock climbing a great deal, and this will provide some opportunity to remind my arms that they won't be idle forever.
My new apartment (and I use "new" in the loosest possible sense of the word) has three rooms: a foyer/living room, a bedroom, and a bathroom. The bedroom is dominated by the queen-sized bed (a mattress on four concrete blocks) and a large metal...object...that I assume to be a shelving unit. The entrance, however, is a decent size and is quite empty except for a plywood table and a number of wooden shelves covered with books. Far be it from me to begrudge shelves of books for taking up space! I shall be sure to peruse them when I have a moment; I'm quite excited. The bathroom is in need of a little TLC--the shower is home to a veritable museum of insectoid life forms, and there are so many ants that it made me wonder for the hundredth time why nobody has properly developed ant cuisine--but with a little love and a lot of gruesome guerrilla warfare, I expect that before long it will be perfectly serviceable.
I spent much of yesterday cleaning. First I did some thorough sweeping, which was an exercise in futility as the dust simply flew up to escape my swaths and settled as soon as I turned my back. It did do some good, though; the room is now free of spider webs, dried vegetation, and one iguana (no, I didn't kill it). To my surprise, one of the things I found on the bookshelves was a sponge still in its plastic. I filled a bucket with water, dragged it up, and began scrubbing in earnest.
Floors in the States just don't get dirty like they do in Haiti. Dirt in Haiti is like a skyscraper, with different strata and rates of rent for each. The top levels, most vulnerable to footprints and sweeping, are left to the surfs and the peasants: dust particles. The next layer is for the commoners, and consists primarily of larger-than-average dust particles and sand. Getting rid of it is like trying to sweep sand off a beach, for all the good it does. The deepest layer is a diabolical grime that clings to the floor "like barnacles to big whale bottoms" (name that Disney movie). As I was sweeping, I could hear it mocking me: "Hah! Brooms? I'm not ticklish."
Suffice it to say that I spent a great deal of time scrubbing, and when I was done, I was left with what may possibly be the most brackish water I have ever seen. I got to my feet, my back and neck doing their best to convince me that perhaps it was about time I started treating them like the old, worn body parts that they were and start assigning grueling tasks to spry teenagers, and looked down at my bucket, then dipped the sponge in to clean it. I lifted it out and squeezed, noticing in passing that the water coming out looked reasonably clean. It made me think.
I get really frustrated with people sometimes. It's hard to see how crappy people can be to each other, and still maintain a positive perspective on humanity. Look at all the awful things we say and do to each other! When I look at people collectively, it's really easy to focus on the evil. My bucket of water, you see, was mostly just water. I doubt if a tenth of it, by volume, was actual dirt. But water is clear, and dirt is opaque, and so for all I could tell it was a bucket of pure mud. It was only by observing the water I squeezed from the sponge--that is, by focusing on the individual instead of the collective--that I understood that, as bad as it looked, the water was still mostly clean. It was encouraging.
It's easy to get caught up in origins and destinations. But time and time again, and I beg you to forgive me this cliché, I find that the lessons are found in the journey between the two. I think that's why God keeps us moving all the time; why He never lets us stay in our comfort zones. Because moving and learning and changing are all interrelated processes, and all are necessary in that one key process of becoming.
And now, let us become better speakers of Haitian Creole.
Let's talk about nouns today, shall we? We're going to talk about three things we do a lot with nouns.
Door : port (port)
A door : yon port (yo*-port) *indicates nasal "n"
Doors : port-yo (port-yo)
The door : port-la (port-lah)
Pretty easy, right? The word "a" is translated as "yon." Words are pluralized by attaching "yo" to the end. But definite articles, I'm afraid, are a little more tricky. For example:
The door: port-la (port-lah)
The car: machin-nan (mosh-een-na*)
The country: peyi-a (pay-ee-ah)
So there are a few different ways to say "the," and it just depends on the noun and how it sounds. There are certainly rules that govern this, but basically the only way to learn it is to hear a lot of vocabulary and get used to hearing it said a certain way.
----------------------
If you are new to this newsletter and would like some background, please visit my blog, which contains an archive of all my updates. Here is my contact information:
Phone Number: 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters: Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, P.O. Box 407139, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Address for Packages: Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, 2525 NW 55 Court, Hangar #24, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Important: Remember to address it to "Paster Jean Petit-Frére" and write "Attn: Dan" on the back of the envelope or package. Thanks!
God Bless,
Dan
Monday, February 5, 2007
HUN Update, February 3, 2007
Hey HUN,
I got a request a while ago for a brief explanation of my day-to-day schedule. I promised I would do so when I had an established schedule. By that indication, one might suppose that my life was completely unpredictable and that I am simply unable to generalize. As it happens, nothing could be farther from the truth. I just forgot.
Every morning at six, the alarm goes off, and if necessary I set about dissipating whatever elements of my dream have refused to disappear. Does that happen to anybody else? A couple nights ago, I woke up and there was a man slumped against my bedside table, sleeping I suppose. What was I to do? My knife is never far from me, so I immediately whipped it out. My eyes tried desperately to resolve the shape more accurately; to pick details from the grainy pixelation of shadow. I tentatively reached out with my left hand to touch the man's shoulder, knife at the ready. Nothing. There wasn't even anything there from which to derive the shape of a man; only blackness, and my own yawning imagination.
Then I turn off the fan. The fan is necessary at night, when it's typically around eighty-five degrees, but less so in the morning when it's a pleasant sixty-five to seventy. The fan has its own stand and is located several feet from the bed, so my next course of action is to mentally chasten myself for, once again, neglecting to turn on the lamp first. So I feel my way around the fan and turn on the light (assuming there's electricity) and, while my vision scatters like light on oil-water, I consider to myself what it would be like to be blind.
I have my own bathroom, albeit without running water and a toilet that has to be fixed every time you flush, and I thank God every morning for it. Truly, it is my first pleasure every morning. I enter in, kill any marauding insects large enough to tickle my peripheral vision, and use my dipping bowl and five-gallon bucket to wash up. This requires more skill than one might think, and there's really quite a technique to it; but, all things considered, I'm going to hold on to that educational segment for some other time. I will say, however, that the first bowl-full feels very, very, cold.
I finish the various morning bathroom duties, make my bed (it makes Marcia happy to see my room all tidy, so I happily oblige), and put everything into my backpack that I took out the night before. I grab my sandals (I actually forget this step at least a couple times a week and regularly find myself running back to my room to get them) and make myself a peanut butter sandwich and we head out the door.
...Not really. The Petit-Frere family has a carefully engineered calendar that schedules who will be late each morning. As a result, we never actually leave the house on time, but it's never the same person that causes the hang-up. I found this frustrating until I realized that, as the hapless American, I was not in the least inconvenienced by this, nor was I badly reflected upon. Actually, the worst aspect of the situation is that, every couple weeks, somebody will miss their day and we'll all be ready at the right time. Then everybody looks around confusedly, pretending they do not know precisely whose fault it is, and everybody heads out the door feeling vaguely dissatisfied.
For those of you unused to my humor--no, they don't really use a calendar, and the last sentence is wholly fabricated. But it really does feel like this, most of the time.
We pray every morning before we leave. Such prayers you have never heard, unless you've had the pleasure of spending some time with Jean. Haiti is a dangerous nation, and there are lots of way to get hurt or killed or kidnapped or otherwise distracted from fulfilling your duties within the ministry. Jean has it all covered. He prays so fervently that I sometimes wonder why God doesn't pat him on the shoulder and say something like, "come now, I'll take care of it. Just get in the car and it'll be all right." In any case, the proof is in the pudding: Jean's family has indeed been protected. God may or may not agree with my perceived hyperbole, but either way, He listens. And I guess that's what matters.
The drive is always exciting. I have hypothesized on occasion that the purpose for leaving late is so that Jean can feel rushed; without that, he could not possibly justify some of the Knievel-esque stunts he pulls every morning. My youthful experiences with passing in front of an oncoming truck with only ten yards to spare seem flimsy and atrophied. This man thinks nothing of passing several cars on a crowded city road (creating his own lane in the process that gives him between one and two inches on either side, depending on how the side-view mirrors are adjusted), claiming the lane of opposing traffic for his own for a few seconds, and then nudging in to the four-inch space between a tank and a battering ram. Well, two big trucks, anyway. It's a good thing that I've developed the zen philosophy I spoke of in the last update. I look forward to every car ride.
We arrive at the church/school and assume our stations. Mine is an office next to Jean's, and from that moment on my schedule doesn't exist. I have things to do, of course, but they vary wildly according to day of the week, grass-length, and celestial alignment. Many people I don't know come into my office and ask for a repair on their computer, or for a brief lesson in programming, computer systems, English, or piano. And others, too; some that I didn't know that I knew enough about to teach. It's exciting and reaffirming to be able to enrich a person's life just by spending time with them. They are so grateful and so...in awe. I wish there was some way to make them understand that their day-by-day persistence, love, respect, and sincerity are worth far more than every paltry niche of my supposed knowledge. It is a rich culture, and it has a great future once it finds a footing.
At about twelve, I'm ready for a break, so I go up to a rooftop, spread out my towel, and read the bible or pray. It's extremely pressure-less, and, although I haven't fallen asleep yet, I find that it is very restoring. By the time I get up again, I am ready to face the afternoon. Beginning with lunch.
Afternoon is more of the same, and afterward comes and one of a dozen prayer meetings, outreaches, or special services that pepper the evenings. Every once in a while nothing is planned, and we get home as early as seven. I happily do some reading until ten-ish and then go to sleep.
That's about how it goes. And now, the moment you've all been waiting for: today's lesson in Haitian Creole!
For using two verbs together, one as an infinite, it is necessary to remember that there is no stem changing or conjugation as there is among the romance languages. So,
I sleep: M'domi (mm-dome-ee)
I want (it): M'vli (mm-vlee)
I want to sleep: M'vli domi (mm-vlee-dome-ee)
For negatives, add the word "pa" after the subject:
I don't want to sleep: M'pa vli domi (mm-pah-vlee-dome-ee)
As you see, the fact that verbs don't change forms simplifies the language immensely. All right, that's probably enough for now. If at some point people are thinking, "gee, I wish I didn't have this language crap at the bottom of the newsletter," let me know and I can kill it. I just thought it would be neat.
If you are new to this newsletter and would like some background, please visit my blog, which contains an archive of all my updates. Here is my contact information:
Phone Number: 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters: Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, P.O. Box 407139, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Address for Packages: Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, 2525 NW 55 Court, Hangar #24, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Important: Remember to address it to "Paster Jean Petit-Frére" and put "Attn: Dan" on the back of the envelope or package. Thanks!
God Bless,
Dan
P.S. A thank you goes out for those that have already sent letters and packages. They mean a great deal to me. Especially those that contain food! :)
I got a request a while ago for a brief explanation of my day-to-day schedule. I promised I would do so when I had an established schedule. By that indication, one might suppose that my life was completely unpredictable and that I am simply unable to generalize. As it happens, nothing could be farther from the truth. I just forgot.
Every morning at six, the alarm goes off, and if necessary I set about dissipating whatever elements of my dream have refused to disappear. Does that happen to anybody else? A couple nights ago, I woke up and there was a man slumped against my bedside table, sleeping I suppose. What was I to do? My knife is never far from me, so I immediately whipped it out. My eyes tried desperately to resolve the shape more accurately; to pick details from the grainy pixelation of shadow. I tentatively reached out with my left hand to touch the man's shoulder, knife at the ready. Nothing. There wasn't even anything there from which to derive the shape of a man; only blackness, and my own yawning imagination.
Then I turn off the fan. The fan is necessary at night, when it's typically around eighty-five degrees, but less so in the morning when it's a pleasant sixty-five to seventy. The fan has its own stand and is located several feet from the bed, so my next course of action is to mentally chasten myself for, once again, neglecting to turn on the lamp first. So I feel my way around the fan and turn on the light (assuming there's electricity) and, while my vision scatters like light on oil-water, I consider to myself what it would be like to be blind.
I have my own bathroom, albeit without running water and a toilet that has to be fixed every time you flush, and I thank God every morning for it. Truly, it is my first pleasure every morning. I enter in, kill any marauding insects large enough to tickle my peripheral vision, and use my dipping bowl and five-gallon bucket to wash up. This requires more skill than one might think, and there's really quite a technique to it; but, all things considered, I'm going to hold on to that educational segment for some other time. I will say, however, that the first bowl-full feels very, very, cold.
I finish the various morning bathroom duties, make my bed (it makes Marcia happy to see my room all tidy, so I happily oblige), and put everything into my backpack that I took out the night before. I grab my sandals (I actually forget this step at least a couple times a week and regularly find myself running back to my room to get them) and make myself a peanut butter sandwich and we head out the door.
...Not really. The Petit-Frere family has a carefully engineered calendar that schedules who will be late each morning. As a result, we never actually leave the house on time, but it's never the same person that causes the hang-up. I found this frustrating until I realized that, as the hapless American, I was not in the least inconvenienced by this, nor was I badly reflected upon. Actually, the worst aspect of the situation is that, every couple weeks, somebody will miss their day and we'll all be ready at the right time. Then everybody looks around confusedly, pretending they do not know precisely whose fault it is, and everybody heads out the door feeling vaguely dissatisfied.
For those of you unused to my humor--no, they don't really use a calendar, and the last sentence is wholly fabricated. But it really does feel like this, most of the time.
We pray every morning before we leave. Such prayers you have never heard, unless you've had the pleasure of spending some time with Jean. Haiti is a dangerous nation, and there are lots of way to get hurt or killed or kidnapped or otherwise distracted from fulfilling your duties within the ministry. Jean has it all covered. He prays so fervently that I sometimes wonder why God doesn't pat him on the shoulder and say something like, "come now, I'll take care of it. Just get in the car and it'll be all right." In any case, the proof is in the pudding: Jean's family has indeed been protected. God may or may not agree with my perceived hyperbole, but either way, He listens. And I guess that's what matters.
The drive is always exciting. I have hypothesized on occasion that the purpose for leaving late is so that Jean can feel rushed; without that, he could not possibly justify some of the Knievel-esque stunts he pulls every morning. My youthful experiences with passing in front of an oncoming truck with only ten yards to spare seem flimsy and atrophied. This man thinks nothing of passing several cars on a crowded city road (creating his own lane in the process that gives him between one and two inches on either side, depending on how the side-view mirrors are adjusted), claiming the lane of opposing traffic for his own for a few seconds, and then nudging in to the four-inch space between a tank and a battering ram. Well, two big trucks, anyway. It's a good thing that I've developed the zen philosophy I spoke of in the last update. I look forward to every car ride.
We arrive at the church/school and assume our stations. Mine is an office next to Jean's, and from that moment on my schedule doesn't exist. I have things to do, of course, but they vary wildly according to day of the week, grass-length, and celestial alignment. Many people I don't know come into my office and ask for a repair on their computer, or for a brief lesson in programming, computer systems, English, or piano. And others, too; some that I didn't know that I knew enough about to teach. It's exciting and reaffirming to be able to enrich a person's life just by spending time with them. They are so grateful and so...in awe. I wish there was some way to make them understand that their day-by-day persistence, love, respect, and sincerity are worth far more than every paltry niche of my supposed knowledge. It is a rich culture, and it has a great future once it finds a footing.
At about twelve, I'm ready for a break, so I go up to a rooftop, spread out my towel, and read the bible or pray. It's extremely pressure-less, and, although I haven't fallen asleep yet, I find that it is very restoring. By the time I get up again, I am ready to face the afternoon. Beginning with lunch.
Afternoon is more of the same, and afterward comes and one of a dozen prayer meetings, outreaches, or special services that pepper the evenings. Every once in a while nothing is planned, and we get home as early as seven. I happily do some reading until ten-ish and then go to sleep.
That's about how it goes. And now, the moment you've all been waiting for: today's lesson in Haitian Creole!
For using two verbs together, one as an infinite, it is necessary to remember that there is no stem changing or conjugation as there is among the romance languages. So,
I sleep: M'domi (mm-dome-ee)
I want (it): M'vli (mm-vlee)
I want to sleep: M'vli domi (mm-vlee-dome-ee)
For negatives, add the word "pa" after the subject:
I don't want to sleep: M'pa vli domi (mm-pah-vlee-dome-ee)
As you see, the fact that verbs don't change forms simplifies the language immensely. All right, that's probably enough for now. If at some point people are thinking, "gee, I wish I didn't have this language crap at the bottom of the newsletter," let me know and I can kill it. I just thought it would be neat.
If you are new to this newsletter and would like some background, please visit my blog, which contains an archive of all my updates. Here is my contact information:
Phone Number: 011-509-617-7720
Address for Letters: Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, P.O. Box 407139, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Address for Packages: Pastor Jean Petit-Frére, 2525 NW 55 Court, Hangar #24, Ft. Lauderdale, Fl, 33340
Important: Remember to address it to "Paster Jean Petit-Frére" and put "Attn: Dan" on the back of the envelope or package. Thanks!
God Bless,
Dan
P.S. A thank you goes out for those that have already sent letters and packages. They mean a great deal to me. Especially those that contain food! :)
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