I had no idea what the Jena 6 was when somebody invited me to join the facebook group, but now that I've read about it, let's do something. The petitions we signed for the BP thing worked marvelously. So let's not slack off for this. The case of the Jena 6 is straight up racism. I hate racism. I would love for all kinds of violence to be delivered upon those who would harm others simply for the color of their skin. Yet, as we know, violence only breeds continued ignorance.
If you don't know: currently, in Jena, Louisiana, six black individuals are being held with attempted murder for beating up a white kid. This was a response to the white kid's racists taunts following a DA-busted protest led by the black students. The students' protest was itself a reaction to two nooses that had been hung from the limb of a tree after a single black student had sat under it the day before. So, click on the link below, sign the petition, and let others know about the state-led injustice in Louisiana.
Sign this petition.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Badminton Before You Go
As I get closer to leaving for Togo, I become more frightened, sort of. I once had a dream where I was afraid to fall asleep, because I knew I would see something so beautiful I would never want to wake up. In some way, this is the feeling I have now.
For the first three months I will be in Pre-Service Training, in-country experience, the last step to becoming a full-fledged volunteer. PST takes place in the "beautiful green and mountainous Plateau Region," according to Togo's country director. This thrills me.
What doesn't thrill me are the details. During the summer I read the first few chapters of Village of Waiting a book about a Peace Corps Volunteer's two years of service in Togo. Descriptions of service, or speaking exclusively in French or a rural language did not scare me. But when the author mentioned buying a stove, I freaked out. How do you buy a stove in Togo? I don't even know how to do that here.
Lists surround me. What to take, what to wear, what to say, how to act, where not to go at night. I've read everything they've given me, and forgotten it all. Cousin Jim, currently serving in Malawi, is my most reliable source of information. Unfortunately, I only hear from him once a month.
Andy and I were talking yesterday, drinking beer, waiting for Nick to finish mowing the lawn so we could play badminton. Our deck chairs were back from the neighbor's house, and the evening was light pink, dipping into the cool degrees. "It's not the friends like you I'm worried about," I told him. "But I'm so afraid of all the people I'll never talk to again." Such is the price, I guess, for this kind of experience.
That's not to say I'm having second thoughts about the whole thing. It is the singular thought in my mind, the only thing I can consider between those moments when I'm forced to listen to my co-workers (forced is a strong word; I like listening to them) or am watching Samurai Jack. Like the day I left for Wyoming two years ago, I know the moment will come when I realize, "I actually have to do this."
There is comfort in fear like this. In the film Tigerland, Colin Farrell's character says that true courage is knowing just how shit-scared you really are. I don't really think that going to Togo is courageous, but I am certainly proud of the fact that I can add "Joining the Peace Corps" to the list of things I said I'd do, and did, despite any reservations.
The fall is beginning. The air is still muggy, but the heat breaks sooner, and a long-sleeved shirt is a hug at night. Andy, Nick, and I play badminton, and the mosquitoes are only an afterthought. When the sun dips low, I pull my A2Z Ranch hat down to my eyebrows, and squint around the visor. I'm leaving this place, I think, sipping beer on the porch with Peppercorn in my lap. I wonder what the sunsets are like in Togo. I wonder if the air in the mountains is crisp and green, if the dew snaps off the grass like a bite into a cucumber. I am so happy that I get to find out.
For the first three months I will be in Pre-Service Training, in-country experience, the last step to becoming a full-fledged volunteer. PST takes place in the "beautiful green and mountainous Plateau Region," according to Togo's country director. This thrills me.
What doesn't thrill me are the details. During the summer I read the first few chapters of Village of Waiting a book about a Peace Corps Volunteer's two years of service in Togo. Descriptions of service, or speaking exclusively in French or a rural language did not scare me. But when the author mentioned buying a stove, I freaked out. How do you buy a stove in Togo? I don't even know how to do that here.
Lists surround me. What to take, what to wear, what to say, how to act, where not to go at night. I've read everything they've given me, and forgotten it all. Cousin Jim, currently serving in Malawi, is my most reliable source of information. Unfortunately, I only hear from him once a month.
Andy and I were talking yesterday, drinking beer, waiting for Nick to finish mowing the lawn so we could play badminton. Our deck chairs were back from the neighbor's house, and the evening was light pink, dipping into the cool degrees. "It's not the friends like you I'm worried about," I told him. "But I'm so afraid of all the people I'll never talk to again." Such is the price, I guess, for this kind of experience.
That's not to say I'm having second thoughts about the whole thing. It is the singular thought in my mind, the only thing I can consider between those moments when I'm forced to listen to my co-workers (forced is a strong word; I like listening to them) or am watching Samurai Jack. Like the day I left for Wyoming two years ago, I know the moment will come when I realize, "I actually have to do this."
There is comfort in fear like this. In the film Tigerland, Colin Farrell's character says that true courage is knowing just how shit-scared you really are. I don't really think that going to Togo is courageous, but I am certainly proud of the fact that I can add "Joining the Peace Corps" to the list of things I said I'd do, and did, despite any reservations.
The fall is beginning. The air is still muggy, but the heat breaks sooner, and a long-sleeved shirt is a hug at night. Andy, Nick, and I play badminton, and the mosquitoes are only an afterthought. When the sun dips low, I pull my A2Z Ranch hat down to my eyebrows, and squint around the visor. I'm leaving this place, I think, sipping beer on the porch with Peppercorn in my lap. I wonder what the sunsets are like in Togo. I wonder if the air in the mountains is crisp and green, if the dew snaps off the grass like a bite into a cucumber. I am so happy that I get to find out.
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