Dad's Haiku Response

Horror of horrors
I've raised a daughter who's hooked
Noodles and codeine

haikus for health

day:

instant noodles and
instant coffee; don't neglect
multivitamins.


night:

cough syrup temptress
sits on my bedside table -
green smile every night.

What's News; Plus Anguish, Literature, and Kayaks
The real news is that I've definitely decided to come back to Vinh next year and that I am going to look into purchasing a motorscooter. That's the news.

This morning I?m reading about some of the first healings, in Matthew?s fourth chapter. The son of man has just called the first four disciples. He?s turned water into wine, and he?s taught in the synagogue and cast out a demon. And then the crowds begin. Masses of people follow him, and they bring, ?all who are ill with various diseases, those suffering severe pain, the demon-possessed, those having seizures, and the paralyzed.?

I try to picture each of those groups of people. It?s hard, because in America, our sicknesses and pains are covered up. They are treated or they are hidden. We always try to look ?okay?. Not so in Galilee and Syria at that time.

I am asked how I respond when I see people in great pain. At first, I can?t remember the last time I saw people in great pain. And then I can. I can remember the man without a leg, and maybe without some mental abilities, whom I saw crawling along the ground. I can remember people who were in great emotional, though not physical, pain. Honestly, how do I respond to these people?

I respond out of fear. Recognition of my helplessness. Pity mixed with revulsion. And avoidance. I?d rather pretend that such raw pain and anguish don?t exist. I?m embarrassed for the person who is so open about their emotional suffering, and I want to help her pretend that she?s ok.

I?m convicted. These were the people who surrounded the son of man when he began. The weak, the honest, the anguishing. They are not the people whom I would want to follow me around town. But he welcomed them with compassion, and he healed them. When I want to ignore people, I show my lack of faith in his ability to still heal today. I show my lack of compassion. And also, I fail to realize that I too am weak and needy.
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It?s back to school for real this week! I?m really glad to be settled back into Vinh University for the semester. I?ll be teaching Speaking for 2nd and 3rd year students, as well as writing for first year students. And a lot is going on in some of my personal relationships here - if you want to know about it, email me! Today at Vinh University we have a two guest lecturers. One of them is Dr. Don Wood, a Fulbright Scholar who lives in Ho Chi Minh City. He?s lecturing to the third year students about ?The Ideal of Individualism in American Literature and Culture?. Although it?s a fairly basic lecture, I?m having fun listening to him. His handout including one of my favorite poems from the modern poetry class I took in college - Elizabeth Bishop?s ?One Art?.

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.


Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.


Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.


I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.


I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.


--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Here?s my question - help me out - I see two interpretations of ?(the joking voice, a gesture/ I love)?. Does she mean that she is using a joking voice, a gesture that she likes to use in writing; or, does she mean that she has lost his joking voice, which was a gesture of his that she loved? Or, is she being purposefully ambiguous? Please explain to me.
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Thailand, by the way, was great. For the most part, I enjoyed my Wheaton classes and the ELIC Mid-Year Conference. It was wonderful to spend time with friends and colleagues. After conference, I went to a beach in the south for a few days, which turned out to be as tiring as it was relaxing. To get there, we had to travel by plane, bus, ferry, and taxi, and then we had to hike a bit, carrying a month?s worth of luggage?By the time we made it, all I wanted to do was lay motionless on the sand for the next three days. Actually, though, one of the most fun things we did was to rent a kayak and paddle over to a nearby island. It was gorgeous. Check out the photos on my main website.

Warfare, Good vs. Evil, iPods, and Chiang Mai
Saturday, January 10, 2004
9:43
Chiang Mai YMCA

Last night I went to see the Return of the King with the other teachers who are here early. I had been planning to go see it anyway, and so when I ran into them and that?s what they were doing, I agreed to go with them. During the evening, I was reminded that this is why it?s more difficult to be with Americans my own age than to be with my students -- being with these teachers only reminds me of how much better it is to be with Jason, Mollie, Anna, my old friends from high school?I sat in the dark theatre wishing I were sitting next to Jason. I sat there remembering the Fellowship of the Ring and The Two Towers, both of which I saw with the Bakke?s on opening night. I remembered talking at IHOP late into the night after the first one - or, more correctly, listening as Seth and Jason talked about interpretations, allegory, and philosophy. I sat there thinking of David Hudson standing up after the movie was over and shouting out the story of the true return of the King for all the moviegoers to hear.

I enjoyed the movie, though I wished desperately that I hadn?t read the article on Slate.com talking about ?hobbit-love? in the movie, accusing the hobbits of closet homosexuality. Yep, that ruined a bit of it for me. There was another article on Slate that I didn?t read, but that apparently dealt with the question ?Why don?t girls like the Lord of the Rings?? and I thought about that as I watched it. I do like Lord of the Rings, and I?m a girl, and I know a lot of girls who like the trilogy, even a few who are slightly fanatical about it.

But the thing I thought about most as I watched was the battle, the climactic battle between good and evil. I could never be a soldier, or a warrior, I thought as I watched the men fight towards certain death -- death for what? For honor, because they are ?men of Rohan,? and that?s what men of Rohan do? Because it is Right? Because it is against Evil? War requires such moral certainty. To be willing to march towards death, knowing how slight your chances of survival are - being willing to kill, not to mention taking joy in it as you keep a count of how many you?ve slain - certainly you must be completely convinced that you are in the right.

In Middle Earth, it?s true, right and wrong are clearly delineated. The Good are Beautiful (Aragorn, Legolas?) and the Evil are too hideous to name. And so, maybe in that case, maybe in Middle Earth, I could ride to war. Maybe in that place I could be a hero.

But in this Earth, sometimes evil is beautiful, and good is difficult to recognize. I have trouble believing that I, like Frodo and Sam, am involved in a fight of epic proportions, an ultimate battle of good vs. evil. While I can say that I believe, as an objective fact, that such a war is raging, that fact doesn?t influence my daily life, choices, or thought patterns. I don?t think that my personal decisions have any part in or impact on that war.

There are times when Evil is clear. But for the most part, I lack the moral certainty of a warrior. There is too much grey, too much ambiguity or overlap, too many things influencing my own sight and interpretation for me to feel certain enough to argue for Right, much less give my life for it. It?s a weak attitude - maybe an attitude of a scribe on the sidelines, who cannot fight but only report what she sees, recognizing that even that is incomplete and biased - but for now, it?s who I am.

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The Secret Hand Signals of my Generation (or, how to pick up a Backpacker)

A couple of years ago, a book was published that talked about the Bohemian Bourgeoisie - BoBo?s - the new upper middle class in America. The author was talking mainly about my parents? generation, baby boomers who try to blend the values of WASPy success with the values that they claimed to live by in their earlier hippie phase. He explained the popularity of trends like yoga and backpacking by attributing them to the upper-middle class trying to justify their wealth and make it mesh with the values of the sixties.

But you can see the characteristics of the Bohemian Bourgeoisie in my generation too. For the Bo-Bo?s in their twenties, a stint backpacking overseas is practically mandatory. When I was traveling through Bavaria, I met Mike, who had just finished an internship in Germany and was taking a month for traveling - ?I figured I?d better go ahead and get the college Europe trip out of the way, so I don?t have to do it later,? he said, implying that every college student must complete the ritual backpack through Europe test before being allowed to move into adulthood. He made it sound as if traveling wasn?t really enjoyable, but simply a necessary rite of passage. While hopefully most find a little more pleasure in their backpacking than Mike, his implication isn?t far off from the truth. For most American college Bo-Bo?s, the backpack trip has become an expected ceremonial journey. You can spot us in most any airport or train station, in Europe, Asia, or South America. There are several tell-tale signs, useful not only for recognizing the backpacking Bo-Bo?s, but if acknowledged and returned correctly, useful for hooking up with them.

Of course, the most obvious sign is the backpack. Usually covered with country patches, it?s often a North Face, lowe alpine, or other pricey brand pack. Bad pick up line: ?So, have you really been all those places (pointing to the country patches)?? Better pick up line: ?You prefer an internal frame pack to an external frame?? Knowledge of the terms makes you sound like a coolly seasoned backpacker, while the first question makes you sound like a naive first-timer. Speaking of looking seasoned: if you are in Europe, you should be carrying either Rick Steve?s or Let?s Go, but if you are in Asia, you must have the Lonely Planet guidebook. If you are a true backpacking Bo-Bo, you will know that.

But if you?re in an airport, waiting for a flight, you have to watch for more subtle signs - the backpack is already checked luggage. There are several things to look for at this stage. The best is the Nalgene bottle, which will be covered with stickers like the backpack is covered with patches. The Nalgene bottle itself has become so ubiquitous that it?s not a completely reliable sign, but if you can get close enough to take a look at the stickers on the Nalgene, you can pick up all kinds of information - about nationality, musical interests, and backpacking brands preferred.

The Nalgene is a useful pick-up tool even outside of traveling; in a college English class, the guy sitting next to me said, ?So, do you like camping? I mean, I just saw your Nalgene?? thus opening the way for a nice conversation, leading to a date later that week. Note: If asked about camping, never, never say that you don?t like it. It is death for the Bo-Bo to admit this.

Finally, the most powerful pick-up tool for backpacking Bo-Bo?s: the secret iPod hand signal. Requiring no words, this signal works from all the way across waiting rooms. I?ve used it twice so far, both times very effective. The first was in a train traveling south through Vietnam. Standing outside the sleeper compartment watching the green countryside change through the window, I noticed a guy down the hall doing the same, but with headphones on and the sleek white iPod barely sticking out of his pocket. Hmm, I thought, who is this? The next time I left my sleeper compartment, I too wore my iPod, purposefully avoiding the gaze of the guy down the hall. Finally, he caught my eye and pointed to his iPod and to mine, and murmured something like, ?Nice.?

The second use was in an airport in Thailand. I had already noted these two guys, who carried Nalgenes and thick paperbacks, but I wasn?t sure if they had noticed me. Looking bored, I pulled out my iPod and started playing the old school games it has - solitare, brick, parachute. While ?engrossed? in my games, one of the two guys pulled out his iPod and put on his headphones? thus signaling to me that he was indeed aware and watching and interested.

A final tip for all backpacking Bo-Bo?s, or those wishing to pick them up: Beware of backpackers with laptops, even if they flash the secret iPod hand signal- they might be writing about you.

Happy New Year (please, get that stupid stupid Abba song off the loudspeakers and out of my head...)

New Year?s Day, 8:33 pm 2004 That?s the first time I?ve written 2004.

Well, to be honest, I?ve had a couple of hard days this week. My best girlfriends, after margaritas and Mexican food and ?Mona Lisa Smile? in Baltimore, took the train to New York and spent New Year?s Eve partying in Times Square; and I was stuck here with undiminished stacks of papers to grade, missing the first ?hula new year?s extravaganza?.

Last night, New Year?s Eve, I was tired; we made chicken and potatoes, again - a meal we have eaten so often in the last four months, purely out of convenience, that I could hardly force myself to eat four bites before losing my appetite altogether. I talked to Jason on the phone for a while, and went to bed at 10. No ringing in the New Year for me. It was so unreal anyway - here in VN, they celebrate the lunar new year, and the solar new year isn?t a big deal.

Although classes were cancelled for New Year?s Day, I had told my writing class to come to school anyway for a make-up class. At 7a.m., when class begins, I found one student waiting for me. By 7:10 a dozen of my 35 were there. I didn?t really mind - I didn?t want to be there either. We had a nice 45 minute exam review, and then, at the invitation of one of the students, went to sing karaoke.

Karaoke is really popular in Asia - but it?s very different from in the States. There?s no stage - you just rent a room that has a couple of sofas and a tv/karoke machine. So, 8a.m., we crowded into a room and began with Abba?s ?Happy New Year? (which, yes, is from 1989, and is the most depressing new year?s song imaginable). The only American songs they know are mostly old ?classics? by folks like Lionel Ritchie. They also sang some Vietnamese songs.

The karaoke machine gave each singer a ?score,? on a scale of 1-100. After a couple of songs, we started a game: if you made below 85, you had to put 2000 VND (roughly 15 cents) into the hat; if you made an 85-89, you had to put in 1000; but if you got above a 90, you could take out 1000. I?ll go ahead and say that, singing Carole King?s ?So Far Away,? I made a 93.

After karaoke, I came back to my room and chatted with my family on IM, using web-cams for the first time - it was great! It was their New Year?s Eve, and they were up for the traditional film fest. Then, I spent the afternoon playing Uno with some students who came to visit and going shopping with some other students who came to visit.

All this to say, that after a pretty lower than average New Year?s Eve, I had a really happy New Year?s Day. I spent it doing fun, memorable things with my favorite students. So I?m happy. That?s all. Goodnight.

Christmas Day

So you want to know what it?s like to celebrate Christmas in Vietnam, where most people don?t celebrate, and those that do, for some reason, celebrate on the 24th instead of the 25th? You?re in luck, because I feel like telling you.

Sandy and I had a lovely Christmas eve - some student visits, some Mexican food, and ?How the Grinch Stole Christmas?. I stayed up late, but woke up early - around six - even though there was nothing to wake up for. I woke up with a Steven Curtis Chapman song playing in my head - his ?Home for Christmas? - which isn?t actually about going home for Christmas, but about being Home for Christmas. I also woke up with that little kid, ?it?s Christmas morning and I am wide awake three hours early? feeling. I got up and put Sandy?s presents in the living room next to our mini-tree. I checked email and found a gift certificate from my parents for new songs at iTunes - a very wonderful surprise. Then I got back into bed, and like I have always done after waking up too early on Christmas morning, I pulled the novel off my bedside table and started reading. Around 8:30, I was just getting dressed when there was a knock at my door, and I visited briefly with three of my students. One of them came bearing a beautiful, gorgeous, 4x5.5 slip of white paper stating the good news: a package was waiting for me in the post office. So, before presents, or breakfast, or even coffee, Sandy and Manh and I hurried off to the International Relations office to get the appropriate stamps on the paper and then to the post office to pick up the package.

Sandy and I came home, and over coffee and smores pop-tarts, sent by my parents, we opened this lovely Christmas day package from a team of teachers in Changchun, China, who have ?adopted? our little Vinh team. They sent us an amazing box filled with candy and food and cd?s and dvds and many fun things. Mailed in October, it had to be divine intervention that we should receive it on Christmas morning. We also had things from my parents and from Sandy?s sister, and a few presents we?d gotten for each other too (Sandy outdid me as usual, buying me a padded desk chair).

After that, both of us talked to our families. Then, in the 78 degree weather, we put on some spring skirts and walked down the street to the Phuong Dong Hotel - the biggest hotel in town, which actually had a Christmas tree in the lobby - where we ate our Christmas dinner of corn soup, squid, chicken, spring rolls, fried coconut cakes, and rice.

We spent the afternoon watching one of our new DVDs - Sea biscuit. Just when we finished, the power in our building suddenly and inexplicably (but not surprisingly) shut off, leading me to write my first Vietnam haiku:

Candle-lit Christmas
Brought you by Dai Hoc Vinh
The power?s gone out.

and then my second:

Eponine eats roses
Then chases her long grey tail
Tragic heroine.

So now I?m coloring in my strawberry shortcake coloring book and eating goldfish, while listening to the very best of mtv unplugged (currently, Annie Lennox, ?Here comes the rain again?).

Christmas in Vietnam is good.

haikus


haikus about Vietnam by people who live here, taken from a contest currently running:

Dogs barking bloody dogs
I must get some beauty sleep
Come friendly butcher


Seagames finished
Didn't see much of them
too busy working

You buy postcards?
Where you go? Shoe shine?
Help me, my friend

Cold breath cloudy white
Foggy helmet window blur
Danger in the street

Delicate details
please the bright eyes of locals
and fat foreigners

Hanoi, sullen gray.
Ten times ten thousand flags wave
Spring into our hearts.

Vietnam vo dich
Shouts of joy, flags wave, horns blare.
National rapture.

Courageously.
Stepping off the curb -
SPLAT.

Black teeth, silver hair
Plastic stools surround tables.
Green tea, steaming pho.

Welcome our Hotel,
You distinguished foreigner.
Please pay double. (Smiles).

For the want of heat
Bones ache from cold -- no escape
Robin Williams lied

Schedule? Tickets? Huh?
All announced last-minute; yet
SEA Games, somehow, works.

A room of clumsy men
meet on plastic stools again;
It?s just past half ten.

Night, and the moon
My neighbor?s karaoke -
singing out of tune!

Quickly, timing stop.
Crossing the street in Hanoi.
Organised chaos.

we who are alive are always being given over to death


Sometimes I want to write about life, and sometimes I just want to be fully alive. Sometimes the two seem as connected as the two faces of a coin, and sometimes they seem mutually exclusive.

This morning I was reading Paul's second letter to the Corinthians:

"We always carry around in our body His death, so that His life may also be revealed in our body. For we who are alive are always being given over to death for his sake, so that his life may be revealed in our mortal body?

For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal weight of glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal."

We experience a hundred daily deaths; we experience the death of tradition; we experience the present day dying away into the past, taking with it each of the moments we have treasured; we experience some of our own desires unfulfilled, denied; but each of these deaths contributes to his life being revealed in our mortal bodies - and it occurs to me, at christmas time, that this is the miracle of incarnation as well: not only that the word became flesh and made his dwelling among us, but that because of that, his immortal life can appear in our mortal bodies, that life can appear through death, that the wholly other can manifest itself here at all, in any of these ways?

And as I finish here, I re-read and realize that the two faces of a coin are mutually exclusive, and so life and death are opposites and equals at the same time.

Being Foreign at Christmas-time

FYI: My schedule
Teaching until Jan 1
Exams: Dec 30-31, Jan 5-6
Go to Hanoi: Jan 7
Go to Chiang Mai, Thailand, for Wheaton classes and Mid-Year Conference: Jan 9
Return to Vietnam: Feb 12
Second semester begins: Feb 16


At some moments, I realize that regardless of how much I write, or how many photos I take, I can never really draw anyone else into my world clearly enough. Life is Vietnam is so completely other for Americans, so outside of their imaginative faculties, -- and I realize that when people say, in surprise, ?You don?t have heating or AC in your apartment OR in the classrooms?!? or ?You?re not on Christmas break yet? What, they don?t even celebrate Christmas there?? In those moments, I understand the meaning of the word foreign.

But if we think of foreign-ness in that sense, and remember that we are strangers and aliens on this earth, what does that mean for the way our lives should look here? Is it possible that our lives should be so ?other? in comparison to the lives of our friends, that our choices and actions and reactions should be beyond their comprehension, leaving them surprised or mystified as they try to understand the difference?

If that?s one part of what it means to be a stranger, then I readily admit that I don?t live like my citizenship is elsewhere, and in fact I know few people who really live like strangers on this earth. How do we live that way? At the risk of being simplistic, at this point in my life I think the difference should be in love. And loving others doesn?t mean letting them walk all over you; neither does it mean knocking down their doors with tracts. I think it means, first of all, treating them like real humans. Recognizing the infinite value and beauty in each person, the intrinsic worth and depth of a person made in His image. We have a tendency to treat people so impersonally, especially in America, where we are so independent, time-conscious, and goal-oriented.

In Vietnam, it takes longer to get simple things done. One of the reasons is that, for example, when the university needs your passport, you can?t simply go to the International Relations office and drop off your passport. You have to go there, sit, chat, drink tea, ask how the kids are doing, and then, as you?re leaving, say, as if you?d almost forgotten, ?Oh, and here?s my passport for you.?

In America I always go to the ATM to avoid the personal contact with the teller; I tend to be blind to the people behind cash registers, as if they were merely machines; I rarely actually look at my waiters or waitresses. Here, at least to some extent, I?m forced to be personal, to interact, and it?s making me realize that treating people like people, not like machines, is of great importance. It?s the first step in loving.

Vietnam is much more community-oriented than America, where we love our freedom, individuality, and independence. My students often write in their journals about being far from their ?darlings? (boyfriends/girlfriends), or about the difficulties of being far from home, and the point they make over and over again is how sad life is when you don?t have someone to ?share your happinesses and sadnesses?. I can?t imagine any college student in America thinking that way, at least not consciously. We are not ready to admit the necessity of family or community or fellowship in America; too often, that attitude of rootless independence is found in the Body too. Though it?s true that each of our walks are personal, they are not independent of each other. And that love, that completely foreign love that ought to distinguish us from others, ought to begin in the Body, manifesting itself in a kind of deep community that is completely unlike the community found in golf clubs and bridge clubs and offices and sororities. Our community and love should be so much deeper, so much stronger, and yes, so much harder.
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This week Sandy and I are giving Christmas parties - eight of them, one for each of our classes. Our living room is decorated with Christmas lights, two mini Christmas trees, my Christmas stocking, and a few other Christmassy things. The parties are short and simple. We?ve made brownies and ginger snaps, and bought some Vietnamese ?bim-bim? (snacks), and the students gather and eat and talk and sing songs, and then we read the Christmas story from Luke. These parties are the first Christmas parties our students have ever been to, and for some of them, it?s the first time they?ve heard the story. The parties have been fun, and just a little tiring.
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Last night I called Katie - she was still asleep in bed (nine a.m. her time, ten p.m. my time) - and we talked for an hour, and I felt like I had just come home from college for Christmas break and we were laying in her bed talking and talking, like we always do. She makes me laugh so much. Talking to her left me wishing I could come home for a family dinner, to listen to Jimmy and Katie made fun of Dad for e-nun-ci-at-ing clear-ly, to hear Jimmy talk about the blood of a life, to hear Mom say, ?There?s no sympathy left,? to listen to Grandma make random comments, not understanding what anyone else is talking about, to fall out of my chair laughing, to go watch the Return of the King with John and David.

Housecleaning


Just in case you were wondering, it is in fact possible to clean and mark papers even when the weather is cold and wet,
even when the water in your building is inexplicably turned off,
even when your nose is dripping like you wish the faucet were dripping,
even when you can?t stop sneezing,
even when the allergy medicine that may or may not help that problem is making you incredibly drowsy,
even when students are continually dropping by,
even when a kitten continually runs around under your feet,
even when you really don?t want to do anything but feel sorry for yourself --
provided you have a few things: loud music (beginning with the indigo girls or pete yorn, for example), instant coffee, and people thinking about you.

At this point I would also like to offer a poem for you. Written by Kathleen Norris, and also called "Housecleaning".

The dreamer descends through the basement to see what was valuable in her inheritance. ?Nor Hall, The Moon and the Virgin

Kneeling in the dust, I recall
the church in Enna, Sicily,
where Ceres and Proserpine reigned
until a pope kicked them out
in the mid-nineteenth century.


This is my Hades, where I find
what the house has eaten.

And Jessica was left with only
the raw, sheer, endless terror
of being alone in the world.

?We are alone, Jessica,? I say aloud;
the whole box of romances must go.


I keep the photograph of a young girl
reading cross-legged
under cottonwoods,
her belly still flat, not yet a fruit
split open, the child shining
in its membrane
like a pomegranate seed.


She ended both their lives,
and no mother?s rage or weeping
could bring them back.
I leave her with the book of fairy tales;
still safe, held fast,
in Sleeping Beauty?s bramble forest.


I could use some sleep.
What I do must be done
each day, in every season,
like liturgy. I pray
to Mary Magdalene, who kept seven demons,
one for each day of the week.
How practical; how womanly.


My barren black cat rubs against my legs.
I think of the barren women
exhorted by the Good Book
to break into song:
we should sing, dear cat,
for the children who will come in our old age.
The cat doesn?t laugh,
but I do. She rolls in dust
as I finish sweeping.


I empty the washer
and gather what I need for the return:
the basket of wet clothes
and a bag of clothespins,
a worn, spring jacket in need of mending.
Then I head upstairs, singing an old hymn.