30 April 2009

Tree of Nations, Family Trees




Today was our last English class for the semester, completing a full year since we opened the doors of the Sudekum Homes ESL classroom. To mark it, we created a fun art project focusing on the beauty of our different heritages (click on images to enlarge) My inspiration was Revelation 22:2:"On each side of the river stood the tree of life . . . And the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations." The result? A tree of nations whose trunk (from bottom to top) is a collage of feet, then hands, then mouths, then noses, then eyes, and finally faces of all ages, colors and shapes. The branches are full of praying people from all cultures. The leaves were decorated by each of our students and volunteers. It was so interesting to observe the unfolding creativity of a group with little prior experience using simple art supplies like decorative paper, scissors and glue, stamps and markers!

We also created a wall full of family trees, that compare the way American and Somali Bantu families name their children. Part of that wall contains posters of the 12 generations of my ancestors, the "Everetts," since they came to America from England around 1630. I happen to belong to the 12th (and last) generation of this branch of Everetts, since the sisters and male cousins didn't produce heirs to the name . . . oh well.

Somali Bantu families aren't concerned with surnames or "Henry the VIIIs"--they had no written birth records until they fled to Kenya, so the way they name their children helps them track their generations quite easily . . . some can quote ten or more generations on both sides! Here's how their names work . . .
1. Choose a first name (maybe, Hawa for a girl, Salah for a boy)
2. The middle name is always the first name of the father (if Farah, she will be Hawa Farah ____; he will will be Salah Farah ___)
3. The last name is always the first name of the grandfather (perhaps, Ali). So . . . little Hawa Farah Ali will always keep her same name, even after she marries. Her brother, Salah Farah Ali , will also keep his same name; and each of his children will become ________ Salah Farah. . . the great-grandfather's name is dropped). Follow?

Neither can most Americans! [Now remember, interculturalists, "different isn't necessarily wrong, it's just . . . different."] After an excruciatingly tedious exercise of changing all 12 generations of the Everett line to their Somali Bantu forms (click on top picture), my name had become Elaine Charles Willard (vs. Elaine Everett Atchison--my parents tried to retain the family name by not giving us a middle name). In the end, my little grandson's name became David David David! The class thought that was hilarious, but don't think a thing about having a child named Mohamed Mohamud Mahamed . . . . oh well, every name is beautiful in it's own way!

16 April 2009

A Half-Century-Old and Still Cooking!

I live in a 10-year-old house, but after five years we had already replaced the microwave oven, the refrigerator, the downstairs and upstairs AC and the hot water heater. How is it possible that my parents' home is 51 years old and they are still using the original 1958 oven made by General Electric? Maybe we should have replaced our brand spanking new appliances with vintage ones!! Better yet, I think I'll order a copy of the 1958 Schoolgirl's Pocketbook and begin with the good horse sense on p. 93 . . .
Oven Chart: simple test for temperature for [electric] ovens . . . place a piece of white kitchen paper in a hot oven for 3 minutes. If the paper is . . .
black ..............................the oven is too hot
deep brown..................... the oven is very hot
golden brown.................. the oven is hot
light brown......................the oven is moderately hot
light biscuit..................... the oven is slow
As Martin Luther King once said, "Progress is neither automatic or inevitable."
[Hope I didn't jinx it . . . I'm sad to report that said oven's heating element cracked in mid July and it finally had to be replaced. Rest in peace, valiant workhorse.]

13 April 2009

A Little Scribble Scrabble

After Easter Sunday worship and a yummy backyard picnic with family and friends, we ended our 10-hour gathering with a rousing game of Speed Scrabble. [Speed Scrabble scraps the board and allows each player to create their own crossword puzzle that can change as the game evolves . . . when a player uses their seven tiles they shout "Take 2" (tiles) until the last tile is used]. The later it got, we started stretching the rules and making up new ways to play. For instance, Story Scrabble: once you've finished your crossword, you have to make up a story using all the words you created. Super Story Scrabble: each person makes up a story using the running list of the most creative words from each game like . . . sublime, cruet, tarnish, zipper, hoaxed, dainty, rotten, jousting, eviction, bilge, vixen, cottage. This morning as I was trying to separate the two sets of tiles we had used, I thought of another variation: Bad Sport Scrabble: using any tiles you want to write a message to people who have a ridiculously large vocabulary and always beat you. But I'm really not competitive . . .

08 April 2009

Spring Break in Texas: Breaking Down Barriers, Cultivating New Ground

Uncanny. Enlightening. Endearing. Three words for my latest experience among the Somali Bantu. Several of my newer English students have migrated to Nashville from Houston, where they were originally resettled in 2004. As a fellow escapee from the 4th most populated city in America, I couldn’t imagine how—or where—a refugee group with such needs could survive in that metropolis! From 1956-1986, my only interaction with the inner city was during graduate school when I was required to drive through the Third Ward on my way to the University of Houston. My modest but safe neighborhood was the stuff “Leave it to Beaver” was made of, including my elementary school at the end of the street.

When visiting my parents in Houston this time, I brought the address one of my English students gave me. I said I would try to visit his elderly parents. After using Google Maps to locate their government subsidized apartments, I gingerly approached my dad about the possibility of driving over to the Second Ward to visit Farah’s parents . . . On Runnels? Not me was the response. I zoomed in a little closer, though he already knew the street names“That area was a shanty town when I worked over there in 1957." Geographical barriers. Security barriers. Social barriers. I dropped the subject as we googled “Myers-Spalti Furniture Manufacturing Company”, assuming that the old buildings where my grandfather had also worked from 1905 until retirement had been torn down . . . nope, still standing with a Texas Historical Marker out front . . . on Runnels Street!

We woke up yesterday, with no real plans before my flight back to Nashville, until breakfast, when Dad suggested that we drive downtown—"We don’t have to get out of the car if it doesn't look safe." My dad is a real native Houstonian, who still knows most of its streets simply by “feel.” Since 1926, he has observed virtually every layer of Houston’s development. He grew up on La Branch Street-- once considered the edge of town, it now cuts right through the downtown skyscrapers. It was fun to hear my parents reminisce as we wound our way through the residential and business district that has dramatically evolved since the Great Depression . . . high rise lofts, electric trolleys, Minute Maid Stadium, and the JP Morgan Chase Tower (tallest in TX).

As we finally approached the "slums" we saw plenty of people carrying bottles in brown wrapping paper or pushing grocery carts; but were struck by how different it looked than what we had envisioned. Other than the Head Start Building and Boys' and Girls' Center on each side of the Administrative Office, Abdi Kawaga's complex looked more like a townhouse community than "the projects" . . . but then we were distracted by some striking red brick buildings. What? Luxury Lofts and Condominiums? A Texas Historical Marker? The utterly transformed Myers-Spalti Furniture Manufaturing Company was . . . next door!

One set of barriers fell, but more would emerge. Language barriers. Cultural barriers. Gender barriers. Generational barriers. My parents wondered what to do and say . . . or not do and not say? We briefly reviewed as we circled the complex and located Apt. 99. We were about to knock on the door, when a young African woman drove up. I asked if she speaks English or knows Mr. Kawaga or my friend, Farah. “Yes. Abdi is my grandfather and Farah is my uncle” Amina smiled, “Can you follow me to my apartment?”
Finally our acquaintance unfolded. We got out of the car just as Farah’s dad strolled up the sidewalk with his thick, hand-carved cane—regal in his embroidered Muslim cap, traditional African skirt, French blue button down and penny loafers! Simultaneously, a tiny, aged-looking grandmother with the cutest smile full of zigzag teeth was greeting us from the tidy little porch. As we entered the home, we removed our shoes, even though Amina insisted that we didn't have to. She translated as introductions were made—we had been expected. Farah had been sure I would come. Before long, Amina's mom, Sitay, came in (she's Farah's sister) with Amina's wide-eyed preschoolers. The air was overflowing with the warmth that is customary between old friends!

The language barriers fell—Farah’s niece is a college student aiming for pharmacy school, and the most fluent Somali Bantu person I’ve met in five years. The cultural barriers fell, though my dad was a little hesitant about the refreshments (little plastic jugs of red or blue juice and a variety pack of Frito Lays chips). Gender barriers fell—the men shook hands, the women hugged and both of Farah’s parents hugged me and kissed my hands as we left! Best of all, generational barriers fell. We were one united circle of children, parents, grandparents and great-grandparents enjoying a Spring morning in the shadow of my Grandaddy Everett’s workplace. One last "coincidence" . . . I've never known where the Somali Bantu refugees were first resettled or attended school in "Space City" . . . "Braeswood area. McNamara Elementary." (Braeswood borders my parents aging suburban neighborhood and McNamara was the little school I attended from 1961-1967)! Ironic. Instructive. Charming. And unforgettable. Isn't that just like God?

02 April 2009

The Gypsy Hombres

Here's a Nashville band really worth checking out . . . click to hear a great sampler of their tracks. One of my favorites is Sweet Sunset Swing . . . this music always lifts my spirits and sparks my imagination! It's Django gypsy jazz with a new twist (as in Django Reignhardt 1910-1953). Both of these links will let you hear why Django was such an influential contributor to jazz and why he so inspired these multi-talented "hombres." If you like what you hear, let's go enjoy them live when they're playing in town!

01 April 2009

Lost in Translation: Why I'm Glad I'm Not Teaching English on April Fool's Day

I've never been very good at April Fool's jokes. As a child, (before caller i.d.), I made a few lame prank phone calls . . . to a funeral home to ask for "Mr. Box" . . . to the zoo to ask for "Mr. Lyon" . . . to the Diamond F Ranch asking for my "NEIGH-bor." Other than that, I've been the victim more than the perpetrator!

Yesterday I taught two English classes and highlighted the last day of March and the first day of April. We practiced writing the dates in numbers . . . 03/31/09 and 04/01/09 . . . but since I don't teach English on Wednesdays, I never bothered to bring up the concept of "All Fools Day". Since we will break next week for Holy Week, I'm preparing a short segment on Easter for my Thursday classes . . . speaking of lost in translation and cultural collisions--that's going to be enough of a challenge for my oral (mostly pre-literate) East African Muslim students! I said "I'm preparing it" (my middle initial should have been P. for Procrastinate), but in the process, I became curious about the origins of April Fool's traditions.

Some say All Fools Day began after the Reformation, when New Year's Day was changed from April 1 to January 1--evidently, the news didn't spread consistently throughout the land, leaving some as "fools" . . . hmm. Actually it probably goes even farther back, because a few years earlier, the Romans often set aside days to play jokes on each other during spring celebrations.

If you're a bit ethnocentric, thinking everything originated in America, you're wrong . . . though early colonists from France, England and Scotland enjoyed sending people on "fools errands" like obtaining a copy of The History of Adam's Grandfather! In England, you're a "noodle" if you get pranked; in France you're the April "fish" if someone tapes a paper fish to your back without your knowledge; Scotland really does it up big--April Fool's Day lasts 48 hours--if you get tricked you're called an April "gawk" (cuckoo bird). Worse, Day 2 is full of pranks involving one's err-- backside . . . can you imagine me explaining that to my ESL classes? Maybe tomorrow's brief explanation of the Easter holy days versus the American Easter holiday won't be as difficult as I thought . . .

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