Cul-de-sac

Yesterday, Eddie - a 37-year-old homeless African-American - was walking towards the shuttle stop with me after my afternoon of volunteering at the homeless reception centre in our neighbourhood (www.cchfp.org). The shuttle was just leaving as we got there so we went into the sitting area of Whole Foods to chat for a while. During our hour of conversation I learnt so much! He just opened up to me way more than when we're at the center in a group.

Sometimes I wonder if my volunteering at this place is really worthwhile, and that afternoon totally justified it again for me: you have to have seemingly meaningless conversations and basically just be present in a given communal area for a certain amount of time in order to "prove yourself" and establish mutual trust before people will really open up to you and your relationships start to become more mutually beneficial.

So Eddie had told me before how he worked in contruction since he was 15 and used to have a nice appartment and three cars; and how one day he just got burnt out from the strenuous physical work and stopped, eventually becoming homeless; and how - now he says - the worst thing is to have nothing to do all day; and how he was going to get another job soon (in fact he has been doing day labour on and off when the weather isn't too bad); but I was never really clear on what was keeping him from getting back to work (except "pereza", as we say in Spanish, which is approximately "laziness"/"just not feeling like doing something" in English).

Of course, talking to a homeless, unemployed person about why they don't have a job is a bit of a delicate subject, but yesterday, during our fascinating conversation about race relations in the USA, the truth came out.

It's simple: since MLK and Malcom X, wages for trades in which African-Americans typically worked (e.g. brick layers) were on the rise (at least matching inflation). It seems like African-Americans had a sort of monopoly over these jobs and they figured out that if they didn't compete too much with each other and all refused to work for a less than a certain amount, their White foremen would just have to comply.

But then the 12 million Latinos came along - more in fact, since that number is only undocumented immigrants! And of course, they would work for less. According to Eddie, they could afford to do this because culturally, they could live more people in one appartment than African-Americans.

And so now, Eddie makes the same $50 a day that he did when he was 15 - and for what?! It's not enough to save up anything after living expenses; it simply replaces the things he has now learned to get for free: food (and not just junk), shelter, even movie passes, apparently! So despite the positive feeling of having had a productive day of work, working is also sort of degrading (most White foremen will pay a White labourer twice what they would an African-American or a Latino) and doesn't offer any benefits to being unemployed here.

That's the way my buddy Eddie told it to me anyhow. It sort of reminds me of the discussions that go on here about jails: if the conditions become too liveable, homeless people will try to get in jail to get off the street...

Gedanken zu Herzogs Rede Aufbruch ins 21. Jahrhundert: Auf Kosten von was?

Herzogs Rede Aufbruch ins 21. Jahrhundert bringt viele Fragen auf: Wie politisch soll der Bundespräsident sein dürfen? Wie kann man ein ganzes Volk ermutigen (wenn es sogar möglich ist)? Wie sehr soll eine Person in einer Autoritätsstellung auf ihrer eigenen Meinung drängen? In diesem Aufsatz werde ich alle diese Fragen erwähnen durch eine Diskussion über einige Herzogs vorgeschlagene Lösungen zur „deutschen Krankheit“.

Gewiss müssen die Bürger eines wirtschaftlich schwachen Landes mehr an die Gesellschaft denken und zu ihrem Wohl arbeiten. Angesichts dessen kann man Herzogs Vorschläge sehr gut verstehen, aber sogar während wirtschaftlich schwerer Zeiten darf man an sich selbst denken, seine eigenen Träume haben.

Also auf Herzogs Vorschlag, dass man nicht nur einen Beruf haben soll oder zu viel Zeit an der Universität verbringen soll, antworte ich, dass ja es insgesamt besser für die Wirtschaft wäre, aber wenn man nur – aber sehr – als Lehrer arbeiten will, wäre es wirklich kein Problem. Gleichfalls, wenn man an der Universität anfängt, ohne zu wissen was man als Beruf machen will – studierend nur wegen Interesse –, ist es auch kein Problem solange man versteht, dass seine Ausbildung ein Aufwand der Gesellschaft ist und man ihn später heimzahlen soll. Vielleicht wird diese Person, nach fünfzehn Jahren Universitätsausbildung einen wunderbaren Wirtschaftsreformplan oder eine Krebskur erfinden.

Kurz glaube ich einfach, dass der Bundespräsident eine respektvolle Stellung hat und damit kann er Viele inspirieren – und er soll das versuchen. Trotzdem kann er auch Träume vernichten und muss er vorsichtig sein, um ein Ziel nicht auf Kosten des Glücks und der Gesundheit der Menschen zu erreichen. Gewiss wurde die Wirtschaft der USA die stärkste der Welt in der zweiten Hälfte des 20. Jahrhunderts, aber wie hat sich das Leben geändert? Vor 1905 haben nur 1% U.S. Amerikaner bis zum 75. Lebensjahr an Depression gelitten; von den nach 1955 Geborenen hatten 6% vor dem Alter von 24 an eine Depression gelitten.1

Schließlich erkläre ich, dass ich nicht andeute, dass ich oder irgendwer anders eine bessere Rede als Herzogs leisten konnte. Ich kenne gar nicht genug den Kontext und die Folgen der Rede, das zu äußern. Ich teile nur einige Grübeleien mit.

Gedanken zu Weizsäckers Rede zum 8. Mai 1985: Schuld und Vergebung

Letztes Semester habe ich einen Kurs über das U.S. amerikanische Gefängnissystem genommen. Als Kanadier war das Interessanteste der Klasse, die Meinungen meiner U.S. amerikanischen Kollegen über Gerechtigkeit lernen zu können. Ich war wirklich erstaunt darüber, wie strafend die Meisten waren. Natürlich tauchen diese Einstellungen nicht aus dem Nichts auf: sie haben ihre Ursache in der Geschichte des Landes.

Im Vergleich mit den U.S.A. hat Deutschland eine ganz andere Geschichte, deswegen ist es keine Überraschung, dass die Einkerkerungsrate fast 10 mal niedriger als in den U.S.A. ist. In der Weizsäcker Rede zum 8. Mai 1985 war ich am meisten beeindruckt von Weizsäckers hoch entwickeltem Verstehen der Bedeutung des Zweiten Weltkrieges für das deutsche Volk, besonders die Schuld, Verantwortlichkeit und Schicksale betreffend.

In der Einleitung der Rede erklärt Weizsäcker, dass, obwohl das Ende des Zweiten Weltkrieges erscheint für die Teilung Deutschlands schuldig zu sein, der Anfang des Krieges dafür verantwortlich ist. Danach kann er beitragen, dass der 8. Mai ja „ein Tage der Befreiung“ war. Trotzdem, wegen des Fehlens der Vollfreiheit für Ostdeutsche, ist der 8. Mai noch kein Tag zum Feiern für Deutsche.

Aber wie ist es dann mit den deutschen Soldaten? Sind sie denn an der Teilung – und so viele andere schreckliche Folgen des Krieges – schuldig? Weizsäcker erklärt die Sache so:
„Die meisten Deutschen hatten geglaubt, für die gute Sache des eigenen Landes zu kämpfen und zu leiden. Und nun sollte sich herausstellen: Das alles war nicht nur vergeblich und sinnlos, sondern es hatte den unmenschlichen Zielen einer verbrecherischen Führung gedient.“

Während der Rede setzt er dem Leser auseinander, dass alle, die mit den Nazis gekämpft haben, unmenschliche Leiden begangen haben und wir sie verantwortlich dafür machen sollen. Jedoch, in Anlehnung an Anne Frank, sichert er dem deutschen Volk zu, dass diese vielen Deutsche nicht übel gesinnt waren und ihnen vergeben werden kann und soll.

Außerdem „ist [Schuld], wie Unschuld, nicht kollektiv, sondern persönlich.“ Daher muss man dem deutschen Volk eben nicht vergeben, sondern nur den verwickelten Personen. Wenn die meisten Deutschen gleicher Meinung mit Weizsäcker über diese Sachen sind, dann wären sie ganz geduldig, rational und versöhnlich. Vielleicht wäre die post-Zweiten-Weltkriegserfahrung sogar stark genug, um die typische Gepflogenheit, 'Kriminelle' wegen eines Ereignisses abzustempeln, zu beseitigen.

Das wäre wirklich eine schöne Folge des Krieges und ich hoffe, dass es wahr ist, aber in Wahrheit weiß ich nicht wie viele dieser Meinung sind. Mindestens war es eine wichtige Tendenz als Weizsäcker diese Rede gehalten hat.

The Great White South

Yesterday, did it ever snow! (Well, it was actually a big mix of snow, slush and rain, but good enough to be called snow here.) I noticed that in the Great White South, they do things a little differently than in the Great White North.

-First, before the snow showed any signs of turning to rain, several people were using umbrellas, presumably to keep their hairdos all perfect. Others were sporting ever-so-cool flip-flops.

-The university's response was quite amusing: loads of salt were sprinkled on top of the melting slush (which was all gone by morning), and instead of mini-tractor-snowplough things to clear the sidewalks, they hald mini sweeping-mashines that are used in the Great White North to clear the sand in the spring.

Oh those crazy Great White Southerners!

Simply Delicious

The other day in meal hall, they had steamed quinoa with (uncooked) sliced granny smith apples and dried cranberries - all locally grown organic and without any goopy MSG sauce. Sure they've got a bit more a budget here, but really, would that be so hard to reproduce at Mount Allison or anywhere else?

Stories from Sackville, Part VI: Cottage Country

Unlike in Ontario, cottages aren't very popular in the Maritimes. There's nothing to escape from here.

Stories from Sackville, Part V: Belonging

Looking out the window on the train from Sackville to DC (via Montreal and NYC) I'm filled with such a sad sense of leaving the place where I belong most. Every birch and pine, the old farms and fields, the ponds and marshlands, the birds, the snow, the churches and little white Maritime house, the hilly landscape and majestic dead trees, the empty winding roads, the villages – seen in their entirety from the train and understood as a single entity –, the cows and horses, the bilingual signs, the red mud of the Bay of Fundy and the simple bridges that span across it – all these things seem to tear a piece out of me as I pass by them, holding them ransom until my return. And what about all the people? And Sackville? They've definitely taken their share too.

Of course, I've left parts of myself behind in several other places, which makes it really heartwarming to return there as well, but I think there's more of me in Sackville than anywhere else. That's why I'd say it's where I belong most; it's where I'm most complete.

Stories from Sackville, Part IV: What's in It for Me

On the train to Sackville from Montreal, the attendant asked for two volunteers whom she could show how to open the door in case of emergency. After a couple minutes of begging, she resigned herself to showing only the one person who volunteered. After the “training” she put a sticky note with “AB” for “able body” at the volunteer's spot.

When I got onto the train from Sackville to Montreal, the attendant immediately put the “AB” note above my seat. Five minutes later, she came and “asked” if she could show me the procedure. This Maritimer rightfully knew that on a train full of other Maritimers, whomever she asked would be more than willing to help.

Stories from Sackville, Part III: Lunch with Mr. President

Last spring, when the announcement went around campus that I had been awarded a Killam Fellowship, my friend the university President emailed me a message of congratulations – addressed to “Nico” – inviting me to lunch. We tried to work things out, but I was simply too busy touring with the university's bilingual theatre troupe, Tintamarre.

So, when I decided to go to Sackville for the last week of my winter break (the first week of classes at Mount Allison) I wrote Dr. Campbell to see if he wanted to go for a run together – yes, he is an avid runner, even in the winter. He replied that he was busy with all sorts of conferences and things that week but that I should call him at his home when I arrived on Sunday to arrange a coffee date that evening.

I called a couple of times but couldn't catch him in. The third time, I left a message. I didn't get a call back so I assumed he was just too busy and that we missed our only chance.

Thursday night, I bumped into him and his wife on the street and he asked why I hadn't called. He hadn't received my message. We arranged to have lunch the next day. We went to Joey's, a nice Italian restaurant, had beer, the lunch special and coffee, and chatted for well over an hour about my experience, travelling and living abroad, Mount Allison politics, Canada-US relations, etc. all the while bringing peers and professors whom both of us always knew.

His treat.

Stories from Sackville, Part II: Fame and Fortune

During my five days in Sackville, I was continually thinking of how I could explain what was so special about that place, why I was so happy to be there. To someone at American University or from any larger city, this is what I would say.

After one or two semesters at Mount Allison, you're basically guaranteed to be a celebrity. This becomes particularly obvious after spending some time abroad. From the moment I arrived at the train station in Sackville to the moment I got onto the train back to DC, all I did was chat (in a real, not virtual sense) with dozens of people who all knew me: my hometown, my program, my extra-curriculars, my interests, my family, etc. Without any pre-arranged meetings, I easily saw over thirty of my closest friends: peers, profs, staff, friends at the nursing home, friends at the Special Populations Program, and other community members. Breakfast was the only meal I ever had alone.

Literally, every day, I would get up, have breakfast, go wander the town and campus and wait to be accosted. This is by no means an exceptional treatment; the same would happen to anyone visiting or returning to Sackville after any “prolonged” time away. Moreover, I sometimes noticed my friends first and quickly showed them how special they are to me. Honestly, I couldn't be any happier to see someone, even if they were famous by popular standards and I couldn't be any more flattered by all those excited to see me, even if there were the typical masses that greet “real” celebrities.

But that's just an explanation for city folks. For you confused hillbillies who aren't quite sure what I'm getting at, in laymen terms we say that there's a beautiful community in Sackville.

Stories from Sackville, Part I: Arriving in Sackville

After arriving at the train station in Sackville and chatting with a couple of friends who had come to meet others arriving by train, I made my way over to the house where I would be staying. As I was going down the street – ecstatic – I heard a whistling sound behind me; so I turned to see who it was, but there was no one there. After looking a little more closely, I saw the birds in the trees. You can nearly always hear them when you're outside in Sackville. This takes a little getting used to after a few months in DC.

Just before arriving at the house, I came across an older man shovelling snow. Not only did he greet me, but he also told me all about his time working as a janitor at Mount Allison, we talked about the friends I was staying with – he had just been to a little good-bye party at their place for one of them who is on an exchange in New Zealand this semester – and all sorts of other things for nearly a hour.

Oh Sackville!