#19 Insignificant Acts ~ Sighting
All she wanted from me was a book.
Her people in Africa are caught in a brutal civil war. The rebel leader gathers his army by kidnapping children, terrorizing his own people. The government is only too glad to repress the population brutally in response--glad for an excuse to go after this tribe. This is my closest view of such struggles, though I know they are happening all over the world. She sits in my kitchen, here for a visit, tired, discouraged. People don't sleep in their beds, seeking rather the safety of the bush. My bed is safe, my life orderly, my food secure--I have more of everything than I need. I want to do something dramatic, something that could even out the differences in our circumstances--and all she wants from me is a book.
It is a book on the history of the Acholi before 1800, maybe the only book in existence devoted to her people's story. "If we'd had a written language we would have been able to pass more down. Maybe if we understand where we've come from we can change the situation."
How can a book stand against such forces of destruction? It seems like the thinnest of threads, the faintest of hopes. But this is what she wants, and she doesn't have a credit card. Of course I will help her get this book.
Luckily it was published by the University of Pennsylvania. I call the bookstore. Not in stock. I call the publishing house. Out because of the storm. I call back later, going through interminable preliminaries before hearing that it is out of print and unavailable. Uneasily, I try our old home computer; I have never shopped on line. I am nervous and confused by the busyness of the screen--find the book, but can't seem to register to buy it, am deterred by a window cautioning that I am about to send sensitive information through vulnerable airwaves. It's like pouring time into a black hole. Finally I give up. I can't order the book. The one thing she asked of me, the one thing that seemed too utterly insignificant, but was available to me because of my privileged access to the systems of advanced technology, I can't do. I weep.
She calls to inquire. I knew she would. She is tenacious. (How else could she have built a school of 1500, starting with a handful of war orphans under a tree?) I say I will try the more powerful computer at work. I go in early, struggle again, and finally succeed. Almost giddy, I order five copies from bookstores all over the country. (How many are out there? Have I cornered the market?) She is pleased--not surprised--and impatient for them to arrive. But now the delay is out of my hands.
They start to come in. She fingers a book lovingly, talks of having copies at the library of her school, giving them out in her extended family. She wonders how many I could buy for her, at what price. (She would definitely corner the market if she had the means.) Her hope has been assaulted so many times; this is one way forward that has not been blocked. Her eyes gleam with purpose.
I wonder if it is even a good book. What, in the early history of her tribe, collected by an American ethnographer, will make a difference for the future? But she reads, and talks about it, about names she recognizes, movement from place to place that has meaning. There is something here for her.
It is so small. I cry for her people, her country, her continent. I've done what she asked. I'm glad. At the same time I can hardly stand to be making such a pitiful contribution. I remember, and am comforted by, the words of my friend Walter Wink: We must let all the pain of the world pass through us. But we must not attempt to mend it all ourselves. Rather, we must do what we are called to-and not one thing more. Then we can, very modestly, anticipate the impossible.
I have been called--pretty directly through my friend--to put this book in her hands. It is not enough. In the face of the need it is totally, ridiculously, insignificant. But my lesson is to remember that it is enough for me, for this moment. As I do this one small thing to the best of my ability, even as I cry for all that is wrong and all that is needed, I am keeping open my path forward. It is hard. But living in this world is hard-and not taking it in is harder.
Pamela Haines
Philadelphia, 11/03
Sighting
As a species
the mail carrier
is a loner
marking his own territory
making his rounds
in solitary self-sufficiency.
Yet here was a pair
male and female
each marked with that distinctive
uniform and bag
moving side by side
down the street
up steps together
and back down
as if inseparable.
A remarkable sighting
An invitation
to turn what we know
on its head--
to imagine
the impossible.
Her people in Africa are caught in a brutal civil war. The rebel leader gathers his army by kidnapping children, terrorizing his own people. The government is only too glad to repress the population brutally in response--glad for an excuse to go after this tribe. This is my closest view of such struggles, though I know they are happening all over the world. She sits in my kitchen, here for a visit, tired, discouraged. People don't sleep in their beds, seeking rather the safety of the bush. My bed is safe, my life orderly, my food secure--I have more of everything than I need. I want to do something dramatic, something that could even out the differences in our circumstances--and all she wants from me is a book.
It is a book on the history of the Acholi before 1800, maybe the only book in existence devoted to her people's story. "If we'd had a written language we would have been able to pass more down. Maybe if we understand where we've come from we can change the situation."
How can a book stand against such forces of destruction? It seems like the thinnest of threads, the faintest of hopes. But this is what she wants, and she doesn't have a credit card. Of course I will help her get this book.
Luckily it was published by the University of Pennsylvania. I call the bookstore. Not in stock. I call the publishing house. Out because of the storm. I call back later, going through interminable preliminaries before hearing that it is out of print and unavailable. Uneasily, I try our old home computer; I have never shopped on line. I am nervous and confused by the busyness of the screen--find the book, but can't seem to register to buy it, am deterred by a window cautioning that I am about to send sensitive information through vulnerable airwaves. It's like pouring time into a black hole. Finally I give up. I can't order the book. The one thing she asked of me, the one thing that seemed too utterly insignificant, but was available to me because of my privileged access to the systems of advanced technology, I can't do. I weep.
She calls to inquire. I knew she would. She is tenacious. (How else could she have built a school of 1500, starting with a handful of war orphans under a tree?) I say I will try the more powerful computer at work. I go in early, struggle again, and finally succeed. Almost giddy, I order five copies from bookstores all over the country. (How many are out there? Have I cornered the market?) She is pleased--not surprised--and impatient for them to arrive. But now the delay is out of my hands.
They start to come in. She fingers a book lovingly, talks of having copies at the library of her school, giving them out in her extended family. She wonders how many I could buy for her, at what price. (She would definitely corner the market if she had the means.) Her hope has been assaulted so many times; this is one way forward that has not been blocked. Her eyes gleam with purpose.
I wonder if it is even a good book. What, in the early history of her tribe, collected by an American ethnographer, will make a difference for the future? But she reads, and talks about it, about names she recognizes, movement from place to place that has meaning. There is something here for her.
It is so small. I cry for her people, her country, her continent. I've done what she asked. I'm glad. At the same time I can hardly stand to be making such a pitiful contribution. I remember, and am comforted by, the words of my friend Walter Wink: We must let all the pain of the world pass through us. But we must not attempt to mend it all ourselves. Rather, we must do what we are called to-and not one thing more. Then we can, very modestly, anticipate the impossible.
I have been called--pretty directly through my friend--to put this book in her hands. It is not enough. In the face of the need it is totally, ridiculously, insignificant. But my lesson is to remember that it is enough for me, for this moment. As I do this one small thing to the best of my ability, even as I cry for all that is wrong and all that is needed, I am keeping open my path forward. It is hard. But living in this world is hard-and not taking it in is harder.
Pamela Haines
Philadelphia, 11/03
Sighting
As a species
the mail carrier
is a loner
marking his own territory
making his rounds
in solitary self-sufficiency.
Yet here was a pair
male and female
each marked with that distinctive
uniform and bag
moving side by side
down the street
up steps together
and back down
as if inseparable.
A remarkable sighting
An invitation
to turn what we know
on its head--
to imagine
the impossible.
posted by Pamela Haines | 6:12 PM
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