© 2010 Karen Van Fossan
You should have been there! Or maybe you were.
“How to Make a Play (a Really Good One)” has profoundly influenced my life. I am left with a sense of true joy and ongoing inspiration.
The play itself – “How to Make a Play (a Really Good One)” – came as the capstone to a very brief theater residency with kids, teens, and adults, many of whom experience some type of disability. We wrote the play ourselves, or, more aptly put, we wrote it together.
The show included hand drumming, cats with many ears, a monkey who’s really a spy, cops who look like wolves, bad guys who wear disguises (and sell bananas on the side), a Donald-Duck-Elmo combination, and much more.
We told the story of all the things people like in a play – from music to costumes to mystery to a little imagination. In the end, we revealed the only two things we really need for a play: “Us” and, of course, “you,” the audience.
For the grand finale, the audience joined us as the body of a dragon in a twisting, turning, roaring Dragon Parade.
To this minute, many minutes since the play’s final curtain, I feel overcome with a sense of human possibility for genuine transformation of our world. This feeling is not new exactly; what’s noteworthy for me is how consistently I’m transformed while working with groups of folks who experience disabilities (as well as those who don’t).
Had none of the people in this recent group had any developmental disability, the show would certainly have been different – in ways we can only guess. But it would not have been better.
To have suffered a brain injury or complications at birth – surely these factors change a person. But can we say the person is reduced? Just as those who experience blindness are often renowned for their acute sense of hearing and kinesthetic awareness – so, too, could those who experience developmental and other disabilities be renowned for their keenly developed complementary skills.
I don’t mean to deny hardship or struggle, but to honor the resiliency and personal excellence that exist beyond and even because of this struggle. In this group in particular, I witnessed, among other things, courage, transparency, patience, profound creativity, and extraordinary improvisational spontaneity. This is how the bodies of eight performers could conceive of and construct the shape of one gobbling turkey, for instance – and how, even during the show, performers could invent new and hilarious lines and interactions.
In this group, I also saw a longing that I see in every class I have ever worked with – the longing to be a star of one’s own making, be that funny or dramatic, quiet or unhinged, wordy or succinct.
The performers were stars, each in their own right, not by muting their personal excellence, but by putting it in service of the collaborative whole. By being generous with each other, we could be generous with ourselves. In giving each player the chance to be a star, we co-created a culture in which we all could be stars. The gift we gave was returned to us, something like love – in fact, exactly like love.
Our ways of bringing love to the world may differ, one to the other. But the willingness to love may well be the greatest ability we possess.
As far as I’m concerned, that’s how we make a really good play.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Censored in Fargo
© 2010 Karen Van Fossan
It's not the worst thing that ever happened to me – or “The Group That Opened the Box,” as a matter of fact.
Still, the girls in “The Group” were shocked. Disappointed. Angry.
They had planned to share pieces of the play we wrote together. They had planned to tell stories of teenage sexuality, BFFs, pregnancy, and sexual orientation – all with a glimmer in their eyes.
But then I got the call.
Our interview on “The Flag,” AM 1100, had been cancelled.
In fact, all the guests who'd been invited to reflect on women's lives and women's struggles – they were uninvited, too. No more show on women's issues. No more show on girls' desires.
Cancelled. Uninvited. These are euphemisms I use for the real situation:
We were censored.
By now, this is old news. It happened last Friday night, the evening before The Group's rousing performance at MSU-Moorhead.
I'm late getting the word out because of an unrelated event.
Our beloved family cat, Butterfly, died on Sunday morning. I mention Butterfly now, not because I'm asking for your compassion (though, if you have some, we would welcome it). I mention this because her death has shown me the nature of censorship itself.
In mourning the death of Butterfly, we long for many things – to feel the sweet coarseness of her fur again, to see her mottled face again, to hear her scrappy voice again.
Because our cat has died, we can no longer hear her voice.
To the living at least, the dead appear to be voiceless.
When we hear each other's voices, we affirm that we are alive. But when we are censored, when our voices are made voiceless, something within us dies.
“Ignore it, and it will go away,” as the saying goes. Ignore us, and we die, at least a little.
It is long past time for girls' voices to be revived.
It's not the worst thing that ever happened to me – or “The Group That Opened the Box,” as a matter of fact.
Still, the girls in “The Group” were shocked. Disappointed. Angry.
They had planned to share pieces of the play we wrote together. They had planned to tell stories of teenage sexuality, BFFs, pregnancy, and sexual orientation – all with a glimmer in their eyes.
But then I got the call.
Our interview on “The Flag,” AM 1100, had been cancelled.
In fact, all the guests who'd been invited to reflect on women's lives and women's struggles – they were uninvited, too. No more show on women's issues. No more show on girls' desires.
Cancelled. Uninvited. These are euphemisms I use for the real situation:
We were censored.
By now, this is old news. It happened last Friday night, the evening before The Group's rousing performance at MSU-Moorhead.
I'm late getting the word out because of an unrelated event.
Our beloved family cat, Butterfly, died on Sunday morning. I mention Butterfly now, not because I'm asking for your compassion (though, if you have some, we would welcome it). I mention this because her death has shown me the nature of censorship itself.
In mourning the death of Butterfly, we long for many things – to feel the sweet coarseness of her fur again, to see her mottled face again, to hear her scrappy voice again.
Because our cat has died, we can no longer hear her voice.
To the living at least, the dead appear to be voiceless.
When we hear each other's voices, we affirm that we are alive. But when we are censored, when our voices are made voiceless, something within us dies.
“Ignore it, and it will go away,” as the saying goes. Ignore us, and we die, at least a little.
It is long past time for girls' voices to be revived.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Ode to the Unhappily Employed
© 2010 Karen Van Fossan
I just decided to apply a little grade school math to my adult life. The math problem:
If 15 million Americans are unemployed, and the unemployment rate is approximately 10%, how many Americans are currently satisfied with their work?
Maybe that's not a fair question. Second try:
If 15 million Americans are unemployed, and the unemployment rate is approximately 10%, how many Americans are currently wondering what the meaning of life could possibly be?
Not fair, either. Last try:
If 15 million Americans are unemployed, and the unemployment rate is approximately 10%, how many Americans currently have employment?
That one, I can answer. Approximately 135 million Americans have jobs.
I don't know, though, how many of them like these jobs or contemplate the meaning of life on a regular basis. What I know is this:
Since joining Facebook, I've noticed that a good number of my Friends (quite justly) grumble about their daily work situations.
Their complaints:
Coworkers are getting on their last nerve.
The work is boring.
The work takes them away from their cute, little kids.
So, while approximately 10% of us are unemployed, many of the rest of us are unhappily employed. Does this seem like the American Dream to you?
Anyway.
Having worked in many settings, in many cities, I've realized that the workplace can be one of the most difficult places to put our dreams into action – or, as Mohandas Gandhi once said, to “be the change we wish to see in the world.”
The workplace seems conspiratorially designed to put your morals to the test – like an undercover cop trying to sell you drugs. But in this case, it's an undercover cop annoying you, boring you, and keeping you from your children.
Unfortunately, I don't have any solutions, not really. “Follow your bliss” is great, but it's too self-absorbed for me. I vote for something more like, “Let's support each other to follow our blisses.” (If blisses is a word.)
All I have to offer is this:
A translation. The translation of our ideals into workplace realities. The translation of what we hold dear into what we face at work.
Ideal Number One:
“Be the change you wish to see in the world.”
Workplace Translation:
“If you want something done right, you got to do it yourself.”
Ideal Number Two:
“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”
Workplace Translation:
“Two can play at that game.”
Ideal Number Three:
“The arc of the universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”
Workplace Translation:
“I live for weekends.”
Ideal Number Four:
“The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched.”
In Workplace Translation:
“You break it, you bought it.”
If you have more translations, please feel free to share them.
Until then, let's keep dreamin'.
I just decided to apply a little grade school math to my adult life. The math problem:
If 15 million Americans are unemployed, and the unemployment rate is approximately 10%, how many Americans are currently satisfied with their work?
Maybe that's not a fair question. Second try:
If 15 million Americans are unemployed, and the unemployment rate is approximately 10%, how many Americans are currently wondering what the meaning of life could possibly be?
Not fair, either. Last try:
If 15 million Americans are unemployed, and the unemployment rate is approximately 10%, how many Americans currently have employment?
That one, I can answer. Approximately 135 million Americans have jobs.
I don't know, though, how many of them like these jobs or contemplate the meaning of life on a regular basis. What I know is this:
Since joining Facebook, I've noticed that a good number of my Friends (quite justly) grumble about their daily work situations.
Their complaints:
Coworkers are getting on their last nerve.
The work is boring.
The work takes them away from their cute, little kids.
So, while approximately 10% of us are unemployed, many of the rest of us are unhappily employed. Does this seem like the American Dream to you?
Anyway.
Having worked in many settings, in many cities, I've realized that the workplace can be one of the most difficult places to put our dreams into action – or, as Mohandas Gandhi once said, to “be the change we wish to see in the world.”
The workplace seems conspiratorially designed to put your morals to the test – like an undercover cop trying to sell you drugs. But in this case, it's an undercover cop annoying you, boring you, and keeping you from your children.
Unfortunately, I don't have any solutions, not really. “Follow your bliss” is great, but it's too self-absorbed for me. I vote for something more like, “Let's support each other to follow our blisses.” (If blisses is a word.)
All I have to offer is this:
A translation. The translation of our ideals into workplace realities. The translation of what we hold dear into what we face at work.
Ideal Number One:
“Be the change you wish to see in the world.”
Workplace Translation:
“If you want something done right, you got to do it yourself.”
Ideal Number Two:
“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”
Workplace Translation:
“Two can play at that game.”
Ideal Number Three:
“The arc of the universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”
Workplace Translation:
“I live for weekends.”
Ideal Number Four:
“The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched.”
In Workplace Translation:
“You break it, you bought it.”
If you have more translations, please feel free to share them.
Until then, let's keep dreamin'.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
The Piano Dog, Technology, and Telepathy
© 2010 Karen Van Fossan
Before I sing the praises of modern communication technology (which I'm just about to do), I want to make a confession. Or maybe two.
I am a born optimist. In fact, in high school, I wrote an entire paper arguing for an optimistic reading of Lord of the Flies -- that vastly depressing book. (I got an A.)
I also know that I gravitate toward the outlier's position. It's not that I'll call the sky red if you call the sky blue. But I am behooved (I've never known quite why) to see many perspectives on an issue. The closest I ever got to discarding my deeply-rooted feminism, for instance, was during my first Women's Studies course in college. (My feminism is safe and sound today.)
In other words, after hearing much talk -- and much wisdom -- about how modern technology drives us apart, it's as if I can't help seeing the ways it pulls us together.
First example:
My dear friend Julie is away. Just this very minute, I got an email message from Julie. “Miss you!!!!” it said. Of course, I felt happy and connected, reading her message.
Second example:
The Adventures of “Piano Dog”
by Us
Once upon a time, there was a dog who loved pianos. The only problem was, he had two left feet. Now this created a few problems, namely problems with rhythm. He would try to practice arpeggios, but only to find that he didn't know what they were. He needed someone to help, so he went on a quest, and on the way, saw another dog – and he had two right feet! Except this dog loved to play the triangle. And so, under the full moon, the first dog and the second dog set out in search of a fun-lovin' coyote [KY-oat] who lived in the Sonoran Desert in Arizona. This coyote lived in a silver bullet trailer, and inside of it, she kept a recording studio and scissors for left-handed dogs – as she had been an orthopedist in a previous life, and she collected prosthetic dog legs in various sizes, shapes, and colors. Imagine the faces of those two canine vagabonds when they realized all this potential for making a band! All they needed was a really good band name. But that would have to wait because out of the sky came a...a...a...Could it be?...well...Maybe...or no...I think...wait! Wait! Yes...definitely...it's a...
The story isn't finished, because we haven't finished writing it -- we being “Us,” a combination of total strangers and long-time friends. I posted the first sentence or so on Facebook. From there, the story was picked up by Marilee in Bismarck, Debi in Mandan, Lisa in Fargo, Laura in Chicago, Sara in Georgia, and so on.
Third example:
My partner's distant cousin Ryan (who found our family through electronic networking) recently asked this question on Facebook: “When you were in high school or college language class, were you forced to pick an authentic name to be called in that class? What was it?”
So far, the responses have been Ana, Chloe, Renee, Ursula, Anya, Anja, Juliet (that was mine), Noel, Elena, Heidi, Jeanne, and Perla.
Suddenly, my strange and vulnerable experiences in high school French class became the stuff of connection across the miles.
Fourth and final example:
A couple of weeks ago, I posted a poem to my blog. Maggy in Chicago posted a poem in response, Kathleen in Oregon posted a reply to Maggy's poem, and so on. Using modern technology, we engaged in an age-old art -- telling our life stories and getting feedback.
Having lived in the Western world all my life, these exchanges are as close as I've ever come to sharing winter tales around a fire. Never having lived in a such a circular culture, I relish any coming together of our stories. I see this as a return to our human (narrative) roots.
In my field, Dance/Movement Therapy, there is a belief that humanity (and perhaps other species as well) need to be witnessed -- seen, heard, noticed, and acknowledged. We need this even more than we need to be understood. Not only that, we need to let others know we've witnessed them.
So, when my old friend Michele posts, “Thanks for a super fun NYE!” – my instinct is to reply, “That was one of my favorite New Years Eves ever!” She lets me know she has seen me, I let her know I have seen her. (In the world of Facebook, we also know we are seen by other loved ones and friends.) In these ways, we co-create community.
Really, though, I'm not singing the praises of technology, as much as humanity itself. Like chimps, baboons, gorillas, and bonobos, we thrive when we are connected to one another. While technology drives us apart, we also turn it around to pull us together.
Now for my secret theory:
Generally, people in indigenous cultures say they can rely on psychic communication more than people in technological cultures do. But could it be that telepathy and communication technology have something in common? Both are forms of sharing information across great distances, the transfer of information takes place in largely invisible realms, and the more you think about it, the more incredible it seems that it actually works.
Is it possible that communication technology is like training for telepathy? Soon, even before I check that email, post, or comment – I'll know my friends love me. And they'll know I love them, too.
Before I sing the praises of modern communication technology (which I'm just about to do), I want to make a confession. Or maybe two.
I am a born optimist. In fact, in high school, I wrote an entire paper arguing for an optimistic reading of Lord of the Flies -- that vastly depressing book. (I got an A.)
I also know that I gravitate toward the outlier's position. It's not that I'll call the sky red if you call the sky blue. But I am behooved (I've never known quite why) to see many perspectives on an issue. The closest I ever got to discarding my deeply-rooted feminism, for instance, was during my first Women's Studies course in college. (My feminism is safe and sound today.)
In other words, after hearing much talk -- and much wisdom -- about how modern technology drives us apart, it's as if I can't help seeing the ways it pulls us together.
First example:
My dear friend Julie is away. Just this very minute, I got an email message from Julie. “Miss you!!!!” it said. Of course, I felt happy and connected, reading her message.
Second example:
The Adventures of “Piano Dog”
by Us
Once upon a time, there was a dog who loved pianos. The only problem was, he had two left feet. Now this created a few problems, namely problems with rhythm. He would try to practice arpeggios, but only to find that he didn't know what they were. He needed someone to help, so he went on a quest, and on the way, saw another dog – and he had two right feet! Except this dog loved to play the triangle. And so, under the full moon, the first dog and the second dog set out in search of a fun-lovin' coyote [KY-oat] who lived in the Sonoran Desert in Arizona. This coyote lived in a silver bullet trailer, and inside of it, she kept a recording studio and scissors for left-handed dogs – as she had been an orthopedist in a previous life, and she collected prosthetic dog legs in various sizes, shapes, and colors. Imagine the faces of those two canine vagabonds when they realized all this potential for making a band! All they needed was a really good band name. But that would have to wait because out of the sky came a...a...a...Could it be?...well...Maybe...or no...I think...wait! Wait! Yes...definitely...it's a...
The story isn't finished, because we haven't finished writing it -- we being “Us,” a combination of total strangers and long-time friends. I posted the first sentence or so on Facebook. From there, the story was picked up by Marilee in Bismarck, Debi in Mandan, Lisa in Fargo, Laura in Chicago, Sara in Georgia, and so on.
Third example:
My partner's distant cousin Ryan (who found our family through electronic networking) recently asked this question on Facebook: “When you were in high school or college language class, were you forced to pick an authentic name to be called in that class? What was it?”
So far, the responses have been Ana, Chloe, Renee, Ursula, Anya, Anja, Juliet (that was mine), Noel, Elena, Heidi, Jeanne, and Perla.
Suddenly, my strange and vulnerable experiences in high school French class became the stuff of connection across the miles.
Fourth and final example:
A couple of weeks ago, I posted a poem to my blog. Maggy in Chicago posted a poem in response, Kathleen in Oregon posted a reply to Maggy's poem, and so on. Using modern technology, we engaged in an age-old art -- telling our life stories and getting feedback.
Having lived in the Western world all my life, these exchanges are as close as I've ever come to sharing winter tales around a fire. Never having lived in a such a circular culture, I relish any coming together of our stories. I see this as a return to our human (narrative) roots.
In my field, Dance/Movement Therapy, there is a belief that humanity (and perhaps other species as well) need to be witnessed -- seen, heard, noticed, and acknowledged. We need this even more than we need to be understood. Not only that, we need to let others know we've witnessed them.
So, when my old friend Michele posts, “Thanks for a super fun NYE!” – my instinct is to reply, “That was one of my favorite New Years Eves ever!” She lets me know she has seen me, I let her know I have seen her. (In the world of Facebook, we also know we are seen by other loved ones and friends.) In these ways, we co-create community.
Really, though, I'm not singing the praises of technology, as much as humanity itself. Like chimps, baboons, gorillas, and bonobos, we thrive when we are connected to one another. While technology drives us apart, we also turn it around to pull us together.
Now for my secret theory:
Generally, people in indigenous cultures say they can rely on psychic communication more than people in technological cultures do. But could it be that telepathy and communication technology have something in common? Both are forms of sharing information across great distances, the transfer of information takes place in largely invisible realms, and the more you think about it, the more incredible it seems that it actually works.
Is it possible that communication technology is like training for telepathy? Soon, even before I check that email, post, or comment – I'll know my friends love me. And they'll know I love them, too.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Strangers of War
© 2009 by Karen Van Fossan
Strangers of War
There was a woman whose name
I have never known.
The syllables of her name would have been sharp against my tongue,
had I ever tried to pronounce them,
which I did not.
The woman was not my friend.
Her God was not my friend –
nor her sisters, nor her brothers, nor the children of her home.
She rose from soil I have never seen,
singing a prayer
I will never sing,
wiping the hands of children I do not recognize.
The secrets in her eyes will never
flash upon my eyes –
holding hope, like laughter,
in our throats.
The woman was not my friend –
nor her sisters.
Her brothers held their arms against
my brothers.
My neighbors sent soldiers
across the sea
to fight her neighbors.
We were enemies, they said.
She was my enemy, they said.
Never, not for a moment, did I believe them.
The syllables of my name would have been sharp against her tongue.
And yet –
I miss her.
Strangers of War
There was a woman whose name
I have never known.
The syllables of her name would have been sharp against my tongue,
had I ever tried to pronounce them,
which I did not.
The woman was not my friend.
Her God was not my friend –
nor her sisters, nor her brothers, nor the children of her home.
She rose from soil I have never seen,
singing a prayer
I will never sing,
wiping the hands of children I do not recognize.
The secrets in her eyes will never
flash upon my eyes –
holding hope, like laughter,
in our throats.
The woman was not my friend –
nor her sisters.
Her brothers held their arms against
my brothers.
My neighbors sent soldiers
across the sea
to fight her neighbors.
We were enemies, they said.
She was my enemy, they said.
Never, not for a moment, did I believe them.
The syllables of my name would have been sharp against her tongue.
And yet –
I miss her.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Thank You
Thank you for all the kind and hopeful words I've received since posting my letter to President Obama. Since my last post, CODEPINK Women for Peace picked up my letter and ran it on their Pink Tank blog. (Somehow, I got the whole thing down to 600 words.) The comments on Pink Tank are pretty interesting, and you might be interested to read them.
Peace to you,
Karen
Peace to you,
Karen
Monday, December 7, 2009
Dear President Obama From a Neighbor
Written upon the President's Announcement of Another Surge of Troops in Afghanistan
December 2, 2009
© 2009 Karen Van Fossan
Dear President Barack Obama,
You may not be aware of this, but you and I have plenty of things in common. True, I've never been elected president of the United States, and you've never been elected president of the North Dakota Peace Coalition. But I do hope your tenure as president will be as informative as mine was.
In any case, I'd like to list just four of the things you and I have in common:
1)We have each devoted our time, energy, and heart to the people of Chicago.
2)We have each spoken openly about our vision of a nuclear-weapons free future.
3)We each opposed the Iraq war and occupation from the beginning.
4)We each hold to “hope” as an ideal in the world.
Certainly, you and I don't agree on all political and social matters. I felt immense relief when Chicago's bid to host the 2016 Olympics – and bear its subsequent hardships – was eliminated. Also, when I heard you speak here in North Dakota last April, I was the lone voice boo-ing as you called the war in Afghanistan “the good war.”
I would be mortified if an audience member booed at me, so now, as I write this letter, I feel some compunction to apologize for booing at you. The trouble is, I was not then – and am not now – certain how to be heard by the leaders of my country.
I have called the White House innumerable times to register my concern about your Afghanistan plans. During the weekdays, the phone lines were invariably busy. Over the weekend, the message stated that your mailbox was full. When I did break through the White House telephone traffic, the on-hold message told me that the volunteer operators would answer as soon as they were able.
While on hold, awaiting a volunteer operator, I had time to consider many questions: Why does our White House have so few phone lines? Why does our White House have such limited mailbox space? Why does our White House rely on unpaid volunteers to respond to calls from the American people?
Frankly, I wanted to boo all over again.
And frankly, there are endless reasons why the war in Afghanistan should never be called “the good war.” As you must certainly know, these reasons have names, and these reasons have faces.
Unfortunately, I don't know their names, and I don't recognize their faces. So their stories aren't mine to tell.
What I can tell you is a story of Chicago.
In 2001, my partner and I moved from Chicago's Hyde Park neighborhood (on the south side) to the Rogers Park neighborhood (on the north side). In the middle of this move, on September 11, the World Trade Center in New York was attacked by self-proclaimed terrorists from another country – or countries.
As I was grieving this event, the radio news told of another tragedy. A young girl had been shot to death in the lobby of her apartment building, caught in Chicago's gang crossfire.
I spent many nights hollering into the wind, over gangs and war and violence.
Today, I still grieve, though on December 2, 2009, I have a bit more clarity.
The child who lived on the south side was murdered by a gang. Let's just say this gang was from the north side, where I lived. Certainly, someone in the south-side gang might have known this child, might have grieved for this child. The south-side gang might have declared war against the north side.
This isn't fair, of course. I had nothing to do with the shooting. In fact, I abhorred the shooting. Just because a gang sought refuge in my neighborhood didn't mean that I was giving refuge. I didn't want the gang in my neighborhood. And I certainly didn't want gang warfare.
Similarly, there is a gang known as al Qaeda. Their leader has claimed responsibility for the attacks of September 11. They entered the United States' neighborhood, and they killed people. In doing so, they represented no particular government, no particular country, and hence, no particular people. To attack the country in which they have taken refuge – to harm the innocent people who are their neighbors – is to behave as a gang.
For more than 8 years I have wondered – Is the United States behaving as a gang or a government?
A government could make use of a police force, trained in precision, to find the alleged attackers, bring charges against them, and serve the greater justice. You and I both know that the government of Chicago doesn't have the best reputation, and neither does its police force. But a government, unlike a gang, has a degree of public accountability. By design, it represents the people.
Thankfully, the south side never bombed the north side, no matter whether we harbored an enemy gang. But let's just say the south side had attacked us. Let's say they'd been attacking us for 8 or more years. Let's say, all the while, the south-side folks were growing weary of war.
Then – a voice. A south-side visionary. A person who declares, “Yes, we can!” – even if he borrows that phrase from Delores Huerta of the United Farm Workers.
This south-side visionary speaks of hope, the audacity of hope, a future of promise for the children. He offers the people renewal – of the economy, the environment, international relations. He rails against his predecessors' warring predilections. In the mean time, yes, he does call the north-side war “the good war.” But nobody's perfect, and here is a person who's poised and ready to listen. A leader like this would never drown his people in endless war.
And so he's elected. Of course, he's going to listen. Of course, it will make a difference that 55% of his people want to end the war – win, lose, or otherwise.
But suddenly, this leader's phone is busy. Suddenly, his mailbox is full.
Has he forgotten we're all neighbors?
Has he forgotten “Yes, we can”?
Does he think he was elected to kill people?
This is my greatest fear:
The audacity of hope has truly become an audacity – especially for the children of Afghanistan.
Sincerely,
Karen Van Fossan,
a neighbor
December 2, 2009
© 2009 Karen Van Fossan
Dear President Barack Obama,
You may not be aware of this, but you and I have plenty of things in common. True, I've never been elected president of the United States, and you've never been elected president of the North Dakota Peace Coalition. But I do hope your tenure as president will be as informative as mine was.
In any case, I'd like to list just four of the things you and I have in common:
1)We have each devoted our time, energy, and heart to the people of Chicago.
2)We have each spoken openly about our vision of a nuclear-weapons free future.
3)We each opposed the Iraq war and occupation from the beginning.
4)We each hold to “hope” as an ideal in the world.
Certainly, you and I don't agree on all political and social matters. I felt immense relief when Chicago's bid to host the 2016 Olympics – and bear its subsequent hardships – was eliminated. Also, when I heard you speak here in North Dakota last April, I was the lone voice boo-ing as you called the war in Afghanistan “the good war.”
I would be mortified if an audience member booed at me, so now, as I write this letter, I feel some compunction to apologize for booing at you. The trouble is, I was not then – and am not now – certain how to be heard by the leaders of my country.
I have called the White House innumerable times to register my concern about your Afghanistan plans. During the weekdays, the phone lines were invariably busy. Over the weekend, the message stated that your mailbox was full. When I did break through the White House telephone traffic, the on-hold message told me that the volunteer operators would answer as soon as they were able.
While on hold, awaiting a volunteer operator, I had time to consider many questions: Why does our White House have so few phone lines? Why does our White House have such limited mailbox space? Why does our White House rely on unpaid volunteers to respond to calls from the American people?
Frankly, I wanted to boo all over again.
And frankly, there are endless reasons why the war in Afghanistan should never be called “the good war.” As you must certainly know, these reasons have names, and these reasons have faces.
Unfortunately, I don't know their names, and I don't recognize their faces. So their stories aren't mine to tell.
What I can tell you is a story of Chicago.
In 2001, my partner and I moved from Chicago's Hyde Park neighborhood (on the south side) to the Rogers Park neighborhood (on the north side). In the middle of this move, on September 11, the World Trade Center in New York was attacked by self-proclaimed terrorists from another country – or countries.
As I was grieving this event, the radio news told of another tragedy. A young girl had been shot to death in the lobby of her apartment building, caught in Chicago's gang crossfire.
I spent many nights hollering into the wind, over gangs and war and violence.
Today, I still grieve, though on December 2, 2009, I have a bit more clarity.
The child who lived on the south side was murdered by a gang. Let's just say this gang was from the north side, where I lived. Certainly, someone in the south-side gang might have known this child, might have grieved for this child. The south-side gang might have declared war against the north side.
This isn't fair, of course. I had nothing to do with the shooting. In fact, I abhorred the shooting. Just because a gang sought refuge in my neighborhood didn't mean that I was giving refuge. I didn't want the gang in my neighborhood. And I certainly didn't want gang warfare.
Similarly, there is a gang known as al Qaeda. Their leader has claimed responsibility for the attacks of September 11. They entered the United States' neighborhood, and they killed people. In doing so, they represented no particular government, no particular country, and hence, no particular people. To attack the country in which they have taken refuge – to harm the innocent people who are their neighbors – is to behave as a gang.
For more than 8 years I have wondered – Is the United States behaving as a gang or a government?
A government could make use of a police force, trained in precision, to find the alleged attackers, bring charges against them, and serve the greater justice. You and I both know that the government of Chicago doesn't have the best reputation, and neither does its police force. But a government, unlike a gang, has a degree of public accountability. By design, it represents the people.
Thankfully, the south side never bombed the north side, no matter whether we harbored an enemy gang. But let's just say the south side had attacked us. Let's say they'd been attacking us for 8 or more years. Let's say, all the while, the south-side folks were growing weary of war.
Then – a voice. A south-side visionary. A person who declares, “Yes, we can!” – even if he borrows that phrase from Delores Huerta of the United Farm Workers.
This south-side visionary speaks of hope, the audacity of hope, a future of promise for the children. He offers the people renewal – of the economy, the environment, international relations. He rails against his predecessors' warring predilections. In the mean time, yes, he does call the north-side war “the good war.” But nobody's perfect, and here is a person who's poised and ready to listen. A leader like this would never drown his people in endless war.
And so he's elected. Of course, he's going to listen. Of course, it will make a difference that 55% of his people want to end the war – win, lose, or otherwise.
But suddenly, this leader's phone is busy. Suddenly, his mailbox is full.
Has he forgotten we're all neighbors?
Has he forgotten “Yes, we can”?
Does he think he was elected to kill people?
This is my greatest fear:
The audacity of hope has truly become an audacity – especially for the children of Afghanistan.
Sincerely,
Karen Van Fossan,
a neighbor
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
.JPG)
