© 2010 by Karen Van Fossan
“District” is another word for neighborhood, for community, another way of saying, This is my home.
Plenty goes on here, in district number 30. An elderly woman falls, but rejoices that she hasn't harmed her eyes. A mother and son argue about suppertime, a car ride. A couple of wild-tomboy girls stop to pet my wild-tomboy dog.
We live here – in district number 30, neighborhood number 30, community number 30.
And so does Nicole Weiler. In March of last year, her husband assaulted her – in our district, out in public. Arrested and charged, David Alan Weiler pleaded guilty. Then, in March of this year, the Weiler case again made local TV. Nicole had called the police, filed a report, claimed her husband had beaten her again.
Strangely enough – David Alan Weiler works for me. He's one of my Representatives in district number 30. His job is not to thwart the laws, but to make them and refine them, particularly laws that protect us from personal violence. And so, his violence becomes my violence in a way, mine to address, mine to rectify, mine to interrupt.
Some say Nicole Weiler will drop the charges. Some say Dave will heed the public outcry to resign. By the time you read this blog, the story may have grown in many ways.
But there's still domestic violence in my community, there's bullying in my neighborhood, no matter how this story twists and turns. In neighborhood number 30, if we're paying close attention, we know this:
In March of 2009, David Weiler assaulted his wife, Nicole, by his own admission.
Based on decades of research, the Duluth Model teaches us, “If a batterer does not have a personal commitment to give up his position of power [over his partner], he will eventually return to the use of threats or violence to gain control.”
Sadly, I see no evidence that David Weiler has a made this personal commitment. In the year since his first arrest, I've heard him voice no regret, no remorse, no commitment to personal change. I would like to see him make this commitment. If I am wrong about his willingness to practice nonviolence, I look forward to being corrected.
But who has asked Dave to make such a commitment? The courts gave Dave a suspended sentence. The leaders of his party gave him a promotion – a chairmanship of an interim committee. The voters of District 30, like myself, gave him little flack. For one full year, he has lived within a paradigm almost free of accountability.
This is the type of atmosphere in which bullying takes hold, where bullying can thrive, where a person can assume the right to bully.
For all of these reasons, I am working to recall David Weiler. If we gather enough signatures, if our petition is successful, the voters in District 30 could have a chance to vote again. A new election could happen. The people of this district could hold Dave accountable, by voting to replace him – if we choose.
Which brings me back to my neighborhood. The other day, as I biked along Hillside Park, I passed two brothers taking turns spanking their dog. They were young, they were worn out, they didn't know how to handle a pulling puppy. I stopped and showed them what tricks have worked for me with pulling dogs. I let them know I understood how tough it is. For their own sake, these children needed a sense of being accountable, being seen, being challenged to pursue another option.
Violence becomes possible in fractured, broken communities, where the network of relationships does not keep us safe. If we can create vibrant, true community together, maybe we can stop domestic violence – for the sake of Nicole Weiler. For the sake of all our children. For the sake of Dave Weiler, if you like.
Even here in neighborhood number 30.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
I Didn't Die – Or Did I?
© 2010 Karen Van Fossan
I went ahead and did it. I rode my bike on Boulevard Avenue, in spite of the risks.
Risk 1: Splatter myself with mud.
Risk 2: Splatter myself with slush.
Risk 3: Tempt fate and die.
It was Risk 3 that nearly kept me off Boulevard Avenue forever.
According to one source, Boulevard Avenue was where I would meet my death. In fact, according to this source, I already had.
My dear friend Ferne – who's just about 101 and isn't prone to confusion – recently told her daughter I had died. I'd “been killed” was how she put it. Killed riding my bike on Boulevard Avenue.
Luckily, she was wrong. At least so far.
True, I didn't die on Boulevard Avenue. But just a few weeks ago, I began my own dance of dying.
In a good way.
(Sort of.)
Here's how it began:
I received a letter, which said that the North Dakota Board of Counselor Examiners had refused my application for licensure as a counselor. According to my graduate school, my professors, and myself, I am trained and ready to serve as a counselor. I'm a Dance/Movement Therapist, yes, but also a bona fide counselor.
The Board was unconvinced.
So I had to ask myself, “What next???”
I could...
Move away,
Go back to school,
Learn an alternate trade,
Hire a lawyer,
Count my blessings,
Ride in the middle of traffic on Boulevard Avenue.
In my mind, I found myself running from one idea to the next. And I hated all this running from one idea to the next. Pick a plan and stick with it. That was my general stance.
But suddenly, as I walked beneath the foggy spring sky, I saw my path.
This is it. This running from one idea to the next – this is my life. Today, this is my life. My own real life. My life isn't waiting for me in the answers to my questions. My life is taking place as I grapple with these questions. My life is happening now. My life isn't waiting in the well-plotted future. This is it.
And so, can I dance with this? Can I follow the rhythms and gestures of this dance? Can I be present and alive, letting myself experience my actual experience?
My dream of being a counselor – at least for now – is dying. This is a dance I have witnessed. I have sat with those who are dying. I have seen the stops and starts, the fits of life, the letting go, the ecstasy and the panic.
Today, this is my dance. Will I go here or go there? Will I stop, or will I start?
I don't know.
The knowing isn't now. Today, I have only to dance.
Maybe even up and down Boulevard Avenue.
A Note: Much gratitude to my teachers at Naropa University who helped me learn the dances of living -- and of dying.
I went ahead and did it. I rode my bike on Boulevard Avenue, in spite of the risks.
Risk 1: Splatter myself with mud.
Risk 2: Splatter myself with slush.
Risk 3: Tempt fate and die.
It was Risk 3 that nearly kept me off Boulevard Avenue forever.
According to one source, Boulevard Avenue was where I would meet my death. In fact, according to this source, I already had.
My dear friend Ferne – who's just about 101 and isn't prone to confusion – recently told her daughter I had died. I'd “been killed” was how she put it. Killed riding my bike on Boulevard Avenue.
Luckily, she was wrong. At least so far.
True, I didn't die on Boulevard Avenue. But just a few weeks ago, I began my own dance of dying.
In a good way.
(Sort of.)
Here's how it began:
I received a letter, which said that the North Dakota Board of Counselor Examiners had refused my application for licensure as a counselor. According to my graduate school, my professors, and myself, I am trained and ready to serve as a counselor. I'm a Dance/Movement Therapist, yes, but also a bona fide counselor.
The Board was unconvinced.
So I had to ask myself, “What next???”
I could...
Move away,
Go back to school,
Learn an alternate trade,
Hire a lawyer,
Count my blessings,
Ride in the middle of traffic on Boulevard Avenue.
In my mind, I found myself running from one idea to the next. And I hated all this running from one idea to the next. Pick a plan and stick with it. That was my general stance.
But suddenly, as I walked beneath the foggy spring sky, I saw my path.
This is it. This running from one idea to the next – this is my life. Today, this is my life. My own real life. My life isn't waiting for me in the answers to my questions. My life is taking place as I grapple with these questions. My life is happening now. My life isn't waiting in the well-plotted future. This is it.
And so, can I dance with this? Can I follow the rhythms and gestures of this dance? Can I be present and alive, letting myself experience my actual experience?
My dream of being a counselor – at least for now – is dying. This is a dance I have witnessed. I have sat with those who are dying. I have seen the stops and starts, the fits of life, the letting go, the ecstasy and the panic.
Today, this is my dance. Will I go here or go there? Will I stop, or will I start?
I don't know.
The knowing isn't now. Today, I have only to dance.
Maybe even up and down Boulevard Avenue.
A Note: Much gratitude to my teachers at Naropa University who helped me learn the dances of living -- and of dying.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
How to Make a Play (a Really Good One)
© 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.
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.
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.
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