Three Cups of Tea
January 31, 2009 by Julia King · Leave a Comment
On the cover of the book, in small print at the bottom of the page, is a quote from Tom Brokaw: “Thrilling…proof,” it reads, “that one ordinary person, with the right combination of character and determination, really can change the world.”
It’s a reassuring thought, this notion that an average person can change the world, but it’s not exactly the story that unfolds in Three Cups of Tea, the New York Times bestseller by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin. Instead, Three Cups of Tea tells the story of an extraordinary man (Mortenson), one willing to endure almost anything to accomplish his mission.
Mortenson’s mission is peace, and his strategy is to provide education for the poorest children in some of the poorest parts of Pakistan and Afghanistan, far-flung villages that despite their remoteness are desperately intertwined with modern Western life.
I read much of the book sweaty and out of breath, pedaling my stationary bike alone in my living room, exerting energy for no one’s benefit but my own — as if to punctuate the fact of my existential stinginess. Mortenson’s life is one of sacrifice and tremendous effort spent for others (although that’s not his claim; he would say that in the end his work benefits everyone, including him).
The beauty of this story is that it never appears easy. Too frequently, those who accomplish amazing things carry out their tasks with what looks like effortlessness. Not here. Three Cups of Tea is a journey into rugged land and harsh conditions. And it is a story of contrast, of a man straddling two different worlds (one week he’s walking the shiny marble floors of the Pentagon, and the next week he’s bouncing along dusty, craggy mountain roads in a beat-up jeep). Ironically, it is the thorny details of Mortenson’s projects — and of his exhausting schedule — that make it all so believable, so possible.
Like many Americans, I hadn’t paid much attention to places like Afghanistan until September 11. Since then, however, I’ve developed a strong appetite (possibly an unhealthy one) for dismal Middle Eastern focused literature (both fiction and non-fiction) like The Kite Runner, A Thousand Splendid Suns, Reading Lolita in Tehran, Iran Awakening, etc. – my desire to solve the puzzle of Islamic extremist repression forever nudging me back to the page.
Three Cups of Tea doesn’t shy away from the darker aspects of these regions, but neither does it define such places (and the myriad people who inhabit them) by the least common human denominator, by anti-western jihadists, or by beheaders. Mortenson and Relin take us across the globe and introduce us to men and women we can relate to, men and women – and children – who are on “our” side, meaning the side of compassion and tolerance and mutual understanding.
In short: read it. If you’re looking for something that makes sense amidst the chaos and the jumble we’ve come to know as the “Middle East” (however imperfect the term), here is a place to start. Here is a way. I’m late to this book (it was published in 2006), but the work it represents is still in its infancy.
Warren’s Words
January 22, 2009 by Julia King · Leave a Comment
The good news is that Rick Warren knows the words. He stood in front of the world, bowed his head and said that Americans are united “by our commitment to justice and freedom for all.”
Amen.
It’s not true, of course, but it’s a good story. As everyone knows by now, Warren lent his considerable influence to the passage of California’s Proposition 8, which changed the state’s constitution and banned same-sex marriage. Freedom and justice for all? Not exactly.
As I was complaining to a friend about Warren’s obvious hypocrisy, about his successful impression of an enlightened man, she said something smart: “Well, at least we can use his words against him.” And she was so right. Then I wondered if Warren knew what he had done, or if his love of words – his love of speaking the right words at the right time — had talked him right into a new era.
We will see…
The Obamas, a Love Story
January 21, 2009 by Julia King · 1 Comment
Truth be told, I feel like a school girl. When President Obama and the First Lady took the dance floor for their official first dance at the Neighborhood Ball in Washington, D.C, — and Beyonce serenaded them with “At Last“… it was chills all up and down my spine.
“Come see!” I shouted to my teenage daughter who was upstairs, “The Obamas are dancing! Beyonce’s singing! It’s perfect! Come see!” My daughter plopped down on the couch and added her approval. Yes, it was perfect, she agreed. But then she got up and wandered back upstairs to play with her hair as I sat transfixed. The First Couple swayed to the music and smiled at one another, gazing into each others’ eyes, managing somehow to be up on a stage looking both public and private. Charged with layers of meaning, the lyrics fell upon a man and woman, a room, a nation, a world.
…The night I looked at you
I found a dream that I could speak to
A dream that I can call my own
I found a thrill to rest my cheek to
A thrill that I have never known…
In the Jan. 19 issue of the New Yorker, there’s an excerpt from a 1996 Mariana Cook interview with Michelle and Barack Obama in their Chicago apartment. Just four years into their marriage, the photo that accompanies the article shows a young, affectionate pair, a husband and wife at ease with physical touch. They sit on their sofa together; he leans against the couch with one arm perched on its back and the other curved around her, his hand resting on her thigh. She leans against him with both her hands meeting on one of his knees. All these years later, that physical closeness remains.
The way so many of us feel when we look at Barack and Michelle – whether they’re giving speeches, or tending to their children, or dancing at a ball – has always been about more than them. It is about us, too… about the way we love our own spouses, and our own children, about the timeless desire to share our lives with another.
I know. It can be perilous to believe in true love (especially someone else’s), but not to believe might be worse.
Welcome to the White House, Mr. President and First Lady. We’re going to love having you.
Duty and Community: Where Do They Begin and End?
January 19, 2009 by Julia King · Leave a Comment
Although I don’t exactly know him, he does grow some of the food I eat (sells it at the local farmers market), so I was pleasantly surprised to see his familiar face in the jury room full of strangers. The last time we spoke he had introduced me to the most delicious squash ever (delicata) and for that I will always be grateful.
The bailiff explained the process: She would call 12 names. Those people would line up by the door, followed by the rest of the prospective jurors, 37 in all. At the judge’s secret signal (a telephone call to our upper level room), we would march together through the hall and down the steps like an elementary school class. We would file into the courtroom, with the first 12 taking seats within the jury box and the rest of us sitting in the general section of the courtroom. The defense and prosecuting attorneys would ask questions of the 12 seated in the jury box and dismiss them at will, replacing them with new people until they were satisfied with 12. Then they would add one for good measure, the alternate.
As we made our way through the building and into the courtroom, we carried with us the same buzz of excitement that children take to an all-school assembly or out into the parking lot during a fire drill. We tried to shed our nervous energy with extra-good posture and clever little asides.
We settled into the courtroom, many of us sitting before the judge’s instructions to do so, then standing, then sitting again with his bass, “You may be seated.” All the prospective jurors (those in and out of the jury box) took an oath and were told the defendant had been accused of… child molestation.
Party OVER. There wasn’t exactly a gasp, but there was a silent shift in the mood. This was not a game. This might not even be fun. Ugh.
The woman next to me quickly lowered her head and whispered, “I feel like I’m going to cry. My father molested me. I say cut the guy’s head off.” There is a story there (obviously), but I’ll tell it another time.
This story is about the organic farmer, the one who grows some of the food I eat, the one who made my eyes several sizes bigger when he refused to serve. In his gentle voice, he said he did not believe in this system, primarily because he believes disputes must be settled within “a community.” He said his beliefs were based on his Anabaptist faith (presumably Brethren or Mennonite, but he didn’t specify).
He went on to say he couldn’t judge a man if he didn’t know his family or his friends or where he went to church. The judge asked if he could try, if he could understand that he wasn’t stamping the defendant “good” or “bad,” just helping to determine if the defendant had committed certain acts. This farmer, this man I had considered a member of my community… said he could not. He could not try. He could not “do his best” — as the attorneys put it — to follow the law. We may have physically shared the courtroom (and the farmers market, and the streets of our town), but apparently I was mistaken to believe we shared a community. I surprised myself by feeling utterly rebuffed. The judge dismissed him and he left the courtroom.
It was a bold and public proclamation of faith, this refusal to serve, this rejection of the larger community in deference to the smaller one. Clearly, the man was earnest and intended no malice toward any of us (even me). He was simply living out his deepest principles, which is not at all a bad way to live.
And yet… as the case unfolded, the case the farmer refused to own, it became clear that the people involved had very little “community” of the sort the farmer described. They were largely transient, moving from job to job, from house to house, from town to town, even state to state. Who, then, could reasonably be expected to step forward to listen to their stories? To secure a defendant’s freedom and reputation, or to grant a child protection?
In an ideal world, we would each fit neatly into some safe spot on the planet where others would know us and care for us, nudge us in the right direction from time to time when necessary. This, plainly, is the kind of world the farmer wishes for. It might even be the kind of world in which he, himself, lives. If only everyone were as fortunate.
If it sounds as though I’m picking on this farmer of faith, I don’t intend to. Obviously, each day humans take on some responsibilities and let others go. I don’t pretend to know the quality of the farmer’s life, or faith, or commitment to others. I only know that he drew the boundaries around his “community” so tightly that he left me wondering (even worrying?).
So, what – exactly – is a “community”? My own working definition is, perhaps, so large and expansive that it’s unwieldy, excessively vague. There are distinctions within that expansive community, of course (family, friends, acquaintances, strangers… neighborhood, town, state, country, world, and so on). I have (and should have) more influence and responsibility in some arenas than in others, but I would be hard-pressed to find a space I would define as “outside” my community.
Considering the nature of the word (“community”), the fact that it is inherently social and connected to (or separated from) others, it’s something I am unable to define alone.
What are your thoughts? What is your definition? Where does your community begin and end?
Jury Duty
January 15, 2009 by Julia King · Leave a Comment
I know the line I’m supposed to tow: The system sucks! Tear the whole thing down and start over! (Etc. etc.)
And yet… here I sit with a full heart and a satisfied mind having just completed the most famous (or is it the most infamous?) of civic duties. For two days this week, I was a juror. Technically, I was the alternate, an understudy of sorts, watching and waiting in the jury box just in case someone was struck with appendicitis before the verdict was rendered. With no medical emergencies to speak of, I remained an observer during the final deliberations.
It was both simple and difficult, the trial. Simple in that when all was said and done it was apparent that the accused was guilty; but difficult in that the case — and therefore all the testimony — was about child molestation. It was not a light-hearted two days.
But at the end of our task, one man summed up all our feelings when he said, “You know, if I’m ever accused of anything — I want you all to be the jury. You guys are great.”
Of course, the truth is that — as individuals — we were probably much closer to “average” than to “great,” but together, with the help of an ideal, maybe we did achieve “great.”
More later….
Blagojevich, Burris — and Balance
January 7, 2009 by Julia King · Leave a Comment
Like many citizens, I was gratified by the hard line Obama and the Democrats initially took against seating Illinois Gov. Rod Blagojevich’s Senate appointment. It’s been said that Blagojevich’s pick, Roland Burris, is a perfectly decent guy — and I have no evidence up my sleeve to suggest otherwise. The objection to Burris is, of course, an objection to a governor who’s been accused of trying to sell Obama’s vacated Senate seat (and that’s only his most famous misdeed – there are others).
Today, various news reports suggest Burris will, indeed, become the Junior Senator from Illinois because ultimately, the law is on his side. Apparently, the Senate Democrats did what the rest of us did: declared the situation BAD and drew some lines in the sand against a seemingly corrupt governor. Backed into a legal corner, however, the Democrats are softening their stance.
This piece by CNN Commentator Roland S. Martin gets to the core of the issue by pointing out that the law got us here. People called for Blagojevich to resign; but he didn’t. People hoped Burris wouldn’t accept a job from a questionable politician; but he did. Some wanted a special election; but there’s not going to be one. Etc., etc.
Martin suggests that while we may be stuck with the current players, the law could be changed to head off similar problems in the future.
Perhaps we could have laws that suspend an elected official pending an investigation if an accusation is directly related to his/her official duties. Police officers are routinely suspended during investigations. If such a law had been in place in Illinois, Blagojevich would have been stripped of his authority (but not necessarily his pay, or his personal freedom) until a conviction (or exoneration). The Lieutenant Gov. could have made the appointment — and Blagojevich could have walked into the shadows without the tools to display his stubbornness. As things stand now, Blagojevich continues to exercise his political power.
It’s important to remember that elected officials hold office at the will of the people. When the people lose trust, the offices they hold are diminished — which weakens our entire system. How do we find the balance between being fair to individual politicians (who could be innocent, despite accusations), while maintaining the public trust? We haven’t found it yet.
