Saturday, December 3, 2011

The Boy of the Desert Pt. 2


 Sorry, I know it's late. I was just being both lazy and writersblocky. Now on the the sand.

The Boy of the Desert
            The thing with camels is that they can run very, very fast. El Deloua was exceptionally good at running and was in fact the fastest racing camel in the area. So, Azad was in for a long trek. And he knew it.
            “The dumb thing is already out of sight.” Azad grumbled. The deserts rolling dunes made it hard going and hard to see anything that may lie in the valleys between them. So all he could do was follow its trail of deep tracks.
            The sun rose higher and the day grew hotter. Azad, being of the desert people, was dressed well enough to handle it. He worried however, that the day would get too hot, even for him.
Several hours and many kilometers later, he crested a large dune and gasped. It seemed the whole world had turned to sand. The gritty waves marched on from horizon to horizon. And still no sign of El Deloua; even his trail was fading in the dry winds.
 Azad was worried, and was starting to get hot. He took a small swig from his canteen, being careful not to spill any. It was his only source of water and if he lost it, it could be his death. He began to wonder if this was such a great idea.
Just as he was about to head on down, a flash of light caught his eye in the distance. He couldn’t be sure, but it seemed to be a mirror, or shiny piece of metal. It struck him it might be one of the decorations on his father’s camel. So, he followed in its direction.
At the top of each dune, Azad could pinpoint the shiny object and correct his bearings. It seemed to never move. He suspected it wasn’t El Deloua after all (because of its stationary nature) and wondered aloud what it really was. “It might be an old car that got lost and left in the sand. Or maybe some trash left by a tourist.” But the few remaining tracks led in that direction and in view of that he kept going towards it.
After an hour of doing this, and 4 hours since he left home, Azad stopped in the shade of large mound of sand and had a small lunch. He put some of the cured goat meat inside of the flatbread and savored the taste. The food made him feel better and revived his faith that he would find the “blasted camel” soon.
Making sure he still had ample water and food, he started out again, climbing the nearest dune and looking for the glint of light. It seemed as far away as when he had first seen it. The random thought of “I wonder if it moves when I can’t see it.” passed through his head.
Looking again, eyes straining against the glare of the sun, he could see what appeared to be mountains of rock behind the elusive shine.  Spurred on by curiosity, the boy continued on. He knew of a few mountains in his part of the eastern desert and had always wanted to see them first hand.
The dunes gradually flattened out into a vast empty plain. He could now watch the mysterious sparkle continuously and he finally was getting closer to it. The mountains got closer and larger and the shine grew brighter with every step.
Azad passed through a wide pass between two low hills and saw a lone scrub tree directly between them. As he approached it he saw the shine was coming from within its branches. “What is this?” he asked out loud.
Standing directly under the tree he saw a round, flat disk of glass attached to a necklace of colorful stones he had never seen before. How had he seen this small thing all those kilometers back? The question of it having moved crossed his mind again and he began to feel he was being watched. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He started glancing around nervously and thought he saw a streak of white fur dash between some rocks.
Azad heard a loud rushing of wind stir up behind him. Already unnerved, he whirled around to face whatever it was. What he saw nearly made him scream in terror. A dark wall of windblown sand almost a kilometer high had come in across the desert. A sandstorm.
He did what any sensible child would do. He ran as fast as his legs would carry him. He angled towards the rock around the bases of the mountains, hoping it would shelter him from the choking sand coming ever more quickly towards him. As he ran he remembered to wrap his keffiyeh headdress around his face to keep the sand out of his nose and mouth.
Two odd things happened just as the front end of the storm hit the boy. First, the strange necklace struck him in the back of the head, blown by the strong wind. And, when he bent to pick it up, it caught the last ray of sunlight and reflected into a hidden alcove in the rock. Azad now had a place to hide away.
He crawled in and wrapped up as much as he could in his clothes. The wind was fierce and sand was still getting in, but not near as much as if he had been stranded outside. This did little to comfort the boy. “This camel better be alive when I find it.” Azad moaned. “Because I sure want to kill it.”

Sunday, November 20, 2011

The Boy of the Desert Pt. 1


The Boy of the Desert
Azad was a boy of the desert. From the moment of his birth (and very likely to the day of his death) he was surrounded by the arid beauty of the eastern desert of Jordan. He lived with his Father, mother and seven brothers in several of the traditional tents of the badawī; his people. Azad helped his father and brothers tend to their large herd of both trade and racing camels. He was proud to help in the family business and always was trying to impress his father. Therein lay the trouble.
Azad was the fourth of eight sons and was no different from any middle child anywhere else in the world; he tended to fade into the background. Which could be both good and bad; on one hand Azad rarely was in trouble, but on the other it was hard to get recognition for his hard work. His days started early, before dawn, with watering or otherwise brushing down the camels. He worked with his twin brothers Farid and Marid.
They were aptly named. Farid, meaning unique, was very much so in the ways he could conjure up ways of getting into trouble. And Marid, meaning rebellious, seemed to try to live up to it with every living breath; always having to do the opposite of what he was told. Which is why both were sick and asleep this morning. Marid had been told by his mother to not smoke his uncle’s hookah, which meant he really wanted to do it and Farid had the idea of stealing it and having a grand time in the desert. It only took a few puffs and the twins were sick for the night and well into the next day. When they got through throwing up, their father was going to really teach them a lesson.
So Azad was alone today in the pre-dawn cool that only a desert can have. He pumped gallons of water from the family well into his buckets and transferred them to the various troughs around the camp. It is heavy work, but Azad knew his father appreciated him doing it.
There was one particular camel, kept apart from the others, that was his father’s favorite. It was a thoroughbred, supposedly descended from a royal bloodline, and was to be hand fed, massaged and brushed with a fine brush every day. It was named El Deloua, for it was indeed a “spoiled child”. It was secured in a small pen on the outskirts of the camp.
As Azad approached the enclosure, still an hour before the sun rose above the horizon, he heard a commotion start. Something had startled El Deloua and the camel had started to protest loudly and was now trying to shatter the wooden posts of its corral with its huge feet. Breaking into a run and dropping his load of food, Azad arrived just in time to see El Deloua tear the fence down and bolt into the surrounding sand dunes.
His first thought was “Father is going to kill me.” His second was to look in the pen to see what had scared the camel so. In the back corner was a small white rabbit; which was odd, because rabbits, white or any other color, don’t live within a thousand miles of Azads family camp. He took this as bad sign.
Azad decided he would rather face the heat of the desert during the day than his father’s anger at losing his most treasured possession. So he gathered a few pieces of flat bread and a small sack of cured goat meat into a satchel and slung it and a canteen of water onto his shoulder. He stood at the edge of the camp, looked back once and sighed. “It is going to be a long day.” He then set out following the fresh tracks into the desert.

Saturday, November 19, 2011

The Third Culture Kid Phenomena

 What follows is a paper I wrote for one of my English classes in college. It is about me in a sense as I am what the subject talks about, a TCK.

Benjamin Hinely
The Third Culture Kid Phenomena
The meaning of TCK
Who or what is a Third Culture Kid? A person, who in their formative and developmental years, spent time in a culture not of their parents, growing up in it and often going back and forth between the two (Useem). They are “in between” cultures, hence the third culture name, not as some assume, a third world country.  A Third Culture Kid or TCK extends ties to each culture he or she comes in contact with, but often lacks a sense of truly connecting with any, including the birth country. Aspects of each of these multifarious cultures are assimilated into the TCKs life experience, but the only place a TCK ever truly feels at “home” is among those like themselves. Those who have grown up in the world and are as much a part of it as they are not. 

Description of TCK’s
Their parents can be missionaries (making the kids missionary kids or MKs), business men or women, in the military (military brats), or even in the Foreign Service.  Even our illustrious leader, Barack Obama, is a third culture kid. He was raised elsewhere, had an African father, and an American mother. How many TCK’s are there?  "Currently, there are between three and six million private American citizens living abroad…” (Maloney). This number is just Americans, not counting those from every other country. That is a vast number of people to not be recognized formally in the public eye.
TCK’s are a “rootless” (Pollock 121) culture; the thing that ties them together is their very nature of having no formal home. Rootless people live in one culture, think of another and have trouble connecting with any. The constant moving is an issue, and makes it hard to put down said roots. While the passport or visa of each TCK may say one country (America, Tibet, etc.) it is rarely where they feel most at home. The nature of being in between is a difficult one; a person is often unsure of who he or she is, or where one belongs. It is also an oft forgotten position; TCK’s are little spoken about and, in general, unknown. 

MK’s
Amongst this mass of individuals is the MK (or missionary kid). While their story is not too different from the other TCK’s, they do have a unique set of circumstances that set them apart. First of all, the parents’ purpose is altruistic, they are there not to make money or talk to Heads of State, but to speak to and lead individuals to Christ. This Christian atmosphere lends to a strong family interdependence. So while the isolations of intercultural living are hard, the family is a strong unit that helps to keep its parts healthy and growing.

Situations faced by MK’s
Like other TCK’s, MK’s have to deal with multiple language barriers, racial issues, and lack of conveniences. But there are specific issues too, such as a hostility of the locals towards any foreigner or towards any religion not of their own. As parents integrate into the local culture, they are often absent or separate from their children for long periods of time. This can create a schism between the MK and parent, often hurting the family bond; but this bond can improve as the adults grow into their local roles and become more comfortable in the environment.
Education is one of the biggest obstacles in an MK’s life. This is because most parents fully intend on sending their children home at some point to function and live. It is hard to gain an accurate grasp on how to act in one’s home culture, if he or she has been raised in another culture entirely. Missionary parents have tried many options for properly educating their children: home school, home school and part time at a “local school” (local schools, in some parts of the world, are often underfunded and have sketchy qualifications) , full time at a local school, private school, or the biggest decision: boarding school. A long time ago, the ultimate choice was to send them back to England or America to live with relatives or even complete strangers. At least with boarding school, the MK’s were on the same continent with the parents.
It is important to point out though, that the boarding school experience can be a positive one. The bonds formed with fellow school mates can substitute biological family ties. And being away from home can keep MK’s safe from the dangers at home (i.e. war, guerrillas etc.).
It is hard for an MK to keep tie with people and places for the fact that their lives are in a constant state of flux. The friendships and memories are made and can be deep, but in the shuffle, they can broken and forgotten. Moving constantly is common, and so is moving because of local conflicts and all out war. The mission as an organization often moves its people around at a whim, as jobs did not fit, or the personnel were unfit for the work (Interview With Deborah).
In contrast to this though, is the fact that when the moving and going about is done, there is a longing for the old country, the old way of living. A want is there, for how perfect things were, even in the imperfectness of it all!  This aching is cavernous and if let be, it can swallow a person up. Many MK’s resort to writing poetry to help cope with these feelings of loss, this can be either therapeutic or detrimental. (Interview With Deborah)
“I was in a country
once
that knew me:
knew me like the rain
knows the red eye dove, like
the river knows its bed,
like the sun knows
the elephant’s back.”
(Orr 66).
The poem above exemplifies the yearning to be in a place that is familiar. “like the river knows its bed” shows the level of familiarity that is wanted, a belonging so ingrained as to be a literal mark upon the earth. Roots, so to speak.
Support
In terms of support, there are no official groups that help MK’s or TCK’s in need of aid. MK’s do have camps, like summer camp, where they can be with others like them from all over the world and have fun together. There is also a debriefing of sorts held for International Mission Board missionary families in Richmond, Virginia. 

Culture shock
“The term "culture shock" was coined by Kalvero Oberg in 1954.”  Early into any new cultural experience, many people face the phenomena and, to be honest, the trauma of culture shock. This is where the differences of the culture overwhelm a person, and can lead to:  
   “* Unwarranted criticism of the culture and people
    * Heightened irritability
    * Constant complaints about the climate
    * Continual offering of excuses for staying indoors
    * Utopian ideas concerning one's previous culture
    * Continuous concern about the purity of water and food
    * Fear of touching local people
    * Refusal to learn the language
    * Preoccupation about being robbed or cheated
    * Pressing desire to talk with people who "really make sense”
    * Preoccupation with returning home”
    (http://home.snu.edu/~hculbert/shock.html)

Culture shock is faced by many, but is often ignored, or even goes unrealized. It is key to see the symptoms and then to strive to overcome them in order to accept any new culture. While some people do in fact not face this issue, most do. It is usually just a few of the above indicators that are felt, but it is just as likely to be affected by all of them.
(http://home.snu.edu/~hculbert/shock.html) 
            When coming into a new culture, one of two paths can be taken. As the diagram above shows, it helps to be open to new things when going into the experience. Everyone will inevitably face one of the above reactions (frustration, confusion, etc); it is in dealing with these that positive results can be garnered. In opposition the figure also shows an opposite reaction, one with a negative connotation; this because all people are different and react accordingly. (http://home.snu.edu/~hculbert/shock.html)   
            Benefits and Positive outcomes
            With all of this personal, world experience, MK’s and TCK’s are often sought after in the business realm for their language knowledge, or for those without that, their ability to easily bridge the cultural divide. Government agencies which work overseas want to hire those with actual hands on experience over those without. Aid organizations, such as C.A.R.E. also like former MK’s. While some do indeed cave under the pressure of the lifestyle, it is those who overcome any hardships who can truly succeed.  (Interview with Deborah)
           
            Conclusion
            TCK’s are a sub-culture with members numbering in the many millions. They come from all walks of life, poor and rich alike, all races and nations; no color, lifestyle or creed is exempt. TCK’s are an often overlooked or unknown group. They face unique issues, and must either face them and overcome, or fail and be thrown by the wayside. But TCK’s are here, and will continue to be, as long as there are those who are willing work away from home and bring along the family. It also seems that, with the world swiftly and continually being globalized there will be more of them in the rapidly approaching future. 

Works Cited
Interview with Deborah Hinely. Student, Benjamin Hinely. Librarian, Deborah Hinely. Conyers,
            Ga, 2009.
“Maloney Amendment To Count Americans Living Abroad In Census Passes In The House.”   
            maloney.house.gov. July 18, 2001   
Neil Orr, Elaine. “Gods of Noonday, A White Girl's African Life.” 1. Charlottesville, VA: University
            of Virginia Press, 2003. Print.      
Pollock, David C., and Ruth E. Van Reken. “The Third Culture Kid Experience, Growing Up Among
            Worlds.” Yarmouth, Maine. Intercultural Press 1999.
Useem, Ruth. "Third Culture Kids: Focus of Major Study." International School Services, 2001 
            Web.13 Jul 2009.
<http://www.iss.edu/pages/kids.html>.

 “Understanding culture stress, Coping with culture shock, Globalization: Survival skills for

            missionaries, foreign exchange students and others working to weather cultural shock 

            as they bridge cultural differences.”  home.snu.edu/ . July 2002.

            <http://home.snu.edu/~hculbert/shock.html>.




(p.s. yes i know the works cited is not formatted correctly, i just don't feel like re-formatting it)

What Lies In Your Heart Of Hearts


What lies in your heart of hearts
Deep down in the darkest dark
Where the echoes don't
And the secrets hide
Who are you when the light shines
In these not so empty quarters
The not quite back alleys
On those unabandoned ruins
Is it the same as when
Your public mask covers
These dirty stains
And personal letters scarlet

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

(Possibly) Another sad thing.


He loved her

                The first time stuck him, but it was shallow. “I can fix it,” he declared. The stitching was meager, and he bled a bit, but it did the job. It healed with a tiny scar, to be noticed from time to time, but not dwelt upon. And he still loved her.

                Then the second blow. This one was deep. “I can fix it. Let me fix it.” He desperately cried. More blood this time. But he again mended the wound, but his bandage was soaked red. He tried to keep it fresh, clean. But this one was taking much longer to heal over. But, he still loved her.

The last time was the worst; it was in a place he could not reach. “I…Can fix it. Please let… me fix it. I can,” He gasped weakly. He tried and tried, but the cut was simply too deep and inaccessible. The thick crimson flowed freely. Nevertheless, he still…

“Please……………… please, I….I....can fix….”