“What do you want for me, God?”: An Introduction to My Vocation Story

by Melissa Borgmann-Kiemde, Vis Companion

Note: the following was originally written for and published at the Visitation Monastery Minneapolis blog site. This is the first in a series of vocation narratives, or memoirs, offered by Melissa here.

Vocation does not mean a goal that I pursue. It means a calling that I hear. Before I can tell my life what I want to do with it, I must listen to my life telling me who I am. I must listen for the truths and values at the heart of my own identity, not the standards by which I must live—but the standards by which I cannot help but live if I am living my own life. – Parker Palmer in “Let Your Life Speak”

We all have a vocation. Each and every one of us. Whether we are religious or lay members of the world, we have a calling --something we have wrestled with consciously, or unconsciously, and found ourselves immersed in --- a "life telling us who we are," as Parker Palmer says. These days, I'm thinking a lot about my vocation and what my life has told, tells me.

In the Spring of 2002, whilst teaching at North Community High School in North Minneapolis, my life was sort of “screaming” at me. Immersed in a high poverty setting, (where I lost half of my students every year), attending to the development of relevant and hopefully inspiring curriculum for my students --as well as the content of their individual life narratives, gifts, skills and areas for growth - alongside my own -- well, let's just say I was a bit achy and itchy in my soul for what might be next. I wasn't wholly satisfied with my work in the classroom and the system in which I was operating; so I started writing letters to God. In these journal letters, I described my circumstances as a public school educator and I posed questions. "What do you want for me, God? What do you want me to do? Where do you want me to go? You know my heart, my longings and my desire to serve Love. Please guide me."

I was called to be an educator, without a doubt in my mind or heart. But surely, God would not want me to continue in a fashion where I was daily filled with despair -- left with less hope and offering a diminishing amount of love, promise, and life-giving energy to myself and others?

In my writing and beseeching, there are stops and starts, almost self-conscious pauses. Was I feeling badly for the outpouring of words on paper? Was my prose too filled with complaint or dissatisfaction as I described the conditions of my life? Surely, I had been so abundantly blessed in my birth and journey to date -- given so much from loving parents and in and through my catholic faith, educational opportunities and work -- that I wouldn't be abandoned. (Was that my fear – rejection or abandonment from God?) I couldn't stop short in my writing and queries to the Divine, I had to continue in my prayers wondering about my next steps in this journey as a woman of love on the earth.

In an entry recorded on Saturday, June 1, 2002, I wrote, "I know if I were born a man, you would have me be a priest. Because I am a woman, do you want me to pursue becoming a nun?"

I remember writing the question down, and then immediately closing my journal. It was a terrifying notion, this nun business. First of all, I wanted to be married and have kids. I loved men and dreamed of partnering with one and having a child or two someday. (I longed to parent - beyond the scope of the classroom, beyond working with and nurturing the beautiful young people in my classroom who I was privileged to teach. I longed for giving birth and the gift of raising a babe from infancy to adulthood.)

In an entry recorded on Saturday, June 1, 2002, I wrote, "I know if I were born a man, you would have me be a priest. Because I am a woman, do you want me to pursue becoming a nun?" -Melissa Borgmann-Kiemde

When I considered my calling to the priesthood, it felt so giant, real, awesome, but seemingly beyond my gender -- according to the church powers that be. I had reconciled my desire to preach --to lead a congregation in contemplative, prayerful thought and action -- through my work as a classroom teacher. My love for scripture and desire to break open sacred texts for inspiration and life lessons translated well, on most days, to my tasks as an English educator. Considering my recorded journal question, “[D]o you want me to pursue becoming a nun?” I wondered, too, how I could turn to another religious vocation because of the seeming limitations of my gender? I simply thanked God for making me female, so that I never had to choose between marriage and a life as a celibate priest. I set my journal down and went about my life.

For the record: At the time, I didn't really know I was doing discernment work. At this juncture, I had never even heard the word "discernment." But that would all change.

On Sunday, June 2, 2002, following mass at the Church of St. Philip in North Minneapolis, I was standing up on the alter, next to the piano with the rest of the choir members I sang with, when a small woman with gray hair and wearing a large silver cross approached me.

"Melissa, Hello. I'm Sister Katherine of the Visitation Monastery of North Minneapolis. We are having a 'Come and See' weekend for single young women. We are wondering if you want to come and see about being a nun."

I about fell over. I was wrapping microphone cord around my arm at the time, and believe I almost tripped at Sister's invitation.

Not only is God not subtle with me, but my life circumstances have never been, as they speak loudly trying to get my attention. Of course I would put my query out to the Beloved regarding my vocation, and of course I would receive this direct response! But the very next day? Whew.

*****************************************************************************

Stay tuned for the unfolding of this vocation narrative, as I relay my discernment process, given the entrance of the Visitation Sisters in my life.

"The Long Way Here" - Another Immigrant Narrative from John's Hopkin's Surgeon

The following was recommended to me by a friend in response to the posting about my husband's own immigration narrative. I share Dr. Kofi Boahane's story with incredible regard and awe for what he endured, (what people endure) to reach their dreams....Watch, consider the questions it raises, maybe say thank you for where each of you are today?



Some questions this video inspires me to ask:
Where would Kofi be without his persistence?
What would have happened had his chemistry professor not co-signed his loans?
What relationships are necessary for any of us to "succeed" or see our dreams into being?
When have you been "detained" from moving forward in life? What have the consequences been for you?
Who do you have to thank for where you are?
Who takes time to really get to know a colleague born outside their immediate community?
How do we celebrate the gift of our journeys to this moment, this place, and honor our respective paths?

Happy Contemplating...
Melissa

Immigration and Epiphany: A Sunday Meditation

NOTE: The following is an introduction I wrote for a reflection delivered at mass today at the Church of St. Philip in North Minneapolis. My husband and another parishioner were asked to speak as immigrants in this country, and share from their perspectives about what it has meant to journey beyond their places of birth, in the hopes of resettling and making a better life for themselves. Because Francois had to work, he asked that I deliver his narrative in his stead. We followed fellow parishioner, John Allagh, from Nigeria. John spoke beautifully of the Bible as "Immigration/ Migration Handbook," and challenged us all to consider how we are immigrants, on a journey. On this day, I fell in love all over again with my faith community and the large spirit of love, awareness, culture, diversity, justice and injustice that play out in the world and local community. I was moved deeply by and reminded that we are a people of radical hospitality and welcoming at CSP, striving to realize and celebrate our common humanity.

***

Sunday, January 3, 2010.

Homiletic Reflection

It’s powerful to hear people’s stories - their first person account or witness of their lives. As a former English teacher, and writer myself, my livelihood is wrapped up in narratives. I can’t think of a more incredible privilege, too, than listening to a person reflect on what they have encountered, and how they make sense of their journeys. Last week at St. Philip's we had Cece Ryan offering her first person account and meditation on questions of the Holy Family, and this week, we have the awesome privilege of hearing John Allagh, and a tale from my husband, Francois Kiemde.

As Fr. Jules has said, "Today’s service is dedicated to Immigration." Stories of people going on journeys, crossing borders and oceans in the hope and desire of resettling, of a making a better life for themselves somewhere else, and realizing their dreams…..

Today is also the Feast of the Epiphany. Of wise men encountering and recognizing the Christ Child in their midst.

As a contemplative person, I wonder,

“How do the two intersect? What does it mean to be an immigrant? What does it mean to experience the epiphany? Or to have an epiphany? How can hearing stories and reflecting on journeys trigger insight? Expand our minds and hearts to fuller knowledge of Christ in our midst?”

These are my questions as I close out today’s homiletic reflection time and space with my husband, Francois Kiemde’s story. As I read you his reflection, I invite you to consider your own tale of crossing borders, of seeking experiences and being a person of hope and opportunity, someone likewise recognizing the Divine in their midst…

Note: For a copy of Francois' narrative, please email us.

Merci!

Inctivus, Advent, Incarnation...

I wonder who among you has seen the recent film entitled, "Invictus"? Starring Morgan Freeman, as the newly-released-from-prison/ newly-elected-to-office President Nelson Mandela, alongside Matt Damon, playing South African Springbok Rugby captain, Francois Pienaar, the film places us squarely inside South Africa's transition from Apartheid rule to a free, Democratic nation. The time and period in our world's recent history is not without incredible charge, strife, and division among people. It's a time and period that calls us all to deeper reflection and contemplation of what it means to be united in the face of incredible adversity, diversity, conviction.

Enter Mandela. Enter a leader who exemplifies a radically new kind of authority and governance: one that is deeply acquainted with the victim, with the experience of the oppressed and marginalized, and yet is one who leads from a transcended space of love, compassion, and forgiveness. Enter Pienaar, another leader of sorts, who is called into this space to inspire his peers beyond their comfort and convictions into a place of equally transcended and transported action. Mandela and Pienaar are two starkly contrasted men who this film centers around in the name of delivering a narrative of hope and promise, of victory over fear and ignorance; it's a tale about the unity of people in spirit, mind, body.

On one hand, Invictus is an American film examining the post-Apartheid times and circumstances of our South African brothers and sisters. As a Clint Eastwood Production, it comes to the American public in this package and presentation that, for me as viewer, invites me to receive it within this lens. The Dirty-Harry-Unforgiven-Gran-Torino Eastwood delivers this story in a way that I must embrace as gift, as he - and the film's creators - present us with these larger questions around leadership and unity in the midst of deep divide. (How are the film's themes applicable to the American public? The larger world? It's rich!)

On another hand, Invictus is a David and Goliath sports flick, giving us an underdog team in the Springboks that strives to defeat the giant opponent in New Zealand's All Blacks. It is Hollywood flexing its American muscles inside a biblical metaphor. It's a film that culminates in sweet victory, a virtual miracle of sorts unfolding before our eyes when we all consider the human odds of Black and White camps and convictions, experience and athleticism, going into battle.

And now, a week after seeing the film, still reviewing a number of its moving scenes in my mind, I hold the fullness of the film's lessons about transcendent leadership and possibilities, inside of this Advent season. Invictus comes to me this day in a much larger light, one where its characters are considered inside of a faith perspective; that where a divine presence enters our midst and is seen in the most obscure places. Mandela as a President emerging from South Africa's apartheid prison. Pienaar as post-Apartheid athlete unifier. The uncanny, unfathomable, seemingly impossible, becomes possible, tanglible, quite real in this tale. There is an incarnation witnessed in this film as the should-be-conquered and conquerable reveal themselves to be as the movie title states: Invictus, Unconquerable.

I can see a Christ-figure born in each of these men: Mandela as compassionate intellectual posing questions of unity and leadership, inviting the black majority of South Africa to reconsider its battles with the former white majority rule. ("Why overturn the Springbok green and gold?) Pienaar, as athletic leader who wrestles with his privilege, his comfort, and ventures to see inspiration and possibility through the "other's" perspective. The rugby captain actually traveling to the new president's former prison cell at Robben Island, and contemplating what captivity has taught him about the human spirit, about compassion, about the invincibility of an unjustly accused and condemned man.

Whatever lens you choose to view this film through, I invite you to simply view it! Consider how its characters and circumstances speak to your heart. Consider these questions:

What does it mean to lead? What is at the center of your beliefs and actions? What inspires nations and its citizens? What creates hope and optimism in your own home? What is possible in the face of great odds? What is trying to get born in you today, in your work, on your field, in your lab, in your mind, within your family or community? How are you called to respond? Do you see yourself as unconquerable? Do you know that beauty and the divine dwell within and all around? Do you recognize your own capacity to forgive, to transcend those who have caused you the greatest grief or injury?

This season, I invite you all to see this film and meditate on its themes and many questions.

In peace and contemplation,

Love,

Melissa

Transcending Cynicism: A Bit on Rumi before Marriage

I spent the better part of yesterday on a date with Rumi. You all know the Sufi Mystic, yes? Poet. Scholar. Teacher. Big souled, larger-than-any-one-faith gent who lived in the 13 century. The Beloved of Sham's. ---Shoot! I claim him as My beloved, after all of our dancing and screaming and giggling together! If you read his poetry, then you know what I'm speaking of. This fellow, Mr. Jelaluddin Rumi, has a capacity to engage. To nail a point on the head, to expand your breathing with a question, and invite your imagination into the realm of the truly inconceivable, impossible. Rumi's voice and words, (in my apartment: translated by Coleman Barks) make me think anything is possible. And when I fight what Rumi is saying, the way his words resonate deeply within me, still: he fights back. He sort of kicks back, in the gentlest of ways -- with each line of poetry or prose simply saying, "surrender."

I went looking for a simple poem to include in my wedding program. I ended up with fifteen. I of course whittled it down, but goodness, what a process!

The one I'm choosing to post here, and share with you all today, wasn't really a finalist for the wedding program, but rather: one I put a bookmark on as I thought of you. As I imagined the "other" in my own body, the visitor who shows up to read my thoughts, the contemplative friend who holds similar queries about the world and faith and poetry with me: I thought of you. I thought this poem fitting to extend to you.

In this poem, Rumi draws on Old Testament figures, while combining them with the mundane and contemporary. He speaks to the smallest being within each of us, and holds our fears and insecurities up before our critical, fleeing minds, and then asks us to hold still. He invites us to see our brokenness, but accept it humbly, and then courageously step forward. He identifies our darkest, cynical selves, and seemingly slaps us silly with a simple consideration: to have faith -- or to at least fake it. He invites us to consider our fullest sense of being, living, loving, honoring. Whew. I love him.

Read on! Enjoy! Let me know what you think!

The wilderness way Moses took

was pure need and desolation.

Remember how you cried when you were a child?

Joseph's path to the throne room of Egypt

where he distributed grain to his brothers

led through the pit his brothers left him in.

Don't look for new ways

to flee across the chessboard.

Listen to hear the checkmate

spoken directly to you.

Mice nibble. That's what they need

to be doing. What do you need?

How will you impress the one

who gave you life?

If all you can do is crawl,

start crawling.

You have a hundred cynical fantasies

about God. Make them ninety-nine!

If you can't pray a real prayer, pray

hypocritically, full of doubt

and dry-mouthed.

God accepts

counterfeit

money

as though

it were real!

- Rumi

Translated by Coleman Barks in "The Illuminated Rumi"

Happy Contemplating!

Love,

Melissa

Poetry on Palestine and Israel: Check out Sunday, 10/25 in D.C.

"We need authentic, honest discourse in the American Jewish community. It must start today and it must be about Palestine and Israel.

" - Kevin Coval, excerpted from the Huffington Post, 10/24.

I'm posting the following as an act of support for the poet activists speaking out on behalf of dialogue on a complex issue of our time. How to address Israel? How to understand the US's role? How to unpack the many narratives told by Palestinians, Israelis, World Leaders, Military and Peace figures? I received a letter earlier in the week describing a truly sad and unfortunate censoring of these poet activists, Kevin Coval and Josh Healey, who were originally invited to come and speak at JStreet. I know Josh through his work at Madison's First Wave Spoken Word program, as well as meeting him at Brave New Voices International Youth Poetry Slam. I encourage any and all who are able to tune in to this important dialogue, and participate on Sunday.

Peace,
Melissa
***
WE WILL NOT BE SILENT: POETRY ON PALESTINE AND ISRAEL

with Kevin Coval and Josh Healey

Sunday, October 25
4:00-5:30pm
Busboys and Poets, Langston Room
2021 14th St, NW (near U Street Metro station)
Washington, DC

This past week, Kevin Coval and Josh Healey were censored and un-invited from this weekend's J Street conference in D.C. as a result of attacks in various right-wing blogs and online magazines. In defiance of these McCarthyist attacks, and J Street's subsequent accommodation, Coval and Healey have decided to proceed with the original event.

They will share their poems and dialogue about Israel/Palestine, identity and justice, and (especially now) free speech. No longer part of the J Street gathering, this event is open to the whole community: conference attendees, artists, activists, youth, elders, Jews, Palestinians, gentiles, and anyone down to build.

Free event. All-ages, all are welcome.

For background on the situation, see:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kevin-coval/searching-for-a-minyan-ou_b_327597.html
http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/1122325.html

For more info, contact jewsthatareleft@gmail.com

* * * * *

On "An Invitation to be Heard": Tuning into the Truth of Poetry. Story. Experience.

What does it mean to share stories? To read them aloud to one another? To record them, write them down in the first place? What does it mean to speak a personal narrative into the air? Why do people share tales? What experiences inspire reflection and acts of private and public disclosure? Love, heartache, loss, betrayal, birth, death, faith, miracles, desire? What happens when we share our tales, and really hear ourselves and one another speak?

In the coming weeks, I will have the privilege of helping facilitate "Listening Sessions" at the Church of St. Philip in North Minneapolis. As part of our Social Justice committee work, we have discerned a call to hold two evening sessions inviting people who have left the church to return and share their stories. We are creating space for former parishioners to gather and reflect. We are asking those who choose to come to respond to three simple questions:

• What called you to the St. Philip Community initially?
• Where are you now and what do you like about it?
• What would you like to share with us about the circumstances that have caused you to change churches or stay away?

As I prepare for these evenings, I'm tuning my heart, mind, spirit to these questions. I'm meditating on this action of being deeply attentive, validating, and acknowledging of all that I hear. I'm listening to my own inner voice, and how I react to circumstances and people throughout the day. I'm practicing the hard work it is to defer judgment, and simply receive information. I'm reading poetry.

Our goal in having these sessions is to do the work of story-telling: of truth-telling, sharing, hearing, acknowledging, and reconciling. Our goal is to tune in, not unlike the poet, to the heart of matters, to details, to the Divine at work and in our midst. As I ready myself, I'm re-reading poems. I'm struck time and again by Mary Oliver, Rainer Maria Rilke, William Stafford. Today, I tune to an old favorite by William Stafford, and realize that his poem holds lessons around why I am called to do any of this work of listening, sharing stories, responding. I invite each and everyone of you into this poem - into reading it as an act of prayer and meditation. And I ask that you please keep these "Listening Sessions" in your heart.

Thank you.
Enjoy!
Happy Contemplating!
Melissa

****

A Ritual to Read to Each Other
by William Stafford (1960)

If you don't know the kind of person I am
and I don't know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dyke.

And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail,
but if one wanders the circus won't find the park.
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider--
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give --yes or no, or maybe--
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

On "Particle Physics" - Posting a Poem for Quantum Love?

From Today's Writer's Almanac, a poem that perplexes and pleases me. A Quantum physics poem, to be sure. Or is it a baseball poem? Or lost love poem? Hmmmm.....
Critical response questions follow. Read on.

Particle Physics
by Julie Kane

They say two photons fired through a slit
stay paired together to the end of time;
if one is polarized to change its spin,
the other does a U-turn on a dime,
although they fly apart at speeds of light
and never cross each other's paths again,
like us, a couple in the seventies,
divorced for almost thirty years since then.
Tonight a Red Sox batter homered twice
to beat the Yankees in their playoff match,
and, sure as I was born in Boston, when
that second ball deflected off the bat,
I knew your thoughts were flying back to me,
though your location was a mystery.

"Particle Physics" by Julie Kane from Jazzy Funeral. © Story Line Press, 2009. Reprinted with permission. Information about the WCU Poetry Center.
(buy now)

Questions:
What would it mean to be fired through a slit together?
You and me?
Have you ever wondered what makes one polarized?
What gives you a charge?
Know anyone to turn on a dime?
Can you fathom the speed of light?
How would it feel to never lay eyes on her again? Or him?
Would you ache?
How are baseball and physics and love all connected?
(Have you seen "Bull Durham"? I wonder if Susan Sarandon reads such poems or blogs?) What is your location?
Who do you love?
What have you lost?
How can we win home runs in love?
What do particles do when they divorce?
What do particles do when they love?
What are you and I made up of?
What does our matter say to these queries?
To this poem?
Can we ever put our finger on mystery?


Happy Questions and Contemplation!
Love,
Melissa

On the Murder of Chris Dozier: Reflecting on the Lives of Former Students

Marcus White. Toua Xiong. Quincy DeShawn Smith. And now Christopher Dozier. All former North High Students I had the privilege of knowing and teaching. All killed in North Minneapolis.

***

I woke up Friday morning to an email from the Peace Foundation. A "Peace e-lert" is what the message was entitled, sent to inform those on the list-serve of recent news, events in and around North Minneapolis. In this case, the email contained information about an upcoming Vigil, sponsored by MADDADS and the Peace Foundation organizations, to honor the life of Christopher Dozier, who was murdered Monday, August 31st in North Minneapolis. The message states that Chris "was found shot to death in a car." It includes a photo of him holding a small child. It relays information about his life. It reads:

Chris, the father of two sons, Christopher Jr. (3) and Sincere (1), was an active member of St. Nebo Missionary Baptist Church and a graduate of North High School (2004). He also attended Dicker College in Louisville, Kentucky & Barber College (2006-2007). His family says that he was a loving son and brother—a true family man—who will be remembered for his big smile and his creative designs.

It offers details about the vigil itself, which is held in the location the violence occurred:

The PEACE Vigil will be held on Sunday, September 6th at 2:00 p.m. next to 1416 11th Ave North.

I read. I take a deep breathe. I sigh. I look closer at the picture. I scan my memory. I know this young man. I knew him as a teenager. I re-read the bio and process information: Class of 2004. I do the math. I place Mr. Dozier in my sophomore English Class at North High in 2001/ 2002. I see his broad smile, his lanky frame at 16. I scan my class list, and look for his attendance records. I imagine my clip chart with student data, and try to see his grades. I ask myself, "Was he a good student?"

And then I stop. And I take note of what I've just done, subconsciously. WAS HE A GOOD STUDENT?

I ask myself, "What does it matter if he was a good student or not?" As I pause, I wonder what else is really trying to get constructed in my brain.

If Chris was a good student, then he was a good kid.

If he was a good kid, then he was a good human being.

If he was a good human being, then he would not have died.

He would not have deserved to die.

This is what happens in my brain -- in a split second! I am sick as I do this simple interrogation of my own psyche, begging to know what is behind my question, "Was he a good student?" What if he was a rotten student? What if I kicked him out of class for being disruptive? What if he skipped sophomore English on a daily basis? What if he bombed out on assignments? What if I gleaned gang graffiti on his notebook? Who cares? Would that have one little bit of bearing on whether or not his death was tragic, and whether or not mourning him was an important action? Would it change the fact that he was a human being who was loved by and loved others?

Whew. It makes me sort of ill writing this. Who deserves to die? Who deserves to be shot to death in their car? Who deserves to live? Who gets to decide any of this? Who gets to judge?

***

I see Chris. I recall his jovial demeanor, and replay scenes of him poking his head into my room between class periods. He smiles. He goofs. He comes into the classroom corner where the props for drama activities are held. He grabs a sword. I see him pretending to be Bottom, in Shakespeare's "A Midsummer Night's Dream" and prancing around with this plastic prop that makes silly sound effects with each wielding gesture. I remember being annoyed with that sword and the ongoing pranking of Chris and his peers. I see this former student performing his assigned scene from the Shakespeare comedy before his classmates. We laugh. We are entertained. In the scene, Chris' character fakes his own death. I am stopped again replaying this scene in my mind's eye.

***

In Julie Landsman's book, "Growing Up White: A Veteran Teacher Reflects on Racism" she addresses her own inherently held racist tendencies. In the book, she takes an inventory of moments when she's realized her white privilege is at work, and how her own responses to students of color as "victims" has played a possible part in perpetuating the disparities in education. She describes a moment in class at Sheridan Middle School in Northeast Minneapolis when she's doing a residency and asks the students to write a letter. When one little girl with brown skin submits what she has written to her mother in jail, Julie is aghast. She records her deep sorrow and dismay over the situation of the little girl. She holds the circumstances of the child's incarcerated parent as the largest factor determining her success. Julie reflects on how her notions of the little girl are shaped by this single fact, and notes how later, she realizes she overlooked the child's present and loving grandmother, the girl's vocabulary and well-constructed prose. Julie recognizes she has reduced this child to a single detail and that this is part of the problem we all have as humans who seem to focus on reductionary facts that perpetuate inequity and victimhood. As the author of the book, she models the work we are all called to do: getting conscious of how our thoughts and attitudes shape our interactions and subsequent relational outcomes.

***

I think about Chris. I see Marcus White. I recall the last time Toua Xiong and I had an interaction. And I hold Quincy DeShawn Smith's death in my mind. Each of these young men were once my students. Each of them had families and home lives and work lives that shaped who they were, and spoke volumes about their characters. Each of them were loved by someone - many - and in turn loved beyond themselves. Each of them were North Side residents at one point, whose lives also came to a brief halt in North Minneapolis.

What is the sum of each of their lives? How do we hold and measure the hearts and minds and spirits of young men murdered in North MInneapolis? How do we hold and measure our own hearts and minds and spirits? What value do we place on life? Those of our children here, and those of our children there? How do I reflect honestly about the violence in North Minneapolis? How does it relate to violence anywhere in the world? How do I celebrate fully the life and love and potential there, as well as in my own St. Paul home? What is my job as a former teacher from North High, who still prays and volunteers and works in and around the homes and streets, businesses and schools of North Minneapolis? What am I called to pay attention to? What are you called to stop and take note of?

***

As I mark this fourth tragic death, I consciously work, like my friend Julie Landsman, to mark the fullness of these young men's four lives. I invite you to do the same.

In peace,

Melissa

Youth Radio: Valencia McMurray on Homelessness

"Minneapolis - The Minneapolis Public Schools counted 5,500 homeless children in the district last year.

One of those students is Valencia McMurray, who graduated last Saturday from North High School in Minneapolis. She tells the story of her struggle to stay in school and graduate while living on her own."

These are the opening words to a story I heard broadcast on Minnesota Public Radio this morning.

This personal account of one young woman's journey as a homeless teen made me cry. Her strength and resilient nature made me smile. The whole narrative made me ask questions:

What does it mean to be 17 and homeless?

How would I navigate such circumstances? You?

How many of my former North HIgh students were in similar situations - that I really knew of? Could I name them? Count them? Who was I completely clueless about?

What are the odds of graduating from high school when you don't know where you will sleep at night?

What kind of wisdom does such a young person gain in this space?

What is my role or response as a listener? Do I have one?

How is Valencia McMurray my teacher?

What questions does this story make you ask?

This Youth Radio piece made me proud to know such powerful and resilient young people - and their teachers - who face such circumstances. I applaud MPR for their production and pairing efforts. I congratulate Valencia and her peers on their accomplishments to date! I look forward to hearing more from all involved....

I encourage all of you to tune in! Listen!

In peace, contemplation,

Melissa

On DNA - From Today's Writer's Almanac

This information in today's Writer's Almanac about DNA makes me happy. "Deoxyribose nucleic acid." Say that three times really fast! To contemplate the building blocks of our bodies, beings.....?!

I say "Thank you" to Watson and Crick for their work compiling others' research efforts. I celebrate the initially, un-acknowledged Rosalind Franklin. I marvel considering who and where our next Nobel-prize winning scientists are. I stand in awe considering all the information that is held in my own DNA, as well as yours. "What will we discover or learn next?"

***

It was on this day in 1953 that Watson and Crick published the article in which they proposed the structure of DNA. The article appeared in Nature magazine, and it was only about a page long. It began, "We wish to suggest a structure for the salt of deoxyribose nucleic acid (D.N.A.). This structure has novel features which are of considerable biological interest." Their hypothesis about the double-helix structure of DNA revolutionized biology and paved the way for the field of genetics. Some science historians rank their feat with Newton describing the laws of physics.

Watson and Crick's discovery was actually the result of synthesizing many other people's ideas and research. They spent relatively little time in the laboratory doing experiments. They relied on the research of others, especially Rosalind Franklin, who had taken X-ray photographs of DNA samples. Their initial failure to acknowledge their huge debt to her caused a great debate in the scientific world. Many people felt that she should have shared the Nobel Prize, which Watson and Crick won in 1962.

Meditation: On Description

I love this passage from Pat Carini. It takes me to all of you today. I offer it as an invitation to slow down, pause, attend. It seems an absolute act of prayer, reverence, peace - this process.

It makes me wonder, "What would happen if we really looked at something - someone, circumstances - before we responded? What if we simply described what we saw?"

Meditation: On Description

"Describing I pause, and pausing, attend.

Describing requires that I stand back and consider.

Describing requires I not rush to judgment or conclude before I have looked.

Describing makes room for something to be fully present.

Describing is slow, particular work.

I have to set aside familiar categories for classifying or generalizing.

I have to stay with the subject of my attention.

I have to give it time to speak, to show itself."

-Pat Carini, "Meditation: On Description" In Starting Strong: A Different Look at Children, Schools, and Standards. New York: Teachers College Press, 163-164.

Happy Contemplating!
Melissa

On Race and White Privilege: Julie Landsman at the Church of St. Philips

How do we make visible the invisible?
What role does race, racism, and white privilege play in our public discourse? How about our everyday communication?
(What is white privilege? How do we define this concept?)
How does anyone get conscious of that which lies below the surface, or goes unacknowledged, but permeates everything?
How do we celebrate our diversity, and move toward a unified humanity?
What precedes such development?
How do relationships transform our learning at the intellectual, spiritual, emotional levels?
How messy and exciting - at the same time- is this work?!

Hmmm....These are some of the questions I hold going into this weekend's event featuring teacher and author Julie Landsman at the Church of St. Philip's. For those who don't know, Ms. Landsman is one who exemplifies a critical consciousness and learning around some of the toughest issues of our time: racism and white privilege.

As a parishioner at the Church of St. Philip's, I'm excited about how having Julie in our midst may help to surface some of the gifts and challenges present in our North Side faith community. With St. Philip's rich legacy as a Polish Catholic parish, and its evolving spirit in a predominantly African American community, coupled with the recent influx of many East African members and our Congolese Catholic priest, we are poised for a rich and powerful discussion inspired by Ms. Landsman's own witness to her pink-skinned heritage and cultural experiences. Julie's writing is rooted in social justice consciousness, and flows from civil rights activism --which seeks to unite all of us across race, class, gender, language, faith lines.

If you are in the area, please feel free to join our post-mass reading and facilitated discussion. Julie will read from her latest book, "Growing Up White: A Veteran Teacher Reflects on Racism."

WHEN: Sunday, March 22, 2009
TIME: 11:30 a.m. to 1:00 p.m. (following 10:15am mass)
WHERE: Church of St. Philip 2507 Bryant Avenue North Minneapolis, MN 55411
(at the corner of 26th Avenue and Bryant Avenue North)

This is a free event and all are encouraged to attend.

Again: All are welcome!

Peace,
Melissa

Michael Franti In Minneapolis: "Say Hey!" Happy Valentine's Day!

"Seems like every where I go, the more I see, the less I know."

I love this song. The simplicity. The sweetness. The story.

This evening I will have the pleasure of seeing Michael Franti perform this live with Spearhead at the Orpheum Theater in downtown Minneapolis. As a precursor to tonight's event, I share this You Tube music video of his latest song, "Say Hey (I love you.) " It says volumes to me about the sweet, simple, profound notion of love, and what our journeys really teach us.

Enjoy!

Melissa

Strange Fruit: A Reflection on Race, Culture, Faith, and Dialogue from the North Side

Southern trees bear strange fruit,

Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,

Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,

Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.
- Strange Fruit, Billie Holiday

It's Wednesday night. I am at the Church of St. Philips in North Minneapolis. Actress and singer Thomasina Taylor Petrus is performing in the Mixed Blood Theater production of the one-woman show, "Daughters of Africa." At the corner of 26th and Bryant, inside this Catholic church, I am a member of this diverse audience that includes neighborhood children and teens, parents and mentors all gathered with fellow church members and Patchwork Quilt volunteers from partnering parishes around the Twin Cities. Black, White. Brown, yellow. Old, young. All are welcome and assembled for this free community performance of a musical honoring the lives and legacies of African American women through the ages.

At this moment, I am struck by Ms. Petrus' performance of Billie Holiday. The actress embodies this vocal legend -- physically, emotionally --singing "Strange Fruit" from the stage space created in front of the church's alter. In the course of her song, hearing these harrowing and powerful lyrics, I take note of the setting. I stand in awe of this juxtaposition of a Holiday in our midst, offering such potent words, with Christ on the Cross behind her, hanging atop a multi-colored stone-constructed wall.

Pastoral scene of the gallant south,

The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,

Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,

Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.

My breathe stops short for a second. I pause, and take it in. Blood on the leaves. Blood at the root. Bulging eyes, twisted mouth. Bodies swinging. The scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh.

A month ago, I sat in this same space, to witness the ecumenical memorial service for Annshalike Hamilton, a 15 year old young girl found frozen in a garage, two blocks away, having been beaten to death. She was 7 months pregnant. Every sunday, I attend mass in this same space, blending with a congregation of West Africans and Polish Immigrants, North Siders, Suburban members and other Urban dwellers. And I am moved by it all: the proximity of people and tales, language and culture, crucifixion and terror, faith and community, fear and love, creation and transcendence -- all in one space. All seem to converge and speak directly to my core as some kind of celebratory witness of our humanity.

Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.

By the time the performance ends, we have seen Harriet Tubman, Elisabeth Freeman, Madam C.J. Walker, Zora Neale Hurston, Lena Horne, Rosa Parks, Oprah Winfrey. All come to life. All these women tell their stories, sing and engage our crowd.

Afterwards, after the applause, after the question and answer period -- after the little kids marvel and move toward Thomasina, after the children crawl up to sit next to her, after I even add my comment about this moment that has stood out to me -- this is when I have the next conversation. The layered conversation, the race meets faith meets culture and language conversation.

Fr. Jules Omba Omalanga, my newly installed pastor from the Congo, is locking up the place. I say to this dear man, with brown skin and a warm, round face, "Hey! Good stuff, eh, Pere Jules?"

He is beaming, and notes, in his African-French-accented English: "Did you see all the little kids coming up to her? I love seeing children so engaged."

I smile. I nod. I say, "And, this took place in church, Father!? And there was not one overt mention of Jesus!?" He nods and turns his head to me. I continue, "It's powerful what the arts and opportunities like this do for engaging us all, eh?"

I want to squeeze him. I want to thank him for his role in having this kind of thing happen in our church. I want to talk about my own large catholic spirit layered notions of how faith intersects with story, and works to inspire us all. I hold back. I wonder if this appropriate? I wonder if my Congolese Catholic priest gleans the way words shared, performed, sung this evening, are not unlike the words we hear shared each Sunday morning at service? I consider the way I feel fed by this performance, in a similar way to how I feel fed each time I attend mass and receive the Eucharist. I wonder if I can even utter such things? I wonder how he perceives, what he gleans of this evening, what he gets from the history of African Americans? I wonder too, especially, what it's like when his own Congolese and French-speaking self has only been here a few short years? I wonder if he understands me? Ultimately, I wonder if I understand him?

"Fr. Jules, did you get the "Strange Fruit" reference I mentioned?"

He shakes his head, "no" and continues locking up. Fumbling with keys, he says, "What is this 'strange fruit'?"

I try to explain, "It's an allusion to the lynching of an African American in a song by Billie Holiday."

"What is this word, "lynching?" he asks, still turning locks, still looking puzzled.

I pause, put my hand on his arm, "Father, imagine Jesus is black, and instead of a cross, he's hanging from a rope in a tree. That is 'lynching.'"

Then he nods, stopping, looking straight at me, and says, "Yes. I know many stories like this. It reminds me of stories from home. Stories from places the Congo and other African countries... like in Darfur. I know what this is."

Whew. And there's another conversation, right? Another 15 conversations! Here I am thinking all about catholicism and race and culture and history as it mixes itself up on the North side. Here I am trying to sort if this fellow and I have much in common and how we might ever really communicate, understand one another, be on the same page. And here, in this honest exchange, in this slowing down and stopping sort-of-exchange, my priest and friend takes me right out into the larger world. Into his home country, and into his experiences -- into spaces that I have no first hand knowledge of, but desire to understand deeply. He also takes me right into his own heart. I feel like I am present, lucky, so privileged to be standing here and part of something that feels so much larger.

And it makes me ask:

How many layers of communication must we peel back until we are all on the same page -- until we are all speaking about the same thing, using a common language, or common frame of reference? How many doors, hallways, buildings, alleys, (continents) do we travel over and through, until we find ourselves euphemistically, literally, in same room? What does it take to get there? How many keys do we need? How many doors do we lock and unlock? How many plays and masses and funerals do we attend? How many conversations do we have? Who wants to go through all the work? Who wants the hastle, the mess, the emotion? Who wants to hold feelings of perhaps being lost or confused? Who wants to acknowledge the work, and what exists in this room, on this page, when we arrive? And why would any of us want to go there?

These are questions I'm passionate about. These are questions that plague me. These are questions that seem to be at the heart of all my work and experiences of late. Whew. So I put them out here, in light of this recent encounter, and I invite you to hold this with me.

I invite you into the strange fruit experiences, conversations and contemplations of your own.

LOVE!

Melissa

"What Do You Love Most in the World?" A Question from Kajire Village, Kenya

"What do you love the most in the world?"

Kizaka Mwacharo whispers this question to me as we sit in a lantern lit room in the village of Kajire, Kenya. He is 19. His eyes are wide. He does not smile, but poses the question with what seems all the courage and hope and desire and curiosity that a young man can muster. It's almost like I can taste these things in the oxygen he's exhaled speaking the words.

"What do you love most in the world?"

We are five in the room. Kizaka, his 20 and 19 year old cousins Nathanial and Paul, his 17 year old brother Lucas. We are gathered in this living area of their sister Ruth's home, awaiting a meal she prepares in a separate cooking space. The room is simple. A concrete/ stucco structure with wood beam rafters and a sheet of corrugated tin for the roof. Something like barbed tumble weeds line the open spaces between the walls and rough stick rafters and the roof -- "to keep the bats out." From the ceiling, hang strips of colored fabrics, muslins, cottons, like the remnants from a quilting party, I think. A confetti of cloth that makes me think this room is always ready for a celebration of sorts. Also dangling from these beams are sporadic items of American and Kenyan culture: A plastic Coke bottle, Vanilla Wafer boxes, a local empty juice can. Together, these items remind me of Mardi Gras, and make me smile whenever I look up.

The walls of this room are covered in original drawings and writing. Psalms from the Bible are written in English and Kiswahili and hung opposite colorings of local flora and fauna. It is to me, a holy, holy place. A sanctuary in this 10 x 10 foot room.

"What do you love most in the world?"

My chest squeezes hearing the question repeated. Kizaka breathes in deeply and these four young men, Kenyan boys that I am holding space with, await my answer.

I think, "God." Yes. "I love God the most in the world." Saying such a thing doesn't seem so silly when you are almost in a pitch black room, lit only by a kerosene lamp. I have been hanging out with Paul, the eldest cousin, back from college in Mombasa, for the better part of my arrival three hours ago. (Sitting under a tree raining yellow flowers), we covered Obama, the Kenyan elections and political difficulties of this past year, and my work in the states as a teacher and person desiring change. I know of his trek to college, as one of 3 males that left the village to pursue a higher education. I trust and feel trusted here. My heart is open. I don't feel silly speaking of such intimate things.

"What do you love most in the world?"

"Yes, I think I love God the most, and then the ideas of peace, justice, love, building relationships across race, class, borders, lines....I love good stories, too." They smile. We wait. I wonder. I ask, "And you all, what do you love most in the world?"

I am back in my classroom. I am at North High. I am with the spoken word poets from "Teens Rock the Mic"; I am in the midst of my Writing as Performance class in North Minneapolis; I am hanging out with the Teen Group at the Church of St. Philip's. Rodney Dixon, Jamie Wynne, Tish Jones and Shaina Wilburn, Denez Smith, Jasmine McConnell and Ms. Omorogbe; Joy Chaney, Sharifa Charles and Berato Wilson are all here. Chestine Hutchinson, Gawalo Kpissay and Aaronthomas Green are here. I may be in Kajire, Kenya, physically-- but the spirits of my students from the United States are present and pouring forth in the palpable energy that is this room of Taita brothers and cousins.

"What do you love most in the world?"

One by one, then, each boy answers. "God," "Football," "Girls," "Love." " Peace." These are prevailing answers. Each posed with such earnest, such sincerity, my heart would like to break. It has broken wide open.

How can a person ever go back to being the same again, after such moments of connecting, of questions, of exposure, of cracked-open-honesty and intrigue?

"What do you love most in the world?"

I want to say, "You."

On the Election: Some thoughts from an American in Tanzania

From my friend Emily Morris, Arts Educator, Global Citizen, Agent-of Change in Tanzania:

(Following her words, you'll find the provocative "What if?" list of questions that challenge all of us regarding the way Racism plays a part in our political perceptions and discernment.)

"It is incredible to be watching the American elections from Tanzania, close to where Obama's father was from...where my neighbors are named Barak (meaning blessings in Kiswahili and Arabic)...and where people are still shocked that a half-Kenyan man could have made it this far in the US. I remain hopeful for Tuesday, and my Tanzanian friends say..."don't get your hopes up Emma...the US may not really ready for a man that is in heritage both black and white, Christian and Muslim, African and American, humble and strong...who worked his way up with a fight."

Every day I look at Tanzanian women my age...smarter than I but who didn't have resources to finish secondary school. They could have lived different lives if they were born into my shoes..a white girl from the US. Here 120 kids cram into one classroom...pushing and shoving their way to get an education. And yet despite our privilege and resources, we Americans still fear being diverse, internationally well-traveled, driven, intellectual, articulate, well-read and multicultural. Obama has achieved all these things...without eating off the silver plate. He had to not only prove his capacities to himself - but the skeptics and all those people uncomfortable with his multi everythingness. If this isn't a race thing..how could McCain/Palin still be competition?

I have tried to explain to my colleagues and friends here the critiques they hear on the news..how in America a plumber like Joe could have access to triple digit money and become the icon for commonness...how wanting to reduce poverty makes one a socialist...how having Muslim family questions one's "goodness"...and I am embarrassed to even repeat these viewpoints from my fellow citizens.. Instead I try to reassure them that Barak made it where he is today because his story is like so many other Americans..and that his victory will not be a miracle, but a day long overdue. He is not lucky, he is what is possible in America.

I will be waking to the call to prayer here on Wed. and turning on my TV to watch the final polls come in. I am already saying my prayers that the day will be full of blessings...where we can finally start seeing things in color instead of black and white.

Peace...and I promise to send some Tanzanian stories and photos of hope to come.

love,
e"

****

What If....?

What if John McCain were a former president of the Harvard Law Review?

What if Barack Obama finished fifth from the bottom of his graduating class?

What if McCain were still married to the first woman he said "I do" to?

What if Obama were the candidate who left his first wife after she no longer measured up to his standards?

What if Michelle Obama were a wife who not only became addicted to pain killers, but acquired them illegally through her charitable organization?

What if Cindy McCain graduated from Harvard?

What if Obama were a member of the Keating-5? (please see article below for more information re: what Keating Five is).

What if McCain were a charismatic, eloquent speaker?

If these questions reflected reality, do you really believe the election numbers would be as close as they are?

This is what racism does. It covers up, rationalizes and minimizes positive qualities in one candidate and emphasizes negative qualities in another when there is a color difference.

You are The Boss... which team would you hire?

With America facing historic debt, 2 wars, stumbling health care, a weakened dollar, all-time high prison population, mortgage crises, bank foreclosures, etc.

Educational Background:

Obama: Columbia University - B.A. Political Science with a Specialization in
International Relations.
Harvard - Juris Doctor (J.D.)
Magna Cum Laude

Biden: University of Delaware - B.A. in History and B.A. in Political Science.
Syracuse University College of Law - Juris Doctorate J.D.)

vs.

McCain: United States Naval Academy - Class rank: 894 of 899

Palin: Hawaii Pacific University - 1 semester
North Idaho College - 2 semesters - general study University of Idaho - 2 semesters.
Journalism Matanuska-Susitna College - 1 semester.
University of Idaho - 3 semesters - B.A. in Journalism

-

On the Healing Power of Story: Fr. Michael Lapsley

"I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty

to know what occurs but not recognize the fact."

-William Stafford in the poem, "Ritual to Read to Each Other."

On Tuesday morning, I had the awesome and amazing privilege of hearing Fr. Michael Lapsley speak at Bethel College. (Pictures follow.) Sponsored by the Reconciliation Studies Department, Fr. Lapsley came from Cape Town, South Africa, to address the students and faculty on this topic of "Forgiveness and Healing."

He had a story to tell.

As the Bethel write-up conveyed:

"Fr. Michael Lapsley was exiled by the South African Government in 1976, he joined the African National Congress (ANC) and became one of their chaplains. While living in Zimbabwe he discovered he was on the South African Government hit list. In April 1990 he received a letter bomb in the mail losing both hands, one eye and had his eardrums shattered. He now runs the Institute for Healing Memories in Cape Town."

I went to learn. I went to listen. I went to witness first hand this man who works facilitating people's stories and healing. I went in preparation for my own journey back to South Africa, eleven days from now. I went to align myself with this kind of artful teaching and transformational leadership work. I went and I was blown away.

The resonance of all that Fr. Michael shared was powerful. The convergence of his life story, what he overcame, his working philosophy about story telling and forgiveness -- I found powerfully aligned with my own as teacher, writer, traveler, contemplative.

"Every one has a story to tell" he said. " To have your own story reverenced, recognized, acknowledged, given a moral containment," is at the heart of reconciliation and transformation. In Fr. Lapsley's words, I heard the essential roles we play as teachers, healers, as priests, as nuns, as leaders, who are working to see the thriving of all individuals.

Father underscored the difference between having knowledge of circumstances and acknowledging what occurs or has occurred. Like the poet William Stafford conveys in his poem "Ritual to Read to each Other" - there is a cruelty-- or a kind of perpetuation of the sorrow, the horror, a crime --when something isn't fully recognized. The distinction between knowing and acknowledging is an active listening one, an active reverence, an acknowledgement of what someone has lived through, and survived.

In that room at Bethel, I could hear my North High students when Fr. Lapsley was talking. I could hear their stories. I could hear the spoken word poets I have had the privilege of knowing and coaching and learning from. I could hear my colleagues in urban education. I could hear friends who try to reconcile poverty and privilege. I felt the truth, the weight, the power of what he was saying.

To simply acknowledge what occurs is to powerfully honor and reverence another's journey, an overcoming, a movement toward healing. It's a step toward transforming and healing a nation.

Can you imagine this in your own life? Can you imagine what it would be to be fully seen? Fully heard? Can you imagine your family? Can you imagine this in your work? Can you envision the implications in your community? In your nation? What about the world? Who are we when we acknowledge fully what occurs? What would mean to first and foremost simply see, name what is taking place?

Just some thoughts, as I make way for Africa, continue working on this book, and reflect on transformational models of teaching, learning, leadership in our world today.

Peace,

Melissa

South African Reconciliation Studies Grad Student, Program and Projects Director,
Seth Naicker

Fr. Lapsley was always to check our listening, by listening to us....
Thulani Xaba, Healing of Memories Facilitator,
Durban, South Africa

While I document, Thulani slips me his contact info.

Thulani talks about "making safe space" so that "all stories can be told, heard."