Opening thoughts . . .
As I sit here writing these opening words, surrounded by all the
familiar creature comforts of our home in Massachusetts that we have spent a
lifetime accumulating, the powerful awareness washes over me that the body and
the psyche were not designed to make the massive transition from a third world
country to our middle class US lifestyle in just 48 short hours. To go from
shorts and sandals one day, to shoes, long pants, jacket, winter hat (layers and layers) the next, is a leap; to go from 90+ degrees to around 30 degrees
in a few hours, is a shock to the system; to go from litter and garbage strewn
on the sidewalks, grass and streets at will, and where the stench and smells of
their accumulation is inescapable … to our little town where litter is
gratefully hard to find and garbage finds its way to the dump; to go from
pervasive poverty and pain to a place where the accumulation of wealth and the
goal “of a better tomorrow” have some semblance of hope to be achieved and are
not just pipe dreams and a fantasy world . . . and on and on. Sitting here,
having been there, has an air of unreality to it right now. “Business as usual”
isn’t working inside me. How can my system adjust to that 12 hour plane ride
that separates night and day, poverty and wealth, hope and despair??!! Time
will tell.
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| Just a little older, eh? |
In some ways this trip for me has been 48 years in the making. For
it was in 1965 that I first entered the Maryknoll Missionary Fathers college
seminary in Illinois, planning to spend my life as a Catholic priest in the
mission field. It was then and there too, that I met a kind and sassy Brooklyn
boy named “Jo’c” (John O’Connor by birth, though no one called him that except
the principle whom he visited often!). I am so grateful that our friendship has
withstood the test of time, change and the challenges of growth and
differences, and particularly grateful for how hard Jo’c worked and planned to
help me have a wonderful experience teaching and exploring with him in Guyana
for the past three weeks.
From here on, a few reflections on my time in Guyana as I
journaled them (through letters home) during my stay.
“Don’t Glamorize”
Oct. 23, 2013
Dear Maggie:
A few observations from a 2 1/2 hour walk I just returned from --
during "5 o'clock traffic hour" in downtown Georgetown -- amidst the
thousands of people speeding around on foot and in cars, buses and cabs, I was
the ONLY white guy to be found; I was also the ONLY guy in shorts to be seen; I
was also the ONLY dude wearing sunglasses or a baseball hat .... to say that I
"stood out in the crowd" and drew 10,000 glances, is an
understatement!! Luckily I didn't get too lost, because in the dark I would
have REALLY stood out! But their friendliness dispelled most fears that tended
to surface because of our differences.
I have developed a new commandment that I wanted to share with you
(and all) --- "Thou shalt not glamorize me, where I am, or what I'm
doing" !! I am still the same 'ole incompetent/sometimes more competent
smuck that I've always been. Imperfections or abilities know no geography.
And so whereas I appreciate the "pride in you" that you
and others have expressed, I don't want it to diminish where you are and what
you're doing. Life's work is tough wherever we find ourselves!
Just had a little supper we brought up from the cafeteria and ate in the room (cold macaroni and cheese, potato salad and something
green and was still moving, I think). Now I need to get ready for tomorrow's
classes and it is quickly approaching my 9 p.m. bedtime.
“Nighttime in Guyana” Oct. 24,
2013
"Great minds think along the path", they say, Maggie.
The title of your email to me last night "Good Night" happens to be
what I wanted to write something about at midnight, then 1 and 2 .... then at
3, 4, 5 a.m. !
I remember when I would glibly say "Good Night" or
"Sleep well" or "Have a good night's sleep" or "Don't
let the bed bugs bite" (the later will need to taken up at a future date!)
.... then old age set in!! With prostate and bladder issues to contend with,
a "good" night would be getting awakened out of a sound sleep "only"
3 or 4 times a night. Then came Guyana!
After five nights here so far, here is my “new normal” ... getting
into bed about 9 p.m. after my cold shower (remember there is only one knob in
the shower... that drips about 50 drops a minute -- pretty sad that I'm now
counting drips!), the sweat is pouring off me by the time my head hits the
pillow. My puddle and I settle in for the marathon night. Of course I have my
two salvific fans taking dead aim at me for the night -- but what first feels
like a respite from the heat, suddenly is more like a billowing furnace.
Now the "wall" that divides Jo'c and me is more like a
dividing wall -- with no separate ceilings. So if one of us has a light on, the
reflection is seen off our common high ceiling. We may be taking our snoring duet onto
"America' Got Talent" ... whoops, except he's Canadian.
Then there the other chorus of sounds of the night ... like the
trucks, cars, buses, cabs with their horns ALWAYS blaring, traveling down a
busy main street RIGHT outside my window, of course. I've been teaching myself
some new swear words during those sleepless hours!!!
Then there is the rain ... an anticipated welcome relief, but oh
no-- it gets hotter. I was awakened by this crashing sound only to realize that
the tropical rain was pounding down -- onto our TIN roof!!! The noise was deafening
and I found myself longing for Jo'c to snore even louder!!
So after battling snoring, traffic, torrential rains, I
think that must be it. Dozing in and out, I then hear (like in a dream) this
bellowing, rhythmic chanting coming from somewhere other than my head. Of course,
it's from the huge police academy right outside my window on the busy street
with all that traffic. They are doing their 5 a.m. outdoor marching drills ...
and making sure the whole neighborhood knows it!
“Pictures Lie” Oct.
26, 2013
Thank you so much for remembering that today is the anniversary of
my ordination, and for your 'morning note' of my sermon title on that
Reformation Sunday 38 years ago, "You Are Accepted". So thanks
to you, Maggie, and many others in my life, for putting up with my multitude of
imperfections, and continuing to accept me over the years.
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| 38 years ago... |
"Now I am a Psychiatrist"
Yesterday was as full, busy, and diverse a day as I've had, and
trying to capture it does not seem even remotely possible. But I'll try to
paint a bit of a picture with words, knowing that like pictures they are at
best inadequate. They are one dimensional and "uni-sensory" and the senses of
touch, smell, hearing even taste are conspicuously absent (this is huge in
pictures of Guyana, where the oppressive heat and the powerful odors dominate
the landscape).
The destination was the town of Suddie on the northwest shore of
the Atlantic about 2+ hours from our hospital in Georgetown. Getting up at 5
a.m., we traveled 45 min. to a couple mile long pontoon bridge that
crosses the Demarara River (a very shaky ride across the river with thousands
of other cars traveling their morning commute on it too). Then it was on to
catch a ride to cross the Essequibo River in these very “primitive” wooden
boats that would carry us through a series of islands, and over some 'testy'
waters, to the unseen shores ahead. The boat drivers are fearless, and know
that 'time is money', so their idea of a safe travel speed and ours were quite
different. I kept reading the many painted sayings on the wall of the canopied
craft (“God is the Greatest”, “Love everyone”, “Live a good life”, etc., oh
yeah, and “We are not responsible for” ....), wishing I had brought my rosary
beads and gone to confession ... while constantly humming “Just a closer
walk with Thee” !!! But with water spraying from every direction from our wake
(I didn't dare say that word out there!), we finally arrived in what felt like
a eternity (aka, 45 min. later), hugging the land, praying to all the major
religions that Guyana has represented in it (throwing in a couple others for good
measure), grateful to have survived . . .
and oblivious to fact that that also was the ONLY way back!!!
We then got into another crazy (a requirement to get a license
here) driver’s cab, racing off at the speed of light, comforted only by the
idea that we would at least now die on Terra Firma (and we think Boston is
bad!!). We arrived at Suddie Public Hospital (rustic does not begin to describe
it!!), to have about 75 people waiting there (from many miles away and for
many hours) under a tin lean-to (remember it's over 90 degrees with humidity
between 80-90) in order to talk with the 3 doctors with whom we were traveling.
Some of the cases were beyond sad, and my helpless went into overdrive as I
went around talking with those waiting, and trying to provide some sense of
compassion and empathy -- but inside feeling totally useless. I wanted to do
something concrete tangible to improve their lives this day, not be the
vague, impotent therapist who spouts pious platitudes and knows that changing someone
else didn't come with my diploma. ....
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| At the start of the clinic, everyone got introduced. |
Then I sat with Yul (a man of
about 55 yrs. old, though his body looked so much older) and listened with
tears in my eyes to how he had been beaten up on the street within an inch of
his life about 10 years ago, suffered significant brain trauma and vision loss,
has been barely employable for most jobs, trying to raise his teenage son on
his own, has scars from the beating permanently visible all over his face (and
probably many other unseen places) .... Then he has the nerve
to say to me, "but today is a new day, and the doctor has come for us (one
time per month at best), and here I am talking to a kind man from the United
States who is asking me about MY life .... man, isn't life a good thing!!!!".
Shame on you, Dennis, for thinking otherwise.
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| The Doctor is IN |
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| ...asking me about my life. Isn't life a good thing. |
It is humbling to be here where gratitude and appreciation
abound, and bitterness and envy are infrequent visitors. As I have aged these
past years and my athletic body feels like it is fast fading, my anger frustration response has lead me nowhere ... so I have intentionally worked to
focus on a spirit of gratitude each time I get on my bike for a ride, to
appreciate what I CAN do this day not on how it is slower or harder than
the days before. But this is truly hard work for me -- important, but hard.
Here, like with Yul, it seems to happen like we breath ... naturally,
spontaneously, effortlessly. I admire that. Against these odds, I admire it all
the more.
“My saddest day” Oct. 28, 2013
Today we got up early to go down to the nursing school on the
hospital compound we live and work on, to meet up with our 17 students for a
"field trip". The destination was the town of New Amsterdam to visit
Guyana's only psychiatric hospital for the day (known by the locals as
"the Berbice Mad House"). I thought I was prepared for it, by a great deal of
experience in working at Fairview Hospital in Salem, Oregon and Fernald State
Hospital in Massachusetts (the oldest hospital for mental retardation mental illness in the country) in my early years, and visiting sundry
others over the years. Well, sit down for this --- "I was WRONG, dead
wrong"!!!
What we saw there defies description, and so I have few words
coming to me right now. But I will say that what I did see made me embarrassed to be a part of the human race.
That we can warehouse people in such a fashion, and hide them away so that no
one knows who they are, where they are, how they are doing, is a travesty. And
to bring a smile to their face or show comfort and compassion for a few
moments, does little to soothe my sadness -- which is just as well, because if
it were that easy, it would feel cheap.
There is saying out there somewhere about "Tears are good for
your soul". If that be true, my soul is getting much attention, because I
can't contain all the tears right now. So I must stop, and try to find words at
a future time.
“The ‘H’ word” Oct.
31, 2013
Today is the first year
nursing student's traditional "Bake Sale" to raise money for a
special celebration that they have in December. They take this very seriously
and work very hard to prepare their own special dishes to sell to the hospital
staff and visitors. Of course, being one of their teachers now (they call me
"Rev #2"), I can't be playing any favorites, so I just HAVE to try a
little of everyone's creation! I have expanded my culinary horizons here in
Guyana (hopefully not my waist size too) and have often ventured outside my USA
comfort zone to explore the Guyanese cuisine. I know I mentioned my new
philosophy for eating, "if it's not still moving, I'll try it" ...
well, that may be a little liberal even for me to say!! So far I've spent about
$1,200 at the Sale (that's only $6.00 US) -- but don't have heart failure, I'll
still fit in the plane, and I think I'm done ... and done-in.
But this leads me to some thoughts I have had about the Guyanese
people in general and these young (18-22 ish year old) nursing students in
particular. A word came to me on that
first Sunday morning that I arrived (having already visited Boston and NYC
along the way) and was immediately felt from the cab driver that took me to the
hospital (1 hr. drive), as he warmly greeted me and talked the whole way ...
only stopping, when he pulled over to a roadside fruit stand and told the owner
something in the distance -- the owner then pulling out a machete and
proceeding to carve up a coconut from his stand. The driver put a straw in the
hole the man had made, and then handed it to me saying, "Welcome to
Guyana, my new friend. I hope your stay is a good one!" Trying to at least
pay for his kindness, I quickly halted as he said, "It's a gift -- no pay
for a gift here."
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This is the same Sandra
who delighted in scaring Bev |
The same word came to me as our cab entered the gated hospital
compound, and the woman "security" (not much security really here)
guard warmly welcomed me to Mercy Hospital. I have seen Sandra everyday since,
and we rarely pass without a joke, quip or story of some kind. She makes me
feel at home in my unfamiliar surroundings.
And then that word came bellowing my way on the very first day
that I went into the nursing student's classroom at 7:45 a.m. They begin their
day (always!) with "morning song". They sing and clap with such
enthusiasm and sincerity through songs like "Father Abraham",
"S-a-l-v-a-t-i-o-n", "Amen", and others, and with a gusto
that is so palpable and contagious, that our theological differences evaporate
for me, and I sense profoundly "the tie that binds"!
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| My Baptist Training pays off in the hand clapping singing. |
At the end all
hold hands in the circle we have formed, and a spontaneous prayer for the
journey of the approaching day is offered. This first day of mine, they ask me
to pray. Now this has often happened back home, and I can sometimes feel
like I'm the token minister-guy who you're suppose to ask to pray -- but this
first day I felt (and continue to feel this) that they are saying,
"Welcome to our gathering; our home is your home!"
Then there was the bus driver who had taken a group of us (seven
Canadian and American professionals) to visit a hospital in Suddie, about 2 hours from Georgetown. After a full day
there, we were hungry and talking about trying to find a restaurant.
"Nonsense" replied the driver whom I had NEVER met before, and he
then pulled out his cell phone and made a quick call. We ended up 30 minutes
later at his Hindu family's home. They were celebrating an annual feast (Puja) where all their friends, neighbors, community members -- and evidently us!!
-- were invited to drop over during the day to share in the food feast they
had prepared. So seven of us foreigners arrive on their doorstep, to be treated
to a medley of foods as if they were awaiting our arrival! For the next hour and
a half we ate, visited, were shown their ducks, chickens, fruit trees, flower
garden, etc., and left filled with so much more than
Many other stories have blessedly come my way... but for now, back
to THE word. It is the "H" word. No, not the "Hot" word
that I continue to complain about on a regular basis. And no, it's not
"Hell" which I now fear more than ever-- because I don't do heat well
at all, and I figure eternity is just slightly longer than my three weeks here.
The "H" word that has so impressed me is (drum roll....) HOSPITALITY.
Now many have shown me hospitality in my life, for which I am deeply grateful.
But here it was instantaneous, and has been pervasive. People are exceptionally
polite and respectful, and very rare is the time when someone passes me in the
hospital compound or even on the street, that there aren't words of greeting
and acknowledgement. Granted this US white guy stands out in a crowd, but they
do it with each other too. In a land where horrendous stories abound, and poverty and pain are pervasive, kindness and hospitality are alive and well. Irony
or blessing? You're call. I know I have
made mine.
“Relief . . . No Relief”
Nov. 5, 2013
Which brings me to the realization that this is both an
appropriate metaphor AND real life here. There is NO RELIEF here -- from the
heat, humidity, torrential downpours ... or from poverty, pain, unemployment,
corruption, garbage, congestion, noise, danger, illness ... and on. Relief is a
concept very few can afford (the rich or powerful, maybe). These are not temporary
problems that come and go like our seasons. They are the perpetual state of
affairs, that people today have inherited from their forebears, and now whose
children are also destined to have as the reality of their lives. True some
will "escape" (aka, emigrate ... to Caribbean, the US, Canada,
etc.) seeking jobs, a livable income, security; but they are the VERY few
amidst the 700,000 people that inhabit this country about the size of Oregon
(and about 10 times the size of Massachusetts) who have a realistic hope of
"a better tomorrow". The rest are "predestined" (and I
don't use that word lightly) by the shear magnitude and pervasiveness of the
systemic problems that enslave them, and by the powerful and corrupting forces
that hold the keys to a better tomorrow. I thought I knew what it was like to
feel small and helpless in the US with our self-serving government officials
and long entrenched, endemic struggles ... but Guyana trumps even the
Republicans (and some of the Democrats to be "fair"!). Relief is a
luxury that "does not compute" for the Guyanese.
This became viscerally and poignantly clear to me during my visit
to St. John Bosco Orphanage for boys this week. It was a hot day (go
figure!!), but the sky looked particularly ominous. Then the torrential rains
came, driving the 40 or so boys (ranging in age from about 4 - 16, mostly on
the younger side though) under the covered shelter (with no sides), which is
about 30 feet x 40 and that was mostly taken up with large wooden tables. An
attendant was trying to keep all the boys inside (have you ever tried to herd
cats!!), but wasn't having much luck. Then the sheer force of nature came to
her assistance, and blew most of the stragglers in!
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| John has the "same" picture from 2002! |
For the next two hours ....
about 15+ of the 3 and 4 year olds fell asleep in a beautiful and pathetic
line on the tables, huddled close for companionship and connection; a few
older boys were hitting a cricket ball and creating their own "ball
field” in the maize of people that weren't mercifully asleep. It was an accident(s)
waiting to happen -- but I realized that I haven't lost all my reflexes!! --
and the others seemed sadly oblivious to the dangers, and were just running
around in utter chaos.
Some action HAD to be taken -- for my sanity, if not their safety.
So another volunteer (Donna Joy) and I dragged out some board games, and we valiantly tried
to "herd cats" and get them "settled down" (a completely
misguided concept!). I had a group of eight and the game I had was "Snakes and Ladders".
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| There are Rules... There are Rules... |
With no concept of taking turns, little ability to add up the
numbers on the dice, to count the proper number of spaces ... let alone in a
sequence that was anything but random and self-serving ... it was a MOST
interesting experience. My complete and utter frustration with the game and the
chaos around, was exceeded only by the smiles on their faces and the
appreciation in their eyes. Few are the times when such a ratio (1 to 8) or
structured playfulness, are experienced in their lives. They hunger to know
that they are more than a part of a mass of others who share their plight. They
thirst for a connection that affirms who they are and gets a glimpse of the
unrealized potential they hold inside.
After a couple hours a bell rang, all activity abruptly stopped,
and like lemmings they quickly got in a line (smallest in front to tallest in
the back), and waited impatiently to go into their common "dining
area" for a donated dinner of rice and curry that was given by a
neighboring family. I humbly stood in the background listening to them “Say
Grace” for their meager meal, and sadly realizing that this picture is repeated
three times a day, seven days a week, 365 a year ... if they are lucky. I will
NEVER have another Thanksgiving without great guilt AND gratitude for the fate
that has shaped our differing lives.
The bus ride home was reflective, as has been the time since. The
depression I feel about their fate and future is palpable, harsh and deep. And
I welcome this feeling, for I have long since learned that there are some
situations in which depression is not only inevitable, but normal. Too often, I
find that many are quick to think of depression in diagnostically pathological
terms (it's a bad thing that should be "fixed" and gotten rid of),
when in fact it is the natural, human, healthy, response to certain situations.
My depression is not just at the current deplorable conditions (admittedly, my
“new-be, foreigner” judgment), but that they will grow up into a world which
will still not welcome them, still not give them the refuge and sanctuary they
deserve, still not nurture their potential and foster a sense of hopefulness and possibility. Is this really that different from what we see in parts of
Greenfield, Maggie, or in those with whom you work in Boston, Emily, or others of
you in your communities ... probably not. But today, here, its my time and
place to take in the reality around me, and to get an up close and personal
look at the lives we painfully see everywhere that there is poverty,
inequality, disregard, and abuse of power. And so I write ... and hope you are
still reading.
RELIEF here today? Not in the weather or in the conditions of so
many of the Guyanese. In a week now, I will be home to experience relief from
both the heat and my meager surroundings here. For the Bosco boys, there is no
sign of relief. Relief died along time ago for most of them. This breaks my
heart and burdens my soul .... and I'm grateful for both.
But I'm repeating my "therapeutic commandment" as I
linger in the hard, dark places -- "There is no such thing as one
feeling!" So as I peel back the layers of the "onion" of
depression, I'm beginning to find sadness, hurt, anger, fear, gratitude,
appreciation, wonder, curiosity, compassion, love and, of course, the “big M”
word .... MYSTERY. Always more to discover.
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| Catching Some Breeze |
Blessings to all,
Dennis (aka, “Rev. 2”)
