Once a month we gathered to tell our stories, share our pain and look for signs of hope. The group, which I helped facilitate, was made up of first year teachers in New York Lutheran elementary schools.
The new teacher’s question surprised me. “How do I deal with a group of students who make fun of their classmate?”
“What’s the issue?” I asked, knowing she was in a multi-racial ethnic school.
“Well, the kids tease Rosario. They tell her she smells. The problem is: She does! Her clothes are clean enough, but I doubt if she ever takes a bath.”
I suggested that the teacher get some very private one on one time with her student. I suggested she gently ask her about her bathing habits and then just listen, not judge, not condemn, not teach, just listen to the response.
When we next met the new teacher could hardly wait to share her experience. She had followed my suggestions. Her student had said it was true that she didn’t bathe. “It is too scary!” she said.
The teacher listened. “Scary?”
“Yes, I’m afraid I might die.”
“You’re frightened that taking a bath might cost you you’re life. That is scary.”
Slowly the whole story came out. This little second grader had seen her mother get into the bathtub. While she was rinsing her hair she had a stroke and died right there in the tub in front of her child’s terrified eyes.
The teacher held the trembling tearful child as she related the story. More conversation ensued. A consultation with the very silent surviving father was productive.
After a while, Rosario came to school all fresh and bright. The one thing that opened the door was listening. The power of empathic, nonjudgmental active listening is a power beyond words. All of us who have access to listening ears or to the Listening Ear know this.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
RUTH - RECONCILIATION
More than 2000 students were enrolled in kindergarten through high school at Concordia-Hong Kong when I served as principal. I did not know each student by name.
My first encounter with Ruth, a 10th grade student came in the emergency room of the Government Hospital. She was struggling for her life after slitting her wrists in a suicide attempt
Slowly I got the story. She had just endured 3 full days of being locked up without water or food in a dark closet. Her father had put her there to teach her a lesson.
On the previous Sunday afternoon after a youth activity at our church she and another youth (male) from the group walked the street together and had tea together in a tea restaurant. This behavior by his 16-year-old daughter angered and frightened her father. He wanted to make sure she would not make a similar mistake again.
In her despair Ruth decided death was better than life. She survived.
Thirty-five years later Ruth and I were leaving a Chinese restaurant in San Diego, California. She had given me her business card, which confirmed what I had previously been told. She was married, with children. She was an exceedingly successful businesswoman, managing a variety of companies - a millionaire many times over.
Yet there was something more impressive. As she (quite solicitously) held my arm to see her old principal safely to his car in a darkened parking lot, she very quietly said to me, “Principal Kieschnick, my father is still alive. We see each other often. We get along fine.” Then we parted.
I rejoice with her in the power of reconciliation and restored relationships between a frightened father and a hurt daughter and between a Heavenly Parent and all children everywhere.
My first encounter with Ruth, a 10th grade student came in the emergency room of the Government Hospital. She was struggling for her life after slitting her wrists in a suicide attempt
Slowly I got the story. She had just endured 3 full days of being locked up without water or food in a dark closet. Her father had put her there to teach her a lesson.
On the previous Sunday afternoon after a youth activity at our church she and another youth (male) from the group walked the street together and had tea together in a tea restaurant. This behavior by his 16-year-old daughter angered and frightened her father. He wanted to make sure she would not make a similar mistake again.
In her despair Ruth decided death was better than life. She survived.
Thirty-five years later Ruth and I were leaving a Chinese restaurant in San Diego, California. She had given me her business card, which confirmed what I had previously been told. She was married, with children. She was an exceedingly successful businesswoman, managing a variety of companies - a millionaire many times over.
Yet there was something more impressive. As she (quite solicitously) held my arm to see her old principal safely to his car in a darkened parking lot, she very quietly said to me, “Principal Kieschnick, my father is still alive. We see each other often. We get along fine.” Then we parted.
I rejoice with her in the power of reconciliation and restored relationships between a frightened father and a hurt daughter and between a Heavenly Parent and all children everywhere.
RESPECT FOR THE GROUND
I am attending a dinner party in my honor in the ultra-exclusive Boat Club at the harbor of Karachi, Pakistan. My host is a justice of the Pakistani Supreme Court. Others present at this all male event include the counsel generals from the USA and various European countries. Especially noticeable is an impressive elderly gentleman whom I will call Mr. Faisel. I am told he is the person who negotiated the distribution of water rights from the Indus River. The agreement divided the water supply between archenemies India and Pakistan. The terms were so equitably spelled out that the agreement was still working decades after it was confirmed by the two antagonistic countries.
We are sitting around a circular cocktail table engaging in the usual cocktail hour small talk. About half of us are holding alcoholic beverages while the other half honors the Muslim prohibition against alcohol and drinks fruit juice.
Mr. Faisel gently interrupts our conversation. “Enough of this chit-chat,” he interjects. Looking at me he says, “Tell me about this training you’re leading here and what its philosophical bases are.”
I explain, “I am teaching interpersonal communication, problem solving and conflict resolution skills. The underlying principle is “respect.” Respect for self, respect for others and in my value system: respect for a higher being.”
He looks at me intently. “Quite good,” he says, “but you’re leaving out one very important component.”
“Tell me, please.”
“Respect for the ground,” he replies.
“Respect for the ground?” I query.
“Yes, respect for the ground and for all those buried there; Respect for the ground which holds the remains of all those who’ve gone before us. All of our interpersonal relations, our situations in life and our values for the future are influenced by the generations who have preceded us and in whose works we now find our identity.
John Donne, the English poet reminds us that “No man (sic) is an island.” because we are connected to every other living human. Mr. Faisel expands the vision. All of humanity is connected not only to all the living but also to those who have lived before us, those now part of The Ground.
We are sitting around a circular cocktail table engaging in the usual cocktail hour small talk. About half of us are holding alcoholic beverages while the other half honors the Muslim prohibition against alcohol and drinks fruit juice.
Mr. Faisel gently interrupts our conversation. “Enough of this chit-chat,” he interjects. Looking at me he says, “Tell me about this training you’re leading here and what its philosophical bases are.”
I explain, “I am teaching interpersonal communication, problem solving and conflict resolution skills. The underlying principle is “respect.” Respect for self, respect for others and in my value system: respect for a higher being.”
He looks at me intently. “Quite good,” he says, “but you’re leaving out one very important component.”
“Tell me, please.”
“Respect for the ground,” he replies.
“Respect for the ground?” I query.
“Yes, respect for the ground and for all those buried there; Respect for the ground which holds the remains of all those who’ve gone before us. All of our interpersonal relations, our situations in life and our values for the future are influenced by the generations who have preceded us and in whose works we now find our identity.
John Donne, the English poet reminds us that “No man (sic) is an island.” because we are connected to every other living human. Mr. Faisel expands the vision. All of humanity is connected not only to all the living but also to those who have lived before us, those now part of The Ground.
PURGATORY AT THE KYBER PASS
I am sitting at an outdoor table of the Intercontinental Hotel in Peshawar, Pakistan. I look to the left and see the Kyber Pass. For some strange reason I remember and visualize Alexander the Great moving his armies through that pass on his way to “conquer the world.” I remember the story (probably apocryphal) that he wept because he thought there were no more worlds to conquer. (Apparently he was unaware of say, China and Native Americans.)
I look a little to my right, past the massive refugee center I’d visited earlier in the day filled with Afghanistans fleeing their home country then being controlled by Russia. I knew that many of these refugees were mujahideen being secretly armed to wrestle control back from the Russians. I did not know that they were going to replace communism with an Islamic State as repressive as any Stalinist dictatorship.
My mind is in deep reverie, my thoughts puddle jumping from ancient Persia, to Zoroastrianism, to my long held desire to visit Kabul, to refugees all over the world, and how this boy from the little town of Walburg, Texas, who assumed that all of his life would be spent teaching in small Lutheran parochial schools in that state should find himself overlooking the Khyber Pass drinking beer with an Irish Catholic nun.
The “beer part” is almost as remarkable as the rest of the scenario. With Pakistan a very strict Muslim country the sale of alcoholic beverages is severely restricted. As a foreigner I have secured and paid for a license, which allows me to purchase a limited amount of alcohol, three units, to be exact. Sister Sheila and I opted for 3 quarts of beer since the price quoted us for the pint of gin we really wanted was US$32.00.
Sister Sheila is a remarkable woman. She has left her native Ireland and devoted her life to teaching the poorest of the poor. Her classrooms are the shaded areas of trees. Her school equipment consists of 4-inch high benches. Paper is too expensive so each student has a 10” x 12” chalkboard used over and over. Sister Sheila has put together a whole network of schools, has trained a corps of teachers using a model I had taught her. She gathers the mothers for lessons as well. We talk about all that. We move to reflecting upon the legitimacy of teaching Christianity to children form Muslim homes, about comparative religions, about denominations, about Lutherans and Catholics, about life after death and about purgatory.
“I haven’t even thought about purgatory for 20 years” she says “and here I am with a Lutheran Texan drinking beer, recalling ancient caravans coming down the Khyber Pass and talking about purgatory!”
We laughed. We agreed that teaching little children to read, giving food to the hungry, care to the sick, and human dignity to the forgotten of the world is much more important than trying to particularize any of the zones of hell.
I look a little to my right, past the massive refugee center I’d visited earlier in the day filled with Afghanistans fleeing their home country then being controlled by Russia. I knew that many of these refugees were mujahideen being secretly armed to wrestle control back from the Russians. I did not know that they were going to replace communism with an Islamic State as repressive as any Stalinist dictatorship.
My mind is in deep reverie, my thoughts puddle jumping from ancient Persia, to Zoroastrianism, to my long held desire to visit Kabul, to refugees all over the world, and how this boy from the little town of Walburg, Texas, who assumed that all of his life would be spent teaching in small Lutheran parochial schools in that state should find himself overlooking the Khyber Pass drinking beer with an Irish Catholic nun.
The “beer part” is almost as remarkable as the rest of the scenario. With Pakistan a very strict Muslim country the sale of alcoholic beverages is severely restricted. As a foreigner I have secured and paid for a license, which allows me to purchase a limited amount of alcohol, three units, to be exact. Sister Sheila and I opted for 3 quarts of beer since the price quoted us for the pint of gin we really wanted was US$32.00.
Sister Sheila is a remarkable woman. She has left her native Ireland and devoted her life to teaching the poorest of the poor. Her classrooms are the shaded areas of trees. Her school equipment consists of 4-inch high benches. Paper is too expensive so each student has a 10” x 12” chalkboard used over and over. Sister Sheila has put together a whole network of schools, has trained a corps of teachers using a model I had taught her. She gathers the mothers for lessons as well. We talk about all that. We move to reflecting upon the legitimacy of teaching Christianity to children form Muslim homes, about comparative religions, about denominations, about Lutherans and Catholics, about life after death and about purgatory.
“I haven’t even thought about purgatory for 20 years” she says “and here I am with a Lutheran Texan drinking beer, recalling ancient caravans coming down the Khyber Pass and talking about purgatory!”
We laughed. We agreed that teaching little children to read, giving food to the hungry, care to the sick, and human dignity to the forgotten of the world is much more important than trying to particularize any of the zones of hell.
HEAT OF THE DAY
I wriggle my bare feet trying to find the shade under the cotton plants. I am ten years old picking cotton in a Texas field sweltering under the 100ยบ heat. My fingers are still not callused or scarred and so they bleed as I pull the fluffy cotton from the pointed bolls.
An eight to ten foot long cotton picking sack is dragged behind by a strap slung over my shoulder. I pick cotton boll by boll, transfer a handful from my left hand into my right hand and stuff it into the bag. When the bag is full (or when the bag of the farmer in whose field we are picking is full) we carry the bags to the wagon. There they are weighed. The cotton is poured into the wagon. When the wagon is full, the cotton is taken to the gin. There the seeds and debris are separated from the lint and the cotton is baled for shipment to the spinning mills.
For me weighing time is relief time. For just a few minutes there’s respite from the back torturing that comes from stooping. There are a few minutes of dispensation for the knees on which one crawls down the rows of stalks plucking the low lying bolls. And best of all there are water jugs bringing relief to scorched throats.
Worst of all is the voice of the man weighing the product of my labor. He’ll say something like 40 pounds, a meager effort for my 2 hours of labor. Everybody knows my little brother can pick twice that amount in the same period of time. Still worse: my sister (girl - of all things!) beats my amount picked every time.
I’ll heed my father’s call, “In the field by sun up”. I’ll give it my best shot till sunset with an hour off for lunch. If the crop is good and if I don’t spend too much time day dreaming of becoming the next Mel Ott, or if I don’t get too caught up in picking and throwing unopened hard cotton bolls at fellow pickers, and if it’s a bit damp in the morning so that the lint weighs a little more, and if all those “ifs” come together just right I might pick a total of 180 pounds of cotton that day. At the rate of 25¢ per hundredweight I’ll earn 40 cents for my day’s labor.
Mr. Mertink the farmer philosopher for whom I worked was also a bit of a poet. He wrote into my autograph book the profound words:
“When you get old
And tired of your fate
Remember how hard the work
And the heat of 1938.”
I am now old and I think of others who know about work: hard, boring, physical work. I see children at the rug weaving looms of Egypt with the finger crippling repetition damaging them for life. I see coal miners in the USA and China descending into the depths of blackness and unclean air. I image again the women of India sitting in the sun with their bamboo handled hammers crushing granite into small pieces for use as aggregate in concrete construction. I see the coolies still pulling barges up stream, and half-naked Bangladesh men pulling steel laden carts down a humid street. Hard work, physical work that strains the muscles, numbs the mind and shortens life is still a constant in the lives of millions. So I remember Mr. Mertink’s little ditty and I feel grateful that for me cotton picking is a thing of the past and that my heart can still feel a touch of shared humanity with those who work so hard for long hours under terrible conditions just to eke out a marginal life with little promise of rest and reward.
An eight to ten foot long cotton picking sack is dragged behind by a strap slung over my shoulder. I pick cotton boll by boll, transfer a handful from my left hand into my right hand and stuff it into the bag. When the bag is full (or when the bag of the farmer in whose field we are picking is full) we carry the bags to the wagon. There they are weighed. The cotton is poured into the wagon. When the wagon is full, the cotton is taken to the gin. There the seeds and debris are separated from the lint and the cotton is baled for shipment to the spinning mills.
For me weighing time is relief time. For just a few minutes there’s respite from the back torturing that comes from stooping. There are a few minutes of dispensation for the knees on which one crawls down the rows of stalks plucking the low lying bolls. And best of all there are water jugs bringing relief to scorched throats.
Worst of all is the voice of the man weighing the product of my labor. He’ll say something like 40 pounds, a meager effort for my 2 hours of labor. Everybody knows my little brother can pick twice that amount in the same period of time. Still worse: my sister (girl - of all things!) beats my amount picked every time.
I’ll heed my father’s call, “In the field by sun up”. I’ll give it my best shot till sunset with an hour off for lunch. If the crop is good and if I don’t spend too much time day dreaming of becoming the next Mel Ott, or if I don’t get too caught up in picking and throwing unopened hard cotton bolls at fellow pickers, and if it’s a bit damp in the morning so that the lint weighs a little more, and if all those “ifs” come together just right I might pick a total of 180 pounds of cotton that day. At the rate of 25¢ per hundredweight I’ll earn 40 cents for my day’s labor.
Mr. Mertink the farmer philosopher for whom I worked was also a bit of a poet. He wrote into my autograph book the profound words:
“When you get old
And tired of your fate
Remember how hard the work
And the heat of 1938.”
I am now old and I think of others who know about work: hard, boring, physical work. I see children at the rug weaving looms of Egypt with the finger crippling repetition damaging them for life. I see coal miners in the USA and China descending into the depths of blackness and unclean air. I image again the women of India sitting in the sun with their bamboo handled hammers crushing granite into small pieces for use as aggregate in concrete construction. I see the coolies still pulling barges up stream, and half-naked Bangladesh men pulling steel laden carts down a humid street. Hard work, physical work that strains the muscles, numbs the mind and shortens life is still a constant in the lives of millions. So I remember Mr. Mertink’s little ditty and I feel grateful that for me cotton picking is a thing of the past and that my heart can still feel a touch of shared humanity with those who work so hard for long hours under terrible conditions just to eke out a marginal life with little promise of rest and reward.
BORN TO PRIVILEGE
I am “holding rope” at a Texas wedding. It’s as near to heaven as a ten year old can get in the 1930’s. We live out in the country and the reception for any wedding we attend is held at the far home of the bride. Farm houses are situated down a lane in a tree shaded area of the farm. When there’s a wedding small boys stretch a rope across the entrance lane, blocking the passage of the Model A and Model T Fords. Occupants of the cars will throw pennies, maybe even a nickel occasionally or at the very most a dime, to the boys holding the rope. Then the rope is lowered and the car proceeds to the farm house at the end of the lane.
To be a part of the gang (boys only, of course) holding the rope is a position of rare privilege. The “tips” collected are distributed among the boys holding the rope. So it’s just good business to not have too many boys involved. The closest relative to the bride is the general manager. He chooses his partners with care and is careful to limit the number of partners.
I am always chosen to be part of this special group. It has nothing to do with my ability to “hold rope” or my ability to get a nickel rather than a penny from a guest. I am selected on the basis of birth right. My father is Teacher Oscar Kieschnick! He’s the principal/teacher of Zion Lutheran School. He’s the organist for every wedding at Zion Lutheran Church. He has taught grades 4 to 8 since 1920 and is the TEACHER for every bride and groom traveling from church to rural wedding reception. And I’m his oldest son. So I get to hold rope. I may get as much as 16¢ to 18¢ per wedding, enough for 3 ice cream cones at the annual church-school picnic.
I really do consider myself born to privilege. My family gets invited out for Sunday dinner. My father sings and tells stories at wedding receptions. My father is secretary of the congregation. My father’s opinion counts in community decisions. My mother’s father is the founder of the town and local Lutheran Church. My uncles are the bankers, the store owners, the cotton gin operators.
Later when I am sent away to a boarding prep school to prepare for a teaching ministry in the church, I feel special. At weddings there may be the custom of passing the bride’s shoe around to the guests who place change into the shoe. The bride selects me as the recipient of this gift because I’m off studying to be a Worker in the Church and I’m the son of Teacher and Mrs. Oscar H. Kieschnick.
Years later my perspective may change. I may understand that my father was indeed respected, but often it was deemed that since he had respect he really didn’t need that much salary. Others will make the judgment that I was sent off to be a “church worker” because I wasn’t competent or strong enough to be a farmer. Relatives may have viewed me as “poor relations”. But none of that mattered when I was a kid. I was born to privilege. I still feel it.
A sense of worth, of specialness, of worthiness instilled in a child builds a base that lasts a lifetime.
To be a part of the gang (boys only, of course) holding the rope is a position of rare privilege. The “tips” collected are distributed among the boys holding the rope. So it’s just good business to not have too many boys involved. The closest relative to the bride is the general manager. He chooses his partners with care and is careful to limit the number of partners.
I am always chosen to be part of this special group. It has nothing to do with my ability to “hold rope” or my ability to get a nickel rather than a penny from a guest. I am selected on the basis of birth right. My father is Teacher Oscar Kieschnick! He’s the principal/teacher of Zion Lutheran School. He’s the organist for every wedding at Zion Lutheran Church. He has taught grades 4 to 8 since 1920 and is the TEACHER for every bride and groom traveling from church to rural wedding reception. And I’m his oldest son. So I get to hold rope. I may get as much as 16¢ to 18¢ per wedding, enough for 3 ice cream cones at the annual church-school picnic.
I really do consider myself born to privilege. My family gets invited out for Sunday dinner. My father sings and tells stories at wedding receptions. My father is secretary of the congregation. My father’s opinion counts in community decisions. My mother’s father is the founder of the town and local Lutheran Church. My uncles are the bankers, the store owners, the cotton gin operators.
Later when I am sent away to a boarding prep school to prepare for a teaching ministry in the church, I feel special. At weddings there may be the custom of passing the bride’s shoe around to the guests who place change into the shoe. The bride selects me as the recipient of this gift because I’m off studying to be a Worker in the Church and I’m the son of Teacher and Mrs. Oscar H. Kieschnick.
Years later my perspective may change. I may understand that my father was indeed respected, but often it was deemed that since he had respect he really didn’t need that much salary. Others will make the judgment that I was sent off to be a “church worker” because I wasn’t competent or strong enough to be a farmer. Relatives may have viewed me as “poor relations”. But none of that mattered when I was a kid. I was born to privilege. I still feel it.
A sense of worth, of specialness, of worthiness instilled in a child builds a base that lasts a lifetime.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Hospital Visits- Medical Care
Today I visited a former colleague in the hospital He is a patient at the UCLA Ronald Reagan Hospital for Neurological Care. My first visit to that not yet one-year-old hospital. It is a large impressive and beautiful facility. There was valet parking with a greatly reduced fee for persons with a handicapped sticker. The entire building is gleaming white, inside and out. The corridors are very wide and spotless. Floors look like shining marble. Walls have marvelous nature photographs, many of them of graceful white polar bears frolicking in the arctic snow.
Staff went way beyond the normal call of duty. One attendant followed me to make sure I was at the right door. When I buzzed the intensive care unit an assistant not only admitted me to that unit but also walked me to the patient. The windows of his single room offered a vista extending to the Pacific Ocean a few miles away. He was attached to the latest in equipment costing thousands of dollars. When the nurses came to aspirate him through his tracheal inserts they were efficient, courteous, proficient.
Tom himself may or may not have ever been aware that I was there. He had fallen, hit his head hard. At least a third of his skull had been removed to relieve the pressure and to drain off massive bleeding. On a previous day he had been responsive, today less so.
I held his hands. Spoke as warmly and gently as possible. Assured him of love. hope, and God’s presence. I had the feeling that he was in good hands, in every sense of those words.
As I left Tom, another visit some time ago came into and flooded my mind. It was at the Kowloon General Hospital in Hong Kong. The hospital was vastly overcrowded. In spite of the efforts of many and the care of lots of compassionate people the place was dirty, overcrowded, understaffed; with ancient equipment and no air conditioning in 90 degree heat. I had come to see another patient with a head injury. One of my students riding home on his bicycle from Concordia High School had a terrible collision with a truck hauling reinforcing iron bars. My student was lying uncovered, still in his school uniform, on the floor on top of a stretcher. He was alive but blood was oozing from his massive head wounds. No one was attending him. My status as a foreigner helped me reach an attendant. I pointed to my friend and pleaded for attention. “Oh can‘t you see? He is dying. There is nothing we can do to save him”
His parents had not yet arrived. So I got down on the floor with him. I held his hands. Spoke as warmly and gently as possible. As best I could in my limited Cantonese I assured him of love, hope and God’s promise. Two days later we buried him on a hillside overlooking mainland China.
Two very divergent streams of thought fill my consciousness as I drive home. The first is simply gratitude that I have so often been offered the opportunity to visit friends in the hospital. What a blessing it is to me to just be there to provide presence and to draw even from their weak bodies a sense of connectedness that endures.
The second is much more cerebral and much less hopeful. Which of those two hospital alternatives can we as a nation provide to those who need it? What are the possibilities and the limits? If I or one of my grandchildren will lie in a hospital needing
medical and human care, where will it come from?
Staff went way beyond the normal call of duty. One attendant followed me to make sure I was at the right door. When I buzzed the intensive care unit an assistant not only admitted me to that unit but also walked me to the patient. The windows of his single room offered a vista extending to the Pacific Ocean a few miles away. He was attached to the latest in equipment costing thousands of dollars. When the nurses came to aspirate him through his tracheal inserts they were efficient, courteous, proficient.
Tom himself may or may not have ever been aware that I was there. He had fallen, hit his head hard. At least a third of his skull had been removed to relieve the pressure and to drain off massive bleeding. On a previous day he had been responsive, today less so.
I held his hands. Spoke as warmly and gently as possible. Assured him of love. hope, and God’s presence. I had the feeling that he was in good hands, in every sense of those words.
As I left Tom, another visit some time ago came into and flooded my mind. It was at the Kowloon General Hospital in Hong Kong. The hospital was vastly overcrowded. In spite of the efforts of many and the care of lots of compassionate people the place was dirty, overcrowded, understaffed; with ancient equipment and no air conditioning in 90 degree heat. I had come to see another patient with a head injury. One of my students riding home on his bicycle from Concordia High School had a terrible collision with a truck hauling reinforcing iron bars. My student was lying uncovered, still in his school uniform, on the floor on top of a stretcher. He was alive but blood was oozing from his massive head wounds. No one was attending him. My status as a foreigner helped me reach an attendant. I pointed to my friend and pleaded for attention. “Oh can‘t you see? He is dying. There is nothing we can do to save him”
His parents had not yet arrived. So I got down on the floor with him. I held his hands. Spoke as warmly and gently as possible. As best I could in my limited Cantonese I assured him of love, hope and God’s promise. Two days later we buried him on a hillside overlooking mainland China.
Two very divergent streams of thought fill my consciousness as I drive home. The first is simply gratitude that I have so often been offered the opportunity to visit friends in the hospital. What a blessing it is to me to just be there to provide presence and to draw even from their weak bodies a sense of connectedness that endures.
The second is much more cerebral and much less hopeful. Which of those two hospital alternatives can we as a nation provide to those who need it? What are the possibilities and the limits? If I or one of my grandchildren will lie in a hospital needing
medical and human care, where will it come from?
Thursday, January 22, 2009
INAUGURATION: A VERY PERSONAL REFLECTION
Sent to my sons and daughters, January 20, 2009
Kids,
I have spent most of the last 7 hours watching the inauguration events. It has been an emotional experience. Several times I was aware of tears flowing down my cheeks. Why?
First, of course, is the reality of a black president. I grew up racist-and didn't know it. As a very young lad I would go to grandpa Kieschnick's farm. The black workers would come to grandma and grandpa's house for dinner at noon, usually only one of two of them. They always sat at a table on the porch while we ate at the dining room table. They had good food, but not what we had. We ate better!
One night I sat in the dark with them around a well (I was maybe 10.) They told stories and stuff with sexual content. At one point one of them even said to me "You know what we're talkin about?" I don't remember how I answered but the truth is I didn’t have a clue! Grandpa respected his black workers who were more or less freed slaves. They were free to come or go but they were also completely dependent. I always remember Grandpa's funeral. As the hearse passed through at least one of the many gates from grandpa's home to the country road to get to the church-a black man stood at the gate, dressed in very best, holding the reins of his horse in one hand and his other hand over his heart. He was respectful. It was completely out of the question that he could possibly go into the church as part of a white congregation at the funeral.
Sometimes we would drive past Weir to go to Grandma Doering's farm. We were on the back of Uncle Ben's old International truck. There was black family that lived near the road on the way to the farm. When we would drive by that place the back children would come out and we would hurl comments (and I am sure racial slurs) at each other. I remember once the black Mother came out. She helped lower trousers and lift skirts and the kids mooned us. We laughed uproariously. Concurrently Aunt Mattie was consistently helping those families. When they had no money and no food they would come to the Henry Doering Mercantile Store in Walburg and Aunt Mattie "extended credit" to them: Of course that money was never paid. It was possibly an effort to save some self-respect for all involved.
When I worked at Wukash Brothers Cafe as a high school student I had very special relationship with Joe the black dishwasher. We bet 5 cents every day on the total number of lunches we would serve. I did the dishes for him when he finally got a day off for “June teenth" the day Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation; yet-if ever a black person or group wanted to eat at the restaurant they were not allowed to enter the front door. They needed to come to the alley and then sit on the back stoop of the cafe to eat what was provided.
I have a clear memory of sitting in high school class and Prof. George Beto making a reference to a black lawyer. George Winkler, my classmate. somehow or other indicated that this was incomprehensible. Beto jumped on him. I remember very clearly my feeling "Oh. I understand what George is thinking; I have never heard of and cannot possibly imagine a black becoming a lawyer. I wonder if Beto is really telling the truth!"
Also during high school during World War II I went to church at St. Paul's Lutheran. A black soldier (1st Lt. US Army) walked into church and sat in the middle of the church. An usher came to him and asked him to leave, finally agreed to let him sit in the back row!
Several of us Texans took the train to Chicago for our first year in college. We changed trains in St. Louis. We got to a car, which had seats available. I turned and said to the guys "Hey, we can’t sit here. This is for the colored!" The black conductor in a loud voice instructed, "That car is just fine for you damn Southerners!
The stories go, as did my all too slow enlightenment and repentance. I pause to give thanks to a few of those black people who helped me out of my ignorance: Pete Pero, Julius Jenkens, Bill Griffin, Orlando Gober, So- when today we inaugurated a back person elected to the highest office of the land I rejoiced-so much so that I wept!
The second profound moments came to me during the speech. But first, a bit if background. I, of course, have been most unhappy with the administration of the past 8 years-considering these years to be among the worst in our country's history. Yet I am proud to be an American and value my USA Passport beyond words. That feeling is never stronger than when I travel overseas. In the last few years, however, I have almost become defensive. Whether in China, Brazil, Finland, Palestine, Germany-every one of those countries - I have had persons come up to me (some well known to me-others strangers). In each case they approached me respectfully and hesitantly. Yet in every case they came to question how it can be that the USA has changed its image in the world. It has been seen as a bully, a user of torture, a naysayer to immigrants, a country so admired and now so disappointing. When Obama spoke of reaching out to all, of having ideals, which we stick too even in the face of threat, of conversation rather than mandates. My heart rejoiced.
The road ahead is incredibly tough. The reality of what the president can accomplish falls far short of the promises made during a campaign or even an inauguration speech. Yet it is a moment of hope- a time to put into place our best instincts- a time to cling to our highest ideals, a time to hope.
One final footnote: I watched finally the Obama's get out of their limo to enter the White House. I tried to remember if this was the entrance I had used some 35 years ago when I had been invited to the White House for a meeting with the president. I thought, "Well, I guess if a Lutheran teacher's son and a Lutheran teacher himself can be a guest there, and a black man can be president there then God indeed is hearing my prayer "God bless America and the world! "
dad
Kids,
I have spent most of the last 7 hours watching the inauguration events. It has been an emotional experience. Several times I was aware of tears flowing down my cheeks. Why?
First, of course, is the reality of a black president. I grew up racist-and didn't know it. As a very young lad I would go to grandpa Kieschnick's farm. The black workers would come to grandma and grandpa's house for dinner at noon, usually only one of two of them. They always sat at a table on the porch while we ate at the dining room table. They had good food, but not what we had. We ate better!
One night I sat in the dark with them around a well (I was maybe 10.) They told stories and stuff with sexual content. At one point one of them even said to me "You know what we're talkin about?" I don't remember how I answered but the truth is I didn’t have a clue! Grandpa respected his black workers who were more or less freed slaves. They were free to come or go but they were also completely dependent. I always remember Grandpa's funeral. As the hearse passed through at least one of the many gates from grandpa's home to the country road to get to the church-a black man stood at the gate, dressed in very best, holding the reins of his horse in one hand and his other hand over his heart. He was respectful. It was completely out of the question that he could possibly go into the church as part of a white congregation at the funeral.
Sometimes we would drive past Weir to go to Grandma Doering's farm. We were on the back of Uncle Ben's old International truck. There was black family that lived near the road on the way to the farm. When we would drive by that place the back children would come out and we would hurl comments (and I am sure racial slurs) at each other. I remember once the black Mother came out. She helped lower trousers and lift skirts and the kids mooned us. We laughed uproariously. Concurrently Aunt Mattie was consistently helping those families. When they had no money and no food they would come to the Henry Doering Mercantile Store in Walburg and Aunt Mattie "extended credit" to them: Of course that money was never paid. It was possibly an effort to save some self-respect for all involved.
When I worked at Wukash Brothers Cafe as a high school student I had very special relationship with Joe the black dishwasher. We bet 5 cents every day on the total number of lunches we would serve. I did the dishes for him when he finally got a day off for “June teenth" the day Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation; yet-if ever a black person or group wanted to eat at the restaurant they were not allowed to enter the front door. They needed to come to the alley and then sit on the back stoop of the cafe to eat what was provided.
I have a clear memory of sitting in high school class and Prof. George Beto making a reference to a black lawyer. George Winkler, my classmate. somehow or other indicated that this was incomprehensible. Beto jumped on him. I remember very clearly my feeling "Oh. I understand what George is thinking; I have never heard of and cannot possibly imagine a black becoming a lawyer. I wonder if Beto is really telling the truth!"
Also during high school during World War II I went to church at St. Paul's Lutheran. A black soldier (1st Lt. US Army) walked into church and sat in the middle of the church. An usher came to him and asked him to leave, finally agreed to let him sit in the back row!
Several of us Texans took the train to Chicago for our first year in college. We changed trains in St. Louis. We got to a car, which had seats available. I turned and said to the guys "Hey, we can’t sit here. This is for the colored!" The black conductor in a loud voice instructed, "That car is just fine for you damn Southerners!
The stories go, as did my all too slow enlightenment and repentance. I pause to give thanks to a few of those black people who helped me out of my ignorance: Pete Pero, Julius Jenkens, Bill Griffin, Orlando Gober, So- when today we inaugurated a back person elected to the highest office of the land I rejoiced-so much so that I wept!
The second profound moments came to me during the speech. But first, a bit if background. I, of course, have been most unhappy with the administration of the past 8 years-considering these years to be among the worst in our country's history. Yet I am proud to be an American and value my USA Passport beyond words. That feeling is never stronger than when I travel overseas. In the last few years, however, I have almost become defensive. Whether in China, Brazil, Finland, Palestine, Germany-every one of those countries - I have had persons come up to me (some well known to me-others strangers). In each case they approached me respectfully and hesitantly. Yet in every case they came to question how it can be that the USA has changed its image in the world. It has been seen as a bully, a user of torture, a naysayer to immigrants, a country so admired and now so disappointing. When Obama spoke of reaching out to all, of having ideals, which we stick too even in the face of threat, of conversation rather than mandates. My heart rejoiced.
The road ahead is incredibly tough. The reality of what the president can accomplish falls far short of the promises made during a campaign or even an inauguration speech. Yet it is a moment of hope- a time to put into place our best instincts- a time to cling to our highest ideals, a time to hope.
One final footnote: I watched finally the Obama's get out of their limo to enter the White House. I tried to remember if this was the entrance I had used some 35 years ago when I had been invited to the White House for a meeting with the president. I thought, "Well, I guess if a Lutheran teacher's son and a Lutheran teacher himself can be a guest there, and a black man can be president there then God indeed is hearing my prayer "God bless America and the world! "
dad
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