boogie man

When I put all my CD’s on the iPod to bring with me, I realized that cassettes couldn’t be uploaded. There were only a couple cassettes I thought I might want to listen to and tucked them into my suitcase. One was “Funkadelic Disco Dance Party” that I thought might be fun to have. It is Friday morning and the mosques are blaring their sermons from incredibly loud loudspeakers all around my apartment. The imam or mullah or whatever he is in the closest mosque is screaming at the world, and boy does he sound pissed! I don’t know what he’s yelling about, but I think it’s some kind of Islamic fire and brimstone stuff. I’m so glad I have that tape now along with a cheapo radio cassette player that I bought at the store here, because it is a perfect counter to the angry noise reverberating through the walls. I can still hear the guy screaming and yelling, but at least there is a soundtrack in the background singing, “I’m your boogie-man, That’s what I am, I’m into whatever I can! Be it early morning, or afternoon, or at midnight - it’s never too soon.”
Yo, dude, brothah Iz-Lamm dude, yall gotta just CHILL now, know'm sayin? Just take CHILL PILL, un'astan? Cause yall be driving me frickin nuts wid all dat screamin and yellin!

And now I am going to get up and boogie.

another American jerk acting up

I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later -- losing my cool. It’s just something I do now ant then. Mom, I can see you shaking your head and saying, “Why do you do that?” I am a person who stays very calm and takes in quite a bit without making too much of a fuss, but when I reach the boiling point I generally cause a little commotion, yes indeed, yes it’s true, oh yes.

I must back up a bit to tell about the doors to the lobby. I was given a key to those doors but it never worked. The doors were generally unlocked, but when they WERE locked on those rare occasions, I noticed other tenants would sometimes just give them a very hard yank, and just kind of rip the door open. I did it once and it worked. I figured that in a fix it would work again. But today, when I went down to go buy some toothpaste and chocolate at the store up the block I found that I was locked in my building. The hard yank didn’t work because the doors open out. It was only 5:30 pm and the doors are not supposed to be locked until midnight, but they were locked. I went back upstairs and called the harris (building supervisor) and I got a recording that said he could not be reached. I went down again, determined to yank that sucker open, or push it open, whichever the case may be. First I tried my key again on both doors, just to make sure. Then I took a hold of the door handle, propped my shoulder against the frame, and heaved with all my might. Well, the door didn’t open, but the large glass window broke into shards all held tight in its steel netting. None of the glass came out, and I wasn’t cut or anything, but I was a bit in shock. I had destroyed the door and still couldn’t get out of the building. There was nothing to do, so I came back upstairs and chatted with a neighbor for a while about her career options.

An hour later, I went down to see if anything had transpired. The harris was there, along with the business director of the company that owns our school, and someone else. They were all shouting and arguing about what had happened. I might have just slipped by without saying a word, but I thought I really should let them know what had actually happened. First they told me, “Apartment key no working heer - must your other key.” Then I showed them that I had the other key and demonstrated that it did not work. The harris said, “If you have a problem, you should call me.” That’s when I something popped in my head.

“I tried calling you. I tried calling you before, too, when my refrigerator didn’t work and how long did it take? Two weeks. And you said you would get my TV hooked up, and get me a lamp, too. Finally you came last night and brought someone to hook up my TV, but he charged me a fee, and guess what? Now the TV isn’t working again!”

“Not working? Okay I will call.”

And here’s where I got ugly. “DON’T BOTHER. I DON’T WANT TO WATCH TV. DON’T HOOK IT UP BECAUSE I DON’T EVEN WANT TO WATCH TV. ALL THE CHANNELS ARE MECCA!”

I must pause to say that while my behavior was not very sage-like, I will contend that it is rather off-putting to flip through the channels on Arabic cable network and find just one after another after another after another--broadcasts of the kneeling rows of bodies at that big mosque in Mecca, aerial shots with continuous chanting of the Quran blaring over loudspeakers. I hear it out my window coming from three directions. If you take a taxi ride you will hear it the whole way on the radio. And for the short time that I had a working television, I found that when I turn it on, there it is, again and again. You can find CNN and a couple movie channels from Dubai… it’s not really that I feel deprived of my American TV. But if anyone living here is really sick of hearing that eerie, depressing Islamic chanting night and day, he better not flip through the channels, because he will see the same thing in exponential proportions.

What was probably inappropriate was the disgust in my voice when I said the word “Mecca.” I said it like I was referring to something worse than a mixture of shit and vomit. I could see by the look on the business director’s face that he was surprised and disturbed. But I just turned and marched off to buy my toothpaste and chocolate.

I ended up buying only toothpaste and no chocolate, but when I got home and went to talk to my downstairs neighbors to vent my anger and admit my shame, they had some fresh baked chocolate chip cookies. They were very consoling and recommended playing the whole thing down with a shrug and bit of humor. Young as they are, they probably have more sense than me. Also they showed me that if I press a certain button on one of the two remote controls, the channel menu will appear. I am back in my own apartment now, and I just did tried the button, and the channels came on. Of course it came on a channel of the some guy chanting the Quran. You just can't win.

Those poor Muslims, force-fed their religion 24 hours a day. I can complain about it and say "mecca" with a bad attitude, and then come back and find that movie channel from Dubai. Those poor blokes have to feel guilty unless they bow down and beg for more. I wonder if the business director's look of surprise and disturbance came from the fact that he's really sick of hearing all that chanting too. Or maybe he really was offended. Probably a little of both.

school days

Administration has turned up the pressure, and suddenly all my time and energy goes into lesson plans and curriculum. I started Arabic lessons last week, but right now all I can do is say “how are you?” “how’s your health?” “I am well, thanks be to God” and count to five. The fact is, I pretty much live in an ex-pat bubble, and even if I wanted immersion my job wouldn’t really allow it. But the fact that I have broken the ice at least makes Arabic a little less intimidating as a language. I’m told that it’s a very structured and organized language, so once I get some momentum, maybe I’ll make good progress. The writing system isn’t that bad. I pretty much knew the alphabet before I arrived. It is interesting to see again how a language really contains all the nuances and values of a culture. Modern standard Arabic, it seems, can hardly be spoken without constant references to Islamic belief. It doesn’t mean that everyone is devout. Just like when people say “how are you?” it doesn’t mean that they care. It’s just what you say.

I seem to be settling in to a bit of a routine. I catch a shuttle to school in the morning. I wear a necktie, which is not required, but I figure “earn a point here, lose one there.” Since my core attitude is not 100% party line, I’ll wear a necktie to help balance the scales. I try to keep up an appearance of being highly organized, though the truth is I haven’t studied all the IEP’s, haven’t worked out all the differentiated instruction I’m supposed to be doing, etc. and quite frankly I much prefer just taking a holistic view of it all, as much as I can get away with. I feel very good about working with the kids. Sixth grade is a wonderful level to teach. I really enjoy being with them. My students are reading at a 3rd and 4th grade reading level, but emotionally and socially they are just like the regular sixth graders I worked with in Pennsylvania. One thing that I find is that they do love to talk, and in an ESL situation that is a good thing. I just have to tell them to slow down and pay attention to their pronunciation. It’s easy for them to rattle on in a kind of heavily accented speech that’s practically an Arabic-English pidgin, and all the other kids will understand them but I won’t have a clue. So you get some boy telling a story that ends with some kind of a funny thing and everyone in the class bursts out laughing, and I didn’t get a word or it. The students are going to like me because I’m not a heavy disciplinarian. I’m just not. Sometimes you just can’t be what you’re not. I think I keep adequate control of my classroom, but I gain it through persuasion and loyalty, not discipline. My assistant is a young Indian woman and I think she feels challenged by the looseness of my classroom management style, but in the end I believe she will learn a lot from working with me. She has her own teacher credential and if she manages to move somewhere that doesn’t practice racial discrimination, she will someday have her own teaching job.

After school I typically take the shuttle back home and start wasting time for the rest of the day, but sometimes I go get groceries or go to the gym. I tried a yoga class last week, but it was too advanced for me. I like yoga, but if you can’t even get into the general range of the pose, it’s just a frustrating struggle, too jerky and reachy to benefit from the stretching and breathing that yoga is supposed to be. Like so many things, a good teacher makes all the difference. I wish I had kept up with tai chi. If I had, I could be teaching it now. The gym has its pros and cons. It’s never closed, so you can go for a midnight swim if you feel like it, and the water has cooled from hot to warm, so it’s not so unpleasant to be in.

Today is Thursday, and that’s like a Friday back home - no work tomorrow.
Movie night is postponed till tomorrow because we’re going to do some evening errands tonight. Things get put on hold because of Ramadan hours. One of the things I will probably do is make a travel reservation for Egypt. Everybody leaves Kuwait during the winter break. A few people go home, but most take advantage of the fact that Kuwait is a great base from which to travel. In fact, people often say that the best thing about being in Kuwait is the travel opportunities to other places. The young couple I’ve gotten to know here who live on the 4th floor told me they were going to Egypt and I could tag alone if I like. Now it looks as though we may have different ideas of what we want to do there, but I have the option to follow them around if traveling alone is too much of a drag. Everyone says to do the Nile cruise, but my friends are iffy about it. Anyone interested in joining me?

I’m at school now, and the Arabic language teacher who’s tutoring me just stopped in to give me a little practice. Hello, how is your health? I am well, thanks be to God, 1 2 3 4 5.

september twelfth

Ramadan starts tomorrow. It’s a one-month period of Islamic observance during which people fast during daylight hours. Kuwaitis take it quite seriously. You can be arrested for eating in public. It doesn’t matter if you are Muslim or not; they expect you to respect the tradition. The expats go along with this in good humor, keeping their sandwiches and Cokes behind closed doors. But it does require an adjustment, because all restaurants, whether they are fast food or sit-down dining, must be closed until sundown. To complicate things for me, my refrigerator stopped working about a week ago. First I noticed that the stuff in the freezer wasn’t frozen. Then the refrigerator section itself started acting “a bit dodgey” as my Brit friend here would say. I spoke to our harris. Have you heard of this word, “harris”? I never did before coming here. It’s something like a building manager. Our harris is from Sri Lanka. He lives with his wife and children in a tiny cramped unit that is about one third the size of our apartments. He is paid a tiny sum to take care of all building responsibilities and must be available at all times. He’s probably about 30 years old, but is missing teeth, looks gaunt and tired, and regards us all with a manner of humble servitude that makes me feel almost ashamed of myself for my privilege. But he is rather notorious among teachers here for saying one thing and doing another. Some have told me that I can’t really count on him to do anything unless I bribe him. So now I’ve been without a refrigerator for about a week, and I’m wondering if I need to give him a few KD to get things going. I came right out and asked him, “If I give you some money, will you get me a good refrigerator?” I saw the look on his face for a split second as he calculated what to answer. “No, no, Sir,” he insisted. “Company weel pay.” Meanwhile I’m hearing stories about residents here who have gone through four, five, six refrigerators - yes. Nobody’s really sure why they break down so much. One theory is that the dust coming through the air conditioning muddles them up. Another theory is that there are really only about a half dozen refrigerators that keep getting hastily repaired and rotated.

There are some good things about Ramadan. Because the children also fast, and it is a total fast during daylight hours--they can’t even drink water!--they are not expected to have the energy to do very much. So school days are shortened. Teachers are asked not to assign much homework, and things lighten up for everyone. Also, the evenings are festive, because once the sun goes down it’s a kind of reverse mardi-gras effect, everyone catching up for lost gluttony. Of course there are no drunken people wearing feathers, unfortunately, but I’m told the streets will be jammed with traffic from everyone going to family banquets and restaurants.

This is probably a good time for expats like me to try to lose a pound or two. It’s very inconvenient to eat during the day because you have to hide, and inconvenient during the evenings because you have to deal with the crowds. I had an appointment with a personal trainer, a buff Filipino guy (don’t see many of those, do you?) at the fancy gym where I paid too much for my membership. Filling out the card he said, “Of course number one thing, losing weight.” Of course. I have another appointment with him tonight. He’s a bit of a slave driver. I think he enjoys being in the position of commanding his rich customers to work harder, do more, move, move, that’s only 30 kilos, you can do that. Like I said, I paid too much. It was a year’s membership and cost the equivalent of more than a thousand dollars - it kind of makes me cringe now. It’s fancy and shiny and clean because it’s connected to a nice modern hotel, but the facilities are really pretty average. Not very spacious, few classes, and the pool was a big disappointment. Hot water. It would be a good public bath if it were in Japan, but it’s pretty lousy for swimming laps. Last night, however, it wasn’t too bad… cooled down to a few degrees above body temperature, a bearable luke warm. I swam about 8 or 10 laps… pretty pathetic really, but we’ll blame it on the temperature. Water temperature is a perplexing matter here in Kuwait. The taps are all marked with red or blue. Do you think hot water comes out of the red tap? Wrong. Hot comes out of the blue, cool from the red. I laughed about this and assumed that it was another of the goofy mix-ups that are common here. It was explained to me later. The red tap comes from the hot water heater tank, and the blue tap comes directly from the plumbing pipes that are run in the ground. During the summer, the ground is so hot that the water being piped in comes out hot enough for a shower, and the hot water heater is turned off so that it can serve as a holding tank and allow water to cool while it rests in the tank inside the air conditioned building. Strange, huh? In the winter, the ground will cool down, and the hot water heater will be turned on.

Yesterday was September 11th. I asked my students if they knew why it was a famous day in America. One of them knew about the Twin Towers. Some students asked me who did it? I know they were testing me. I wouldn’t be surprised if their parents tell them that the Jews did it and blamed it on the Muslims, or some such nonsense. I told them that terrorists did it. They wanted to know more, but I changed the subject. There is a list of subjects and topics ranging from BLT sandwiches to the Holocaust that we are forbidden from discussing in class, and while I’m sure I could probably manage to have the discussion without breaking the rules, I just didn’t feel like bothering with anything political. I am a natural wave-maker, and if I am as careful and prudent as I can possibly manage, I will probably do just the right amount of stirring to stay out of trouble.

long day, late night

Kuwait provides this challenge: if I want to complain, it will give me sufficient reason to complain for the duration of my time here. It’s not too hard to imagine myself someday boarding a plane and saying, “What a waste of two years of my life.” It’s entirely up to me whether I make this a wonderful and rewarding time or put my energy into negativity and complaining. In that way, Kuwait is a perfect opportunity for training my mind, nurturing my faith, and developing my ability to seek out the good in life. Of course there will be times when I will want to just give myself permission to bitch a little bit. I’ve been around people who put every thought and comment through a filter to make sure that they’re being up-beat and positive, and folks like that can get awfully tiresome, can’t they? Part of the fun of sharing an experience with friends is knowing you’re on the same wave-length regarding the unpleasant as well as the pleasant. I remember one time when I was in Japan, I went on a trip with all the other exchange students to visit some famous places. It became apparent that our trip was going to be all taken up with sitting on trains, being herded around with no freedom to explore, and made to sit and listen to dull lectures and speeches, and we started to adopt a gleeful irreverence. One sweet-faced blond girl won us all over with her explosive commentary chock-full of profanity and rude humor. I loved her! The trick is to do all the bad-mouthing you like in the name of fun, but in your heart you mustn’t believe it. So I might refer to this place as “kuHATE” and chime in when my comrades here rip it apart, but at the end of the day I have to remember that I am making a difference here, and Kuwait is making a difference in me. That’s a gift.

I met parents tonight. What a mixed bag of nuts they were. The last one left me with a really bad taste in my mouth. His manner was cold, rude, and arrogant. He showed no interest and had a look of mild disgust on his face. I told him about how his son had done a nice job on our first project. The boy was there, and I told him to translate for his dad if he needed to, but the dad said in good English, “Not necessary, I’m fine.“ As he walked out without a goodbye or even so much as a nod, I said, “Very nice meeting you, have a nice evening” to the back of his head. I considered that maybe he was ashamed of his learning-disabled son, and was embarrassed to be there at all. Who knows. I recently read that contrary to the official gratitude that Kuwait expresses to United States for our help in repelling Saddam’s forces during the Persian Gulf War, the majority of Kuwaitis actually dislike the United States, too pro-Israel, messed up Iraq, yada, yada, … yawn. People who judge an individual because they associate him or her with some government are just ignorant, what else is new. The man’s son is such a nice kid, really a kid you can’t help but like. The other parents were pretty friendly. Just about all of them spoke good English. One divorced woman wanted advice about how to deal with her daughter, eleven going on seventeen with a bit of a naughty rock-star girl style that is bound to create shockwaves in Kuwait. Oh my goodness, that girl is a walking sexual revolution waiting to happen. I don’t think they’re going to be able to keep her in a burka. All in all, I think the parents are glad that someone appreciates their children. And I do. I really like their kids. They are weird, wonderful special ed kids, unable to hide their hearts. But it sure was a long day, and I know I’m going to have my work cut out for me, and I wish I didn’t have to make such a conscious effort to spin positive, … and my refridgerator has broken down. Last night I had a very nice dream in which I had a baby daughter that was my own child (of all things!), and I was in a cottage-sort of a place, and my cat Peter was there with us, and my brother showed up and we were all very happy and I said, “I know I’m dreaming, aren’t I?” and my brother said, “Yes, you have been for about an hour now.” It’s late, and I’m tired, and I probably won’t be able to get those neurons to recreate that dream for me, but what the hell you never know. Signing out, oyasumi nasai means goodnight in Japanese, no idea what it is in Arabic, the burning desire to know hasn't come around yet.

how to lose your rant

Yesterday a few of us decided to work late and then called a recommended taxi driver to shuttle us around. First we went to the gym for a work-out, then we got groceries, and finally back to our apartments, or “flats’ as they are more commonly called here. The driver’s name is Mohammed. He’s a chubby Bangladeshi man in his 30’s, very polite and smiley. He has a habit of starting sentences with “this is.” This is very happy to be of service, Sir. This is I come back at six thirty, pick you up.

I was hungry so I bought a pack of chicken-hotdog crescent buns at the deli and waited with Mohammed while the others finished their shopping. I offered Mohammed one of the snacks. He put his hand on his heart and declined my offer. “This is I am very fat,” he said. I thought of his wife making big pots of curry and rice for their family. The conversation went like this.
“You have children?”
“Yes, sir, I have.” He beamed. “You have?”
“Me, no.”
“No?”
“No children, no wife.”
“But why, sir?”
“Some people don’t marry, Mohammed. You understand that.”
“But marry is life, sir. Before marry, this is no life. After marry, this is life. Why you no marry?”
For some reason I felt no particular sting. I was just touched by his sincerity. How does one begin to communicate the endless tangle and puzzle of something that can never be understood, even by the person who knows it first hand? I decided to borrow a completely insufficient answer and let him fill in the blanks.
“I am a funny man,” I said. “You understand, don’t you?”
He tried to look like he didn’t know what I meant, but I could see it register.
“Oh, come on, Mohammed. I know you understand. You know about this.”
“Ah,” he smiled.
“Yes, I know you understand. You are a very smart man. You understand.”
“Thank you, sir.” I think he smiled because I‘d seen through his attempt at playing innocent. He understood well enough. Funny man. It was a shallow and incomplete way of putting it. No matter. Wording was not paramount here.
The others finished their shopping and we loaded it all in the trunk and headed home. On the way we continued talking about children. Mohammed had “one children” -- a little one, three years old. His wife and child were with him in Kuwait on a family visa, but he wanted to take them back to Bangladesh. Bangladesh is green, yes? Yes, Bangladesh very green. Not like Kuwait. Kuwait very bad. Before nice, now no more nice. Everything expensive.
Mohammed had told us that we could pay him whatever we wanted. He did not set a price. My friends and I had agreed on a price of 4 dinars for the combined trips. That’s about $14 for three rides. He had picked us up at 4:30 and had mostly just waited around for us while we did our workout and bought groceries. It was going on 8:00 pm. Now I was thinking maybe we should give him an extra dinar for all the waiting, but I knew that my friends were trying to stretch their “settling in allowance” from school and had probably just spent most of what they had left on their groceries. I have a tendency to want to tip everyone here, because I know the money is worth more to the poor people here than it is to me. But I had a feeling I would be calling Mohammed for a lot of taxi rides, and if I gave him a big tip the first time, he might be disappointed in the future. I compromised and gave him a half dinar tip. I know he’s not that poor--after all he has a job and a fat belly. But he's from Bangladesh and has come to Kuwait to drive a taxi and accept what people will pay.

I’m finding it very eye-opening to meet and connect with people of vastly different socioeconomic worlds. Things matter differently. I used to be embarrassed to ever wear the ring my Aunt Dot gave me, because it was a bit flashy and gold and had a diamond. I wore it once when I was working at Mechanicsburg High School because I thought maybe the special ed kids there wouldn’t tease me, but they still did. Someone said, “Look, he’s wearing a gold Mafia ring!” and I didn’t wear it again. But here, the rich Kuwaiti kids at school don’t even notice it. They probably have one maid at their house whose sole job is just to polish all the family’s gold. So I don’t feel scandalized by wearing something “rich.” At the same time, all the political correctness and self-righteous indignation that becomes the coping mechanism of “funny men” at home just doesn’t translate here. You see too big a picture. Your pet causes start to feel silly. A few weeks ago I was sitting with my brother, sister, niece and nephew, de-stemming the wild elderberries that we picked on his land and discussing my distaste for weddings. I really don’t enjoy weddings. I had asked my other nephew if he would mind my not attending his wedding long before I knew I would be out of the country anyhow. I wanted to get my everyone used to the idea that I was not really into being a wedding guest. And I made the comment, “Since I would not legally be allowed to get married to a partner, I don’t want to go to any weddings.” Well, my family can go along with my liberalism, but only so far. My sister said, “You could get married in Massachusetts, couldn’t you?” and I had to admit the faultiness of my logic.

If anything, coming to Kuwait has made it even harder to buy into my own arguments. I am reminded by other people’s lack of understanding that I myself don’t understand very much. And when one admits that one doesn’t understand so much, it’s harder to keep a firm position. It’s a very vulnerable place to be. Assumptions evaporate. The women in their black burka covers start to look less sinister... they sort of remind me of nuns. The call from the minaret starts to have less of the sound of an evil chant, and I imagine that the guys doing it probably compare themselves to one another and harbor some vanity about their singing voices. And in this city of two million, there are certainly a lot of misfits who don't really understand what their role is in the larger scheme of things, but they don't get any further than wondering about it. I'm not sure I have any less in common with them than I do with the edgy radical types I've admired and emulated from time to time back home. The world's just too damn big and crazy. You can't figure anything out.

So now off to a party at the apartment of my friends who bought all those groceries last night. My contribution will be the bucket of mango juice to which I added necessary ingredients and let sit on a shelf for a week, according to another expat's instructions, for desired fortification. Cheers.

school has begun

I am sitting in my classroom, listening to some old Arabic music on the radio. The maid is washing the windows. People who do cleaning here are not called "custodians" or "janitors," they are called "maids." Maids are very inexpensive here. I am going to have one come to my apartment and wash the floors once a week. Dust comes through the airconditioning system and coats the floors with regularity.

Today will be my third day with the students. I have three classes of eight. Boy to girl ratio is about 4 to 1. The students are very polite and respectful. It is definitely a special needs population, but their ability levels cover a broad range. I have one boy who needed help attaching two pieces of paper with a paper clip; another boy has read all the Harry Potter books and wants me to teach him Japanese. They are innocent and sweet in a way that special ed teachers know these kinds of kids can be. I am going to enjoy my job. It will be the best thing about being in Kuwait, and that is how it should be. Yesterday afternoon I was telling one of the other teachers that if I had it do over again, I'm not sure I would have said yes to this offer. It is really not a very attractive place to live. Take a walk through the filthy hot streets and you can't help but ask why anyone would choose to come here if it weren't a financial imperative. But I know I will learn so much here. I spoke to the head of the Arabic department head about recommending a tutor for me. I don't know if I'll make a lot of progress with all the responsibilities of teaching and the amount of time it takes to do anything when you are operating in a foreign environment (buying a few groceries becomes a major excursion). But it won't hurt to give it a try.

We will be having open house on Sunday night, and I'll be meeting a lot of parents - the idea of talking to the mothers in their black abayas kind of gives me a strange feeling, but I'll get over that hurdle. Someone told me that when Saddam Hussein attacked Kuwait, the majority of families took refuse in Saudi, and there they were preached at for having given in to modern evils and told that the invasion was Allah's punishment. Since then there has been a conservative trend, and now there are more women in black cover than ever before.

Gotta get ready for class now...

gimme that old time religion... well, maybe not

I went to mass. It was the most austere and conservative mass I think I have ever attended. What a total drag. No music, no homily, no smiles or handshakes during the sign of peace (only nervous nods), the church was full but you could have heard a pin drop. I saw only one other person who looked like she was of European descent, but I didn’t get a chance to say hello to her or anything. This was a very sober affair, and a glaring reminder of why people sometimes refer to themselves as "recovering Catholics." I think it is what mass must have been like decades ago. Nobody made eye contact going in or coming out. Outside I looked for a friendly face. Some people wandered to a courtyard in the back where they knelt on the cement and prayed in front of a statue of Mary. There was no church bulletin. Finally I went up to a lady and asked her if she spoke English. She did. I asked her if the service was typical for the cathedral. No music, no homily? She looked at me with disapproval, as if I had asked why there weren’t dancing girls and a disco ball. But at least she gave me an explanation of sorts. Though Catholics can fulfill their obligation to attend mass any day after Thursday (special rule in place here since Sunday is a work day) some masses are big masses and some are small daily masses. Even thought the church had been full, the one I had attended was a daily mass.

Ironically, the gospel reading had been about the parable of the talents. The servant who didn’t take any risks made no profit for his master, and he was sent away with nothing. To me, the spiritual lesson is so obvious. How can people read scripture and miss the whole point? I guess they’ve been doing it forever, focusing on prescriptions and rules. To see the these poor Asian immigrants, driven by poverty to leave their homes and take jobs in this cruel, hot city… they flock to church for hope and spiritual encouragement, and what do they get? A dry religious exercise. Maybe the eucharist is enough for them, but I think they could be given so much more. It reminds me of a movie I went to see with my dad when I was a little kid. “The Poseidon Adventure,” about a huge cruise ship that struck by a tidal wave. There were two priests in the story, one progressive and provocative, the other traditional and devout. The traditional priest was with the sick people in the infirmary when the tragedy struck. They all started shuffling their way to the upper levels of the ship. Meanwhile, the progressive priest was in the company of a group of survivors who figured out that the ship was filling with water and was going to flip completely upside down. They knew that the best chance for survival was to get to the bottom of the ship so that they would be on top when it flipped around, and they were actually working their way down instead of up. When the two parties crossed paths, the priests exchanged words. The young modern-thinking priest begged the other priest to bring his people and follow them, but even after the older priest understood that he was leading them the wrong way, he refused to change courses. He said that the sick people would never make it anyhow, so he was going to accompany them to their deaths. It seems saintly, somehow, to join the hopeless, but the lie in that is that people are indeed hopeless. I don’t believe they are. There has got to be a little more brightness to the message. Maybe it's there and I just missed it today. Maybe I’ll go back one more time for a big mass and see if they bring out the dancing girls and disco balls.