Who was Cassandra?
In the Iliad, she is described as the loveliest of the daughters
of Priam (King of Troy), and gifted with prophecy. The god Apollo
loved her, but she spurned him. As a punishment, he decreed
that no one would ever believe her. So when she told her fellow
Trojans that the Greeks were hiding inside the wooden horse...well,
you know what happened.
the cassandra pages
words, pictures, and a life
Saturday, February 12, 2005
MOTTA
Yesterday, getting ready for dinner guests who are coming tonight, we went out to the Jean-Talon market to check out the new building and get some vegetables, and then went on to Adonis, the Middle Eastern supermarket, for the rest of our provisions. But before shopping, we grabbed a bite to eat at Motta, near the southeastern corner of the Jean-Talon market. It's our favorite Italian deli. You can buy pizza by the slice (big rectangular pieces, with a thick but light crust, loaded with many savory toppings, from fresh spinach to artichokes to prosciutto) and have it heated up there, with a cup of espresso and maybe a little something sweet for dessert from the bakery counter. There's also a huge assortment of olives, cheeses, breads, deli meats, fresh pasta sauces by the jar, pasta, oils and condiments, and the most dazzling array of antipasto and Italian side dishes - freshly fried zucchini fritters, delicately stuffed peppers, veal scallops in a light tomato sauce, salads of every description and color - I've ever seen.
I waited for J. to bring our lunches to the table in the back of the restaurant, and watched a handsome young Italian guy and his two friends happily devour pizza, three cannoli apiece, coffee, and a huge sugar-drizzled cinnamon pastry ring they cajoled the deli waitress into heating up. Beyond them, another table was filled with a group of uniformed schoolgirls in Black Watch plaid pleated kilts, white blouses, and navy sweaters, out for a pizza lunch with their svelte, stylish teacher - for what occasion, I wondered? In the meantime, at the counter, more slices were ordered by Africans, a Vietnamese woman, an old Italian couple, two Asian teenagers...
Thursday, February 10, 2005
ASH WEDNESDAY REFLECTIONS
In the context of Lent, which began yesterday, I’ve been thinking in particular about two recent posts I’ve read, one from Father Jake Stops the World, and another from Chris Clarke at Creek Running North. Fr. Jake wrote about James Fowler’s Stages of Faith, a work which attempts to describe spiritual development in “stages”. The post wondered if we might use those different stages of development – loosely defined as moving from a self-centered, self-serving focus to a spiritually-centered compassion for community and “the other” - to explain why religious fundamentalists and liberals seem to either shout at, or talk past one another; i.e., different people at different stages can’t hear one another. Chris’s post took off from the recent Ward Churchill controversy to examine the whole “liberal” label; he posits that it now means something entirely other than “leftist”, and that many people who describe themselves as liberal are in fact very far indeed from the values and beliefs that have traditionally characterized the left. I agree with him.
How to relate these two discussions, one seemingly so religious, and one so political?
In the discussion on Jake’s site, several commenters pointed out that those who focused on “individuality” or “individualism”, and judged it badly, were missing the point of Fowler’s “stages”, and I think that’s correct. I haven’t read Fowler, but I think he is using the term “individuative” to mean the ability to examine oneself and one’s beliefs apart from belonging to an institutionalized belief system where comfort is derived from everybody believing and saying pretty much the same thing. Assuming this is a good thing, how might we get there?
Many belief systems include some sort of meditation/self-reflection that is aimed, ultimately, at transformation of the individual from, perhaps, (don’t shoot me here) “unaware, spinning, and ego-driven”, to “more aware, more peaceful, and more outward-motivated”. (Some, but by no means all, Christian teaching has this as an important element – I could write for another year about that topic but I’ll spare you; please spare me the inevitable criticisms of much of modern Christianity too: you're right.) Most people begin on a spiritual path hoping for “help” or “relief” from problems, sometimes specific ones of a personal nature, sometimes simply a vague disquiet and unhappiness. Some discover, after a time, or after jumping around from one system or teacher to another, that the quick fix is a) not easy or even possible to attain, and b) not really what it’s about. And some, of course, drop out at that point. Others are intrigued enough to go deeper. If they do, there will often be an identifiable, gradual progression, similar to what Fowler describes – throughout life - toward greater self-awareness of oneself as both greatly blessed and suffering; awareness of that suffering as a shared human condition; the awakening of compassion and a softening of judgmentalism; greater acceptance of one’s personal difficulties and relinquishment of personal desires; and increasing desire to be of service to others and to the world; i.e. selflessness.
Clearly, people within any community – whether we’re talking about a church, a sangha, a larger grouping such as the Anglican Communion, or the supposedly secular political society of the U.S. – are going to be at different stages in how they see themselves in relationship to the world and what they want or think they deserve out of life. People also are always going to be at different stages in their need to say “my way is the right way”; they will have different levels of need for proving their “rightness”; and different levels of tolerance for what are acceptable ways to demonstrate and enforce that self-righteousness.
Certainly, communal societies act differently when making decisions than those societies where the individual and his/her “rights of self-determination” are considered paramount. But as one commenter at Jake’s pointed out, it is entirely possible to be a pretty self-realized individual and at the same time to be very compassionate and highly aware of one’s responsibility to the world. In a moral context, let alone a religious one, free will is understood as something quite different from “I’ll do whatever I want, and to hell with the rest of you”.
On to Chris’s post. As he wrote, most American liberals today have learned how to quote chapter and verse from the book of political correctness: they can talk the talk, and they can pretend to walk the walk, but for the most part they are as entrenched in American capitalism as anyone. And when the chips are down, they vote to confirm Condi; some of them – incredibly - even vote to confirm Gonzales; they vote to appropriate massive sums for war; they spout pro-environmental rhetoric but live consumptive lifestyles; they say they care about the poor in America and in the rest of the world but make lifestyle changes on the level of buying equal-exchange coffee to serve at dinner parties to which their one black acquaintance or token artist may be invited. This is not opposition to the status quo – it is the status quo.
I think that American liberalism is just as much a part of the problem we’re facing as a country as conservatism, mainly because it masquerades as something different from the Right while, through good intentions coupled with inaction, serving the same master and perpetuating a destructive and injust system. Liberalism does very little in the way of true opposition, the goal of which I would define as bringing about transformation – this time, of society. Here, as for the disenchanted spiritual seeker, true transformation is seen as just too risky; the cost too high.
Chris quoted Martin Luther King on this subject, and it’s worth repeating:
I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro's great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen's Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to "order" than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: "I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action"; who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man's freedom; who lives by a mythical concept of time and who constantly advises the Negro to wait for a "more convenient season." Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection. King’s words were painfully reminiscent of the “thank you so much for doing this, it’s just not my style but it’s great to see you here every week” comments I heard during a year of publicly opposing Bush’s policies and the run-up to the Iraq war. I’ve heard the same thing from the same liberal, upper-middle class, university constituency about my work in interfaith dialogue, Middle East understanding, or gay rights. People say, quite sincerely, “it’s so wonderful what you’re doing” but wouldn’t be caught dead actually having a conversation with a Muslim, or inviting them to their house. The same thing is heard by those who work with the poor, or fight for funding for the arts, or the environment – the list goes on. If you allow it, you may become a “pet” for those who may share your political concerns and want to look good, but want somebody else to do the hard and dirty work, the work that may get criticized or carry personal risk, the work that is harder than writing a check, the work that literally puts a person and their beliefs on the line. The difference between writing a check to the soup kitchen, and serving in it day after day, having real relationships with people who live from hand-to-mouth and then facing yourself and your full refrigerator every night, is vast. I’ve only done this occasionally, but it changes you. I spent twelve years attending a real public school where many of the kids were extremely poor; it changes you. But our society isn’t moving in that direction; it’s moving toward gated communities and homogenous towns and churches and social groups, and many of the people inside them are so-called liberals.
In the end, it does come down to moral and ethical choices. A priest who I greatly admire puts it bluntly for his congregation: “Being truly religious people means that we must live in such a way that the poor can live.” That means one thing: we have to change.
What’s the real obstacle? We’re not ready. Not enough people are ready to look up and see the interconnections; they’re scared, they don’t want to lose anything; they want protection. So we are at different stages, whether we’re talking about spiritual or societal maturity, and the numbers of people who are willing to make real sacrifices at the risk of potentially alienating their friends and relatives, or are willing to devote significant chunks of their time, money, and energy into working for change, are actually much, much smaller than the perceived 50% divide in the voting public. And it doesn’t do any good to shout at each other. I’m afraid it’s a question of keeping small fires lit in a group of separate caves, trying to support the other lamp-holders when we find them, and doing what we can to work around the system and keep the idea and hope of real change alive during a most dismal and discouraging time. Each person who sees this needs to do whatever they can to make their corner of the world a better and more compassionate place. I’m convinced that people learn and change by example much more than they do by logic and argument.
During Lent this year, I’m going to be reflecting on how I can do better myself, because I am painfully aware that every observation and criticism I’ve made in the preceding paragraphs can be applied to me as well. One of the teachings of this sort of spiritual path is that we never arrive at a point where we can afford the luxury of complacency: as my husband and I begin the process of extricating ourselves from a lifetime of obligations, expectations, possessions, and ways of living, toward a simpler life that consumes less, compromises less, and is more compatible with our beliefs, we see just how difficult it is. I know someone who just sold all her possessions and is going to Africa to teach and learn. I couldn’t begin to do something like that, nor would it be right for me or for my family. But that doesn’t mean that we can’t try, wherever we find ourselves, to go deeper, to ask harder questions, to stretch more and more.
From an op-ed by Eric Garcetti, who represents the 13th District on the Los Angeles City Council, in the L.A. Times:
President Bush refers to himself as a wartime president, and he has shown resolve not to back down on the battlefield. But the budget he released this week waves a flag of surrender in another war, the 40-year "war on poverty." The budget announces cuts of 28% - or $1.4 billion - from our arsenal of critical social programs. The largest and most vital to Los Angeles is the Community Development Block Grant. As more cities draw on poverty-fighting grants each year, Los Angeles' allocation has steadily decreased, from $88.6 million in 2003 to $82.7 million this year. Under the proposed cuts, our allocation would plummet by at least $15 million. Alongside previously proposed cuts to Section 8 housing assistance, these reductions send a stark message to the country's poor, its elderly and its urban youth: You're no longer our problem...
After a rainy drive, we arrived back in Montreal around 3:00 pm, buying vegetables and fruits on the way in. After unpacking, I sat down with a glass of hot tea and the well-worn copy of Elizabeth David's French Provincial Cooking I'd brought from Vermont - how I enjoy her tart prose! - and then chopped and sauteed onions, celery, a handful of mushrooms, a small zucchini, the end of a cauliflower, and a couple of potatoes for the start of a cream of vegetable soup before heading out into the darkening drizzle.
It was warm enough still to walk with just a scarf on my head; the sidewalks were mostly clear except for a few little lakes where the snow had created a dam. Car headlights shone on the wet pavement and the icy playgrounds and glazed snow piled up near the sides of buildings. More bicycles were out. I passed a tall, longhaired blonde woman in a white coat, stepping daintily in her pointy white high heels and carrying a flowered umbrella. I passed a debonair man in a beret and woolen greatcoat, walking his jaunty dog. An tired, intellectual bohemian in wire-rimmed glasses, a red fringed scarf tied round his neck, picked up his little daughter from the daycare that must continue, after hours, at the neighborhood school.
Darkness, made thicker by the rainy night, fell on the houses and street, while pools of yellow light spilled from the few storefronts that were open. In the fancy hair salon, a trim black-clothed assistant swept dark curls from the floor, moving his broom under the white upholstered chairs in the wide windows. Across the street, a small French restaurant was preparing for the evening: the bartender, his back to the street, polishing glasses; starched white tablecloths on the dozen or so tables; the blackboard of the evening's specials posted by the door.
I stopped at the depanneur to buy a little cream for our soup from the kind Asian owner who was watching ski racing on her television set, across from the cash register above the wine shelves. Then, the bakery. The warm light in the small shop illuminated the glass window-shelves of date bars, sugar-dusted almond croissants, sand-colored tuiles, brownies, and palm-sized sugar cookies, each with a ruby center of raspberry jam. As I approached, a little girl with blonde hair, wearing a dress and fitted woolen coat, bounded down the steps and skipped to her amused, waiting mother, clutching whatever delight she'd been awarded inside. I went in and ordered my mini pain-rustique, a small irregular white loaf, and a whole-wheat loaf encrusted with sesame seeds, the thick crust slashed into diamonds.
When I went out and back down the street, the salon owner had just turned out the lights and was heading for her door. The first group of diners, talking happily, pulled open the door of the restaurant and went in. I hesitated for only a minute, and turned away from home, extending my walk around a few more blocks. It was just too fine, being out, with fresh bread and cream in my backpack, and the glorious rainy night and its life, unfurling.
“I have a very busy week,” my father-in-law announced, landing heavily in his chair in the dining room. “Two things today – you, and I’m giving an Arabic lesson at 2:00. That’s one thing too much!” He laughed. “And tomorrow the principal of the S. school is coming to talk to me. On Thursday, Clara is coming for lunch. I really can only do one thing per day. It’s terrible, but I just don’t have the energy.”
“What’s this person coming to see you about?” we asked.
“About talking to their students about Islam and the Middle East.”
“How did they find out about you?”
“The mother of one of their students is a friend of mine. She brought her daughter to meet me, and the daughter asked me some questions about Islam, and I said I wouldn’t answer because I don’t feel that a little bit of knowledge is a good thing; I told her, ‘if you want to know something, then decide to really know it.’ Apparently she went back to the school and told her teacher what I had said, and they thought that made sense – so they proposed that I come there and give them a series of classes.” He looked up from his chicken broth. “But I think it’s too much. I don’t know if I can do it. We’ll see – they’ll provide transportation, of course.” We could see the sparkle in his eyes and the gears turning in his head as he thought about it; he had taught in private schools his entire career and had loved it; obviously he wanted to do this – even though he’s refused for months to travel at all, except for one funeral; he won’t even to go to his children’s homes for dinner, five miles away.
“What if the teacher came here and videotaped you talking about the subject?” I asked.
He looked up indignantly. “I have no interest in doing that! It’s the face-to-face contact I want, the conversation!”
“All right, so do it!” J. said, shooting a “you-should-have-seen-that-coming” look at me. “It would be good for you.”
“Yep,” he said, turning back to his soup.
Later we began talking about the Pope – about whom he said several irreverent things -and then he started telling stories about the Orthodox clergy in Damascus. He had grown up in the Christian section, and the largest Orthodox church was nearby, although his family didn’t attend: they were Presbyterian.
“I was quite taken with the Patriarch, as a young boy,” he said. “I liked his robe, of course, and he wore that tall hat” – he motioned well above his head – “and he had a very fine beard. So he was quite imposing. Every day he’d go past our house, and I’d stand in the doorway and wait for him. He liked me, and he’d always give me a blessing by putting his hand on my head, but he refused to let me kiss his hand because he didn’t want to offend my father, who was Protestant.” He laughed and shook his head. “I liked him much better than our minister, who was fat and very full of himself. I don’t know where he had learned theology, but he was very learned, very educated. He had two daughters, one with a name that meant ‘good to talk to’ and the other with a name that meant ‘pretty’ and he’d always walk down the street in between those two girls, one on either side of him.” He imitated him walking down the street, swaying from side to side. “I much preferred the Patriarch.”
“And he was the Patriarch of Damascus?” I asked.
“No, his title was ‘Patriarch of Antioch and All the East’, and his see was in Damascus.”
“Patriarch of Antioch and All the East,” J. repeated, wonderingly.
“Yes,” his father said, matter-of-factly. “Antioch was quite important at one time. Now, if you’re going for coffee, could you get me one of those?” He pointed at the container of yogurt I had just finished. “But only if they have that kind, it had some pieces of fruit in it – what was it?”
After waking up in a terrible mood (I am not at my best first thing in the morning - dragging myself upstairs for breakfast with my parents at my last visit, my father took one look at me and asked, "are you still like that?") I rallied, drank the coffee J. had kindly made for me, got myself somewhat together, and looked in the mirror. What to do today? Now that my hair is getting long again, I put it up on my head a lot. Sometimes I make a French braid or a twist in the back. Sometimes I wear a barrette. But I've been wanting to try making two braids and coiling them over the top of my head. Yesterday's news photos of Yulia Tymoshenko, the new prime minister of the Ukraine, were the inspiration I needed. My mother used to do this for me when I was little; she often wore her hair that way herself.
My hair is just barely long enough, but I managed and...it looked good. J. had been out doing an errand, and when he got back he immediately said, "That looks beautiful." Hair is such a simple thing,and so often mine drives me crazy. But this made me feel pretty all day - what a funny thing.
