Our First, Most Natural Mother Tongue

Moments ago I took a late evening stroll around the campus. Students were to be seen dotting the sidewalks, here one, there two, generally no more than three in a group. I was thinking of my schedule this week now that I am in graduate school; I was thinking also of the two courses I am teaching in college-level writing. I was also thinking that I did not feel particularly bad nor particularly good, but that I really had very little to write about this week for a newsletter after such an exhausting schedule. As I neared the plaza area where the campus shuttles rendezvous, I thought back to my first semester on this campus, a transfer student from a nearby community college.

It was a bitterly cold day—the flakes were still falling rapidly—and though I usually walked, I had climbed aboard the shuttle for a reprieve from the incliment weather. When we neared the corner upon which I needed to disembark, I threaded my way to the front of the bus. The driver, however, informed me that he could not let students off on this particular corner as it was not on the scheduled list of stops. By the time I had to retrace the extra steps from the next scheduled stop, I would have been better off had I decided to walk the entire way from the beginning. When I arrived home, icicles were hanging off my beard and mustache, my clothing was thoroughly wet as my body heat had melted just enough of the snow and ice to cause it to thaw then freeze, my teeth were chattering, my fingers icy in spite of the gloves, and I was frozen to the very depths of my spleen in spite of the heavy leather jacket and military-issue boots in which I had festooned myself for the wintry occasion. I always wondered if the driver cared, if his conscience ever pricked him even slightly as he drove back by seeing me walking in that frigid weather. That following spring and summer, I occasionally rode the night shuttles. Strangely, those drivers never seemed to take issue with letting me off on whatever corner I needed, whether it was a scheduled stop or not.

That memory brought back another one I had not considered in ages. I had the opportunity to attend the Job Corps Center in Clearfield, Utah, and that campus placed a premium on proper dress. Some of this focus had to do with fears of gang-related regalia; other parts allegedly had to do with how the school would look in the eyes of the surrounding community. Much of it, I believe, had to do with control.

I did not often have occasion to travel into downtown Ogden, much less Salt Lake City, both of which were nearby. None of us were allowed to drive—that is, if we even had a motor vehicle: many did not and perhaps that was part of the rationale involved in this policy. There was a merit system in which one could earn points by engaging in social activity, the campus furnishing ping pong tables, a dance hall, a movie theater, and other such venues for interaction with peers. When one received enough points, one was afforded more privileges—including additional opportunities to catch a bus into town. I rarely ever had many points, however, not because I was not social, but because I was social in all the wrong ways. My role was very much that of the missionary on that campus, and, among other activities I led impromptu Bible studies, a thing that got me kicked out of the program. In fact, I was so involved in the lives of my fellow students, acting as surrogate parent, counselor, and whatever other role that was needed, I rarely ever made it to the recreation hall, the dance parlor, or the movie theater instead meeting others in their dorm rooms or at picknic tables under the sun or stars. In many ways, Job Corps is about so-called “remedial” education: one was not admitted over a certain age or income level. One year older and I would have been disqualified; had some of my pre-Christian “income” been reported, I would have never made it into the program.

One Saturday I had a chance to go into town; there were a few things I needed to pick up, among them the opportunity to redeem about fifty dollars of clothing vouchers they had given us, a bit like food stamps that area stores had agreed to exchange for their line of fabrics. That particular day I had on a pair of regular jeans with a small tear in one knee. “I can’t let you on the bus dressed like that,” said the driver. He did not like me in the least: his gaze swept me up and down and he dismissed me as a rabble-rouser, a hoodlum, another punk kid with long hair and a bad attitude. My clothing told him everything he needed to know about me.

My dorm happened to be “A,” the one closest to the buses. I dashed off, changed, and came flying back. Just as I reached the rear of the bus it began to move. I saw the driver watching me in the mirror as he pulled away, a few minutes early no less, and soon the bus threaded through the gate and out onto the open road beyond. I was left standing there, vouchers in hand. I never did have a chance to cash them: as I said, I was terminated a short time later for conducting Bible studies. And some of my jeans still have holes in their knees.

Sara recently sent me her latest Reflections, a somewhat informal newsletter she puts together for a small group of spiritual seekers who meet in her home. The theme was “Loving the Unlovable,” and in them was a quotation from Martin Luther King, Jr.: “Nonviolence means avoiding not only external physical violence but also internal violence of spirit. You not only refuse to shoot a man, but you refuse to hate him.” That struck me as entirely appropriate: sure, being left standing on the corner stings a little, but if anyone is to be pitied, it is the driver: his smallness of spirit must stifle a great deal of happiness he could experience in life if he learned to open the curtains and let the sun shine through. I did not loathe him even then: in fact, I felt sad for him in some strange way. My sadness combined with the sort of numbing sensation one feels when someone has just spit in his face mingled together into a strange combination and I retreated to my dorm for a quiet afternoon of reading, my mood somber and reflective.

Sara’s Reflections also recounts a story related by Reverend Adrian Dieleman that goes something like this:

I had actually started to write a much different newsletter this week. Our readings in graduate school have focused on social-criticism theory and thus been dominated by feminist, Marxist, and other perspectives that too often seem angry and possessed of a sense of entitlement that comes across every bit as oppressive as the oppressors it seeks to implicate. I was going to write something against this approach. But it seemed false somehow. And then I realized that however true my assessment might be, it was not itself one of love and it did little to bring about any true justice. It was really only so much noise and empty words, a certain Pharisaical and self-righteous attitude creeping in that bespeaks of spiritual poverty. I decided I should read one more of the many assignments this week and then take a walk, hoping to regain my sense of spiritual perspective.

I had never previously heard of Jacqueline Jones Royster, though the title seemed distinctive enough: “When the First Voice You Hear is Not Your Own.” Royster reveals in time that she is an African American academic and the idea behind the title of the piece is that others have often misrepresented her culture with the very best of intentions. If you like, in seeking to be kind, they had put words in her mouth and had spoken for her on issues that they themselves had not experienced. But Royster’s approach was one of gentleness and respect and I was struck at its tone compared to some of the more angry-sounding readings we had been assigned. She spoke about Others in the plural, the idea being not only one group that feels alienated but all such groups. And her approach to the classroom was much different than just the need to have a plethora of voices and namely those of the oppressed; it was far more than a mere celebration of diversity. Rather, she writes:

There is much more that Royster writes, but I was cut to the quick. Some of the observations I had started to write about in the original newsletter are accurate, I believe: there really is a lot of repressed anger in a lot of academic discourse. Further, that anger tends to polarize me. That it polarizes others I can write about all day long and that was supposed to have been my original point. But that it polarizes me is something within my power to effect. I realized that the newsletter was itself polarized, because I had become polarized. To be polarized in this way is not to love: it is rather to react.

For some reason the words “act,” “react,” and “interact” were rolling around in my head as I walked this evening. I am still not certain why, but it occurred to me that psychologists often talk about the value of acting rather than reacting to a situation. The idea, of course, is to be in control of yourself and not to allow someone else to control you. But after reading Royster’s words, I wondered to myself if the ideal should not be so much to act—there is a real time and a place for such, of course—but to interact.

These three words playing on my mind, I rounded the corner and saw the shuttles. I remembered the driver whose policy was iron-clad, who could not bend the rules no matter the weather. I remembered the driver who intentionally snubbed me and rubbed my face in it for good measure. And I thought to myself, “You do not even begin to know the meaning of the word oppressed. You truly are privileged and you live in a cozy world that is largely insulated from the cultural shocks that for others is a way of life.”

This makes me reflect on my experiences thus far in the college classroom. I have taught Sunday school before, but never college. My second assigned reading was a piece by Terry Tempest Williams entitled “The Clan of One-Breasted Women.” The piece is partly political activism against nuclear testing. But that is not all that it is. You see, Williams was a Mormon who grew up in Utah, and as a Mormon her lifestyle was squeaky clean: no coffee, no tea, no alcohol, no tobacco. That is common: the LDS church tends to place a premium on taking good care of one’s body. But suddenly breast cancer began to develop in her family. She believes it was the result of the nuclear testing the United States government was conducting when she was a child. Her argument was contested even by the editors of the book who had chosen this piece as an example piece for how to inscribe the margins of the text. But what struck me was the number of young women—and to lesser degree young men—in the classroom who were directly affected. In my little bubble of a world I have been extremely fortunate: no one that I know personally and have loved and cared about deeply has ever been afflicted with this disease, at least that I can readily recall. Yet I would venture to bet many of you reading my words have been, perhaps even now are personally.

As I finished my course around the sidewalk and steered my shoes toward home I thought of the much maligned “situational ethics.” I say “much maligned” because there have been parts of the Christian spectrum that I have known who denounce such an approach to ethics as little short of diabolical. Truth, especially ethical truth, is for these believers absolute and unchanging.

I also thought about how for many believers I have known, there was a strong desire to have everything mapped out, to have one’s doctrinal ducks all lined up and facing the same way, and to eradicate any ambiguity from life. This approach is in some ways easier, because it negates a lot of the hard work of facing the often painful ambiguities and uncertainties of life. But sooner or later, most believers realize that the real essence of the spiritual life is found in communion with God and nowhere else. It is not found in having every answer to every question but rather in a childlike trust in the God who does. It is not about never having difficulty or hardship in life, but rather about having a secret well of strength upon which to draw during such times. Others look at the life of the believer and do not see perfection nor the absence of pain and sorrow, but what they often do see is a level of fortitude that can only be forged in the fires of affliction.

And I am very inclined to believe that a great deal of ethics is situational. There are certain standards or principles set in place and they are there for a reason. These serve as guidelines, and in the case of the classroom are embodied in the syllabus as the general policies by which a course is conducted. But I believe we are called to go the extra mile. I am not casting stones at the driver who would not let me off the shuttle. But I would wonder what it really would have cost him on a cold, snowy day to let a student off at the corner. I wonder if it really was ethical to treat everyone exactly the same. As I approach my own classroom, I do not treat all students exactly the same. They all are responsible for the same assignments, yes, and must abide by the same class policies. I believe in being completely fair and equitable, but for me being fair and equitable reminds me of a picture I saw in Time magazine recently in which a teacher of autistic children got right down on the floor inches away from the child’s face and smiled directly into his eyes. That to say that what one student needs, truly needs, will not be what another student needs. The overall classroom procedure is the same, but the ways in which it works itself out varies from student to student to student.

In the distribution of clothing and food, for example, what would be fair and equitable is for every person to have enough fabric to cover their bodies and enough food to fill their bellies. For some larger persons, this would mean more fabric and more food, for smaller persons it would require less fabric and less food. But equality in this sense is not sameness but a recognition of difference. What would be most unfair would be for the same amount of fabric and food to be allotted to absolutely everyone such that some would be warm and well fed, some would be over warm and overfed, and others would remain partially naked and turned away while yet hungry.

Where then, Sir Eric, do you draw the line? Your so-called “situational ethics” sets you up as judge and jury, as independent arbitrator. By what standard do you measure just and unjust? Valid points, all. But life is a necessarily messy affair. And often such questions simply keep us safe, comfortable, warm, and privileged, negating our responsibility to roll up our sleeves and pitch in wherever we can. We would like to have tidy answers, but love covers over a multitude of differences. My answer, then, is to the best of my ability, I try to be open and honest and listen to my heart. It is what leads me; it is what compels me to act as I do. And that is, of course, because it is no longer my own.

I close today with a final story Sara shared with me this week about Simone Weil, a believer who always managed to find herself cross-threaded with much of the Christian world. After her death, a man had a dream in which he spoke with her, though he did not then know who she was. Later, after he had discovered her writings, he had the opportunity to visit her home. He not only recognized the setting as that of his dream, but upon seeing Weil’s photograph, he recognized her as the very woman with whom he had spoken. The dream, then, went something like this: When the man approached her, she looked to him like a scholar and thus his words framed both question and observation: “You must know many languages.” Her reply? “Where I’m at, we speak only one language.”

We may presume that she was referring to the language of love. May we also be said to know this language as our first, most natural mother tongue.

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