tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15897999582278259572024-03-13T09:39:51.036-07:00Operation R: Rwanda, Religion, wRitingCaitlin M. S. Buxbaumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02794272543965318111noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1589799958227825957.post-66755455959251046202019-03-23T15:17:00.002-07:002019-03-23T15:24:21.608-07:00I'm going back to Rwanda! Muraho, Rwanda followers! It's been awhile, hasn't it? You read correctly that I am going back to Rwanda :) We (New Mercies Ministries) will depart to Minneapolis on June 10th and returning to Minneapolis on June 22nd.<br />
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There's a lot that's going into my decision to take this trip, as before, but I won't get into that right now. What I'm thinking about at the moment is Numbers 13 and 14, which we have been asked, as team members, to reflect on at this time.<br />
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<a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Numbers%2013-14&version=NIV">Bible Gateway passage: Numbers 13-14 - New International Version</a></h4>
Exploring Canaan - The LORD said to Moses, "Send some men to explore the land of Canaan, which I am giving to the Israelites. From each ancestral tribe send one of its leaders." So at the LORD's command Moses sent them out from the Desert of Paran.</blockquote>
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In these two books of the Bible, Moses is a leading the Jews out of Egypt and into the "promised land." They've been traveling for a while, and he sends a team of scouts to survey the land below to see if it is livable. They find that it is, and full of great produce and such, but several strong groups of people are already living there, and that freaks a lot of the Jews out. Caleb, one of the scouts, is not afraid, because he knows the Lord is with them.<br />
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Moses intervenes on behalf of the people, asking God to forgive them (again) despite their ignorance and rebellion. God does forgive them, but says that those who did not trust him all died before they see the promised land, and those who did the scouting and spread panic among the people will be struck down of plague. Moses tells the people this, but the people still do not understand. They decide to go into the land anyway, saying, "we are ready now." Moses says they should not do this, because the Lord is not with them, having told them to go a different route. Predictably, the people who ignore this instruction and go down into the country all fall.<br />
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So what can we learn from this? Obviously that we should follow God's lead, but also that we need to be aware of when plans change and our expectations fall short, or are not even applicable. Adaptation, in life, is as important as — if not more important than — having a plan to begin with.<br />
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As I prepare to return to Rwanda, with this new team and a higher level of maturity on my part (as well as more life experience, since most of our team is made up of high school girls), I have to remind myself of who I am, both historically and at present, the "good" and the "bad," in Christ and as a teacher and artist. I think I'm pretty aware of my strengths and weaknesses as a person, but I pray that I would know in the moment, in Rwanda, what is God's will and what is not.<br />
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If you are interested in helping to fund this venture of mine, you may do so by following <a href="https://gofundme.com/manage/caitlin-goes-to-rwanda">this link</a>. Or, you can purchase some of my <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/cmsbuxbaum">recently published books of poetry</a> (one of which includes a poem I wrote about a moment in Rwanda!), the proceeds from which will go toward my trip for the next 2-3 months :)<br />
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Turongera (See You Later)!<br />
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CMSB<br />
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P.S. Here's a silly picture of me in a plastic poncho at Favor Guest House in Kigali when I was really sick but on the mend...so everyone found it pretty hilarious.<br />
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<br />Caitlin M. S. Buxbaumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02794272543965318111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1589799958227825957.post-22750822642208698632017-01-15T22:44:00.004-08:002017-01-15T22:44:16.350-08:00ResultsNot it!<br />
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I didn't win the novel contest. Find out why I'm glad <a href="http://mistymiscellanea.blogspot.com/2017/01/and-winner-isnot-me-obviously.html"><span style="font-size: large;">here</span></a>.Caitlin M. S. Buxbaumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02794272543965318111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1589799958227825957.post-6378653955604861082016-12-03T22:29:00.003-08:002016-12-03T22:30:47.497-08:00Waiting......to hear back after Round TWO of the New Wrinkle Publishing Contest!<br />
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If you're interested in seeing how that turns out, stay tuned to my other blog, <a href="http://mistymiscellanea.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-size: large;">mistymiscellanea.blogspot.com</span></a><br />
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That's where I do most of my blog-musing these days.<br />
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<br />Caitlin M. S. Buxbaumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02794272543965318111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1589799958227825957.post-74241639511005719442016-11-28T19:30:00.000-08:002016-12-01T19:15:20.783-08:00Trying to publish a novelHello again, blogosphere! Long time...<br />
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This post is not about Rwanda, or religion. It's about wRiting, and today I need your help.<br />
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I'm trying to get my first novel published in a contest hosted by New Wrinkle Publishing, which ends tonight at midnight, Pacific Standard Time; that means you have about <span style="font-size: large;">3</span> more hours to vote for my novel to be professionally edited, illustrated, published and set to an original soundtrack. What an opportunity, am I right?<br />
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Now, the winner of the contest won't necessarily have the most votes, since the publishers judge based on the merit of the story synopsis as they perceive it.<br />
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<strong style="font-family: Montserrat, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 18px; text-align: justify;">"We’ll consider every entry for the grand prize, regardless of votes</strong><span style="font-family: "montserrat" , "helvetica neue" , sans-serif; font-size: 18px; text-align: justify;"> … but the more votes you get, the more visible you’ll be. Plus, there’s an awesome secondary prize, specifically for the person who gets the most votes!"</span><br />
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The secondary prize honestly doesn't compare to publication of one's novel (a book, a t-shirt, a mug and an Amazon fire tablet), but the point is visibility.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My book </span>(under my pen name, Cate Slader) <span style="font-size: large;">is titled</span> <i><span style="font-size: large;">The Blame Game</span>.</i> I currently have 103 votes and need to break 131 to get into the top 10 (that would also put me at the top of the YA Drama genre).<br />
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So without further ado, here's the link to vote! All you have to do is click the heart next to the number of votes for each entry.<br />
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<a href="https://www.newwrinklepublishing.com/the-blame-game/">https://www.newwrinklepublishing.com/the-blame-game/</a><br />
Thanks in advance; I'll keep you posted on the results!<br />
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<br />Caitlin M. S. Buxbaumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02794272543965318111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1589799958227825957.post-15201750794544209542015-08-24T15:28:00.002-07:002015-08-24T15:30:21.528-07:00Read/Write/Publish/RepeatToday is momentous.<br />
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Today I finished a book called "The Poison Tree," written by English author Erin Kelly. I had never heard of her before, but found the book in an Anchorage, Alaska bookstore called "Title Wave Books." I guess what caught my eye was the review on the front of the book by Stephen King: "I wish I had written it."<br />
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I read a Stephen King book as research for my undergraduate English thesis, a creative project, and though I sometimes call him and his work overrated, there's no denying the weight his name carries in the writing world.<br />
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The first two chapters or so of "The Poison Tree" had me second-guessing my decision to buy the $10 used book, but I quickly forgot that and found myself engrossed in the book. Kelly drew me into its pages in such a way that made me crave and eventually hate the recklessness of one of the main characters, question my own motivations and feeling in love, and ponder the problems of The Past. I also stopped to note how poignantly she described the violence and promiscuity in the book, thinking, "that's it. That's how you effectively communicate the nuances of 'gritty' situations without going into grotesque detail. That's it."<br />
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Now, I enjoy thrillers and crime novels, seek them out for reading pleasure and to develop my own craft. But I am a happy ending type of person. Great tragedy may fall upon my beloved protagonists, but they must find a happiness worth the heartbreak. In this book, the final murder upset me. The perpetrator was not who I wanted it to be. I understood the reasoning, but it was hard to come to terms with the action because it came from the character I wanted most to have clean hands.<br />
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But read this: It has been so long since I have felt so impressionable during and after reading a book. I can't remember when I last felt so rocked and impressed by a book. And this is why I want to be an author. This was a book that screamed to me, "YES. YOU CAN DO IT." And then, more quietly, "This is good writing. This is why you write. You can do this." (Plus, it ended with a relevant William Blake poem; Blake is my favorite of the Victorian poets.)<br />
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It just so happens that I've been looking a lot more into publishing recently, aching to find a company not too far away from my home that I would enjoy working for. But looking at publishing -- and reading this book, just now -- had made me ache even more to get back into novel writing. I have three significant projects waiting for some love. But which one to tackle?<br />
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Meanwhile, I decided to do a search on Amazon for a book I had written a review for -- I am quoted on the back of the book, but the full review was also used as a foreword. Turns out the book was published two days ago, and there I am. My name on and in a book out in the e-book world. That is significant. That is a step.<br />
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What am I waiting for?Caitlin M. S. Buxbaumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02794272543965318111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1589799958227825957.post-91555052109392834652015-08-17T17:37:00.005-07:002015-08-17T17:37:58.389-07:00Running/A time for everythingIt's August, 2015. Three and a half years since Rwanda. Yesterday, I ran my first half marathon.<br />
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When I started this blog, I thought about adding "running" to the Rs in the title (hence my poem called 'The Fourth R,' which you can read in a previous post), but I thought that would be too confusing. And I didn't want to make it a big part of my writing, my thinking, because the Rwanda trip was about God's work in me and through me.<br />
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While in Rwanda, I had hoped to continue training (just running) for whatever sport I would be doing when I returned to Gustavus -- skiing or track (and it ended up being track). But I think I ended up running just twice, short distances.<br />
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God did work in me, and I hope through me, though I may never know how I affected or influenced any of the Rwandans I met. I remember walking with pregnant Claire to the bank, holding hands, just the two of us. It meant "nothing," but it also meant something. It was a symbol of trust. It was a symbol of the Rwandan culture. It was a moment I can't imagine I'll ever forget.<br />
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Nor will I forget when Willy came to see me after I had been sick, and I complained about having to stop writing my blog, mid-sentence, to say hello. Karen chastised me for being childish. I was overwhelmed with guilt and even shame. I think that criticism in particular has always been the hardest for me to take, the most humiliating. But perhaps it teaches me to be kinder. Reminds me that people don't always see things, situations, the way I do. Intolerance of differences in perspective can forever damage relationships, and it makes life just plain hard, harder than it has to be. Especially if one side does not understand or really believe in true forgiveness.<br />
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If I had made running more of a priority while in Rwanda for such a short time, I may have completely missed certain revelations, such as these, that God had planned for me. I may even have lost sight of certain truths, at least for a time. I will likely never know What May Have Been, had I run more, but I am sure my life would have been different.<br />
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When I returned to Gustavus, it was Touring Week. I had arranged to stay on campus, as had many athletes and students who's homes were far away. But most people stuck to their rooms. I ran every day. And on the seventh day, as I recall, I ran 10.5 miles without stopping. That was the farthest I had run in my life, and it was glorious.<br />
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I still don't know quite what got in me that day. I used to think it may have been that I was lighter, and could last longer. (I lost a significant amount of weight in Rwanda, though I don't recall the number. Part of it was getting sick. Part of it may have been though food, though I certainly ate plenty to keep myself full 90% of the time.) But after yesterday's half marathon (if not long before), I doubt that had anything to do with it. I don't know exactly <i>what </i> happened, but I believe that God knows what's best for us, and when. He knew I hadn't trained, He knows I am stubborn, and could have started the race and hurt myself and had to drop out of the race to learn my lesson. But he also knew it didn't have to go that way. He knew how finishing the race well (well enough, in my opinion), and running with certain people at certain points in the race would empower me.<br />
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I have another long race (an 8.5-mile leg of a mountainous marathon relay) coming up in a month, and I won't promise that I'll run 5-6 or even 3 times a week, leading up to that. I won't tell you my half marathon finish has given me a full cup of motivation that will eternally runneth over. But I learned something about the power of will yesterday, about the potential of the human body; if I can endure, and then push myself to a physical limit for the sake of finishing an event I paid money for, just because I paid for it/signed up, how much more can I endure and do by the power of prayer? Why do I not trust that prayer will be more than enough for an equivalent spiritual accomplishment, when it is what the Bible teaches? Why do we rely on our own understanding?<br />
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Perhaps I have learned nothing, by the worldly definitions of knowledge -- I have only questions, it seems. But by asking these questions, I feel I have learned something. I'm onto something, and it is more awe-some than frustrating. I experienced Something. In Rwanda I experienced many Somethings. And I wonder about those things. I wonder. And, at least for now, that is enough.<br />
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Run. Learn. Wonder. Stand in awe. See where that leads.Caitlin M. S. Buxbaumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02794272543965318111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1589799958227825957.post-40163120175621051402015-04-28T15:00:00.003-07:002015-08-17T17:04:47.441-07:00CompassionAmanda, my roommate during my stay in Rwanda, wrote this in January, three years after we traveled there together. She went again. And again. And her words make me want to "start again." I don't know what that means, but I can't get the words out of my head.<br />
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www.newmercies.org/compassion-visitCaitlin M. S. Buxbaumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02794272543965318111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1589799958227825957.post-57589479746733687972014-01-09T17:27:00.000-08:002014-01-09T17:42:25.322-08:00Thoughts on PlagiarismI came across this essay by Ruth Graham called "Word Theft" on the Poetry Foundation website (<a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/article/247130">http://www.poetryfoundation.org/article/247130</a>), and I thought it worth sharing (my comments below):<br />
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Word Theft</h1>
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Why did 2013 become the year of the plagiarists?</h2>
<span class="author" style="background-color: white; color: #4d493f; display: inline-block; letter-spacing: 0.05em; text-transform: uppercase;">BY <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/ruth-graham" style="color: #043d6e; outline: none; text-decoration: none;">RUTH GRAHAM</a></span><br />
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<a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/paisley-rekdal" style="color: #045482; outline: none; text-decoration: none;">Paisley Rekdal</a> got two Facebook messages last January from fellow poets who had some disturbing news: a poet in England by the name of Christian Ward had taken an old poem of hers and published it, barely altered, as his own. Her first reaction was to wonder if it was some kind of experiment. Perhaps by changing the gender of the author of a poem about infidelity and infertility, he was teasing out new meanings?<br />
Then she saw the “new” poem, with its new line breaks and minor but grating word changes. It was obviously a work of deception, not conceptual play. “That’s the thing that enraged me,” she said recently. “If he had just plagiarized the poem and published under his name, I would have been less annoyed. When I saw he wanted to take part in something I had done myself and claim it as his own, I felt kind of violated.”<br />
Rekdal, who responded to Ward with a righteously angry blog post (and later a more melancholy one), is not the only one feeling violated these days. The poetry world experienced something of a plagiarism epidemic last year. CJ Allen withdrew from the shortlist of England’s Forward Prize in September when it was revealed that he had plagiarized some of his past work. Australian poet Andrew Slattery was stripped of three prizes when it turned out he had cribbed from <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/emily-dickinson" style="color: #045482; outline: none; text-decoration: none;">Emily Dickinson</a> and <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/sylvia-plath" style="color: #045482; outline: none; text-decoration: none;">Sylvia Plath</a>, among others. When caught, he claimed the poems were written in the cento form, in which each line is pulled from another source; he also called his work “a cynical experiment.”<br />
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The list goes on: British poet David R. Morgan admitted last spring that many of his poems, stretching back to at least the 1980s, had been plagiarized. Rekdal’s perpetrator turned out to have stolen from several other poets, including Helen Mort and <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/sandra-beasley" style="color: #045482; outline: none; text-decoration: none;">Sandra Beasley</a>. Graham Nunn, longtime organizer of a major Australian poetry festival, was accused last September of at least eight instances of plagiarism, which he defended in part as “sampling”; on his blog, he wrote that “[r]eading and listening to music are a vital part of my process” and that “parts of the original text are creatively appropriated in the formation of a new work.” These are all published, and often prize-winning, poets—they are not students or amateurs. Why did 2013 become the year of the plagiarists?</div>
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Writing is a dance that involves imitation, inspiration, and originality. But all things considered, writerly disapproval of plagiarism has remained remarkably consistent over the centuries—really, even over millennia. The Roman poet Martial accused his rival Fidentinus, whom he called a “miscreant magpie”: “<em>My </em>books need no one to accuse or judge you: the page which is yours stands up against you and says, ‘You are a thief.’” Martial was particularly galled that Fidentinus had mixed in his own inferior work with Martial’s original material. Yes, approaches to borrowing and attribution have shifted over time, but wholesale copying has never been kosher.<br />
<a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/t-s-eliot" style="color: #045482; outline: none; text-decoration: none;">T.S. Eliot</a>, who relied on other sources for much of “<a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/176735" style="color: #045482; outline: none; text-decoration: none;">The Waste Land</a>” (plagiarism or allusion?), famously wrote, “Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.” Less often quoted is the next line, “Bad poets deface what they take.” This is what seems to gall many victims of plagiarists: to see their poems reprinted in weaker versions than the original.<br />
Ruth Ellen Kocher, a Colorado-based poet and professor, recently learned that her 2004 poem “Issues Involving Interpretation” had been plagiarized online by an Australian named Vuong Pham. Pham kept her line breaks intact but changed a few words and added some new lines. “When he stole my work, he didn’t make it better,” Kocher said. “If my work was going to be taken and pilfered in that way, I would have loved to see it undergo a transformation and evolution.” Instead, she said, it reminded her of a “reverse revision”: his small changes actually made the poem worse.<br />
Since the 19th century, when the Romantics embraced what Marilyn Randall, a professor of French studies at the University of Western Ontario and the author of a 2001 book on literary plagiarism, calls the “authentic poetic soul,” borrowing has become even more cemented as a literary crime. (Rekdal refers to her plagiarist as a Romantic, because “he was trying to tie his own imagination to the poem and claim it.”) Even in our age of collage and appropriation and “intertextuality,” it’s only at the extreme edges of such experimentation that you’ll find even mild defenses of outright plagiarism.<br />
Despite the fact that plagiarism has always been taboo, readers are often more forgiving of historical offenses. As Thomas Mallon puts it in his insightful 1989 book on plagiarism, “Stolen Words,” “Everyone enjoys a good scandal in the present…. What we seem far less able to endure is that plaster cast falling from the library shelf: Its shattering somehow bothers us more than the live body going off the cliff.” <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/samuel-taylor-coleridge" style="color: #045482; outline: none; text-decoration: none;">Samuel Taylor Coleridge</a>, for example, was an inveterate thief, but he remains firmly in the canon. <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/hart-crane" style="color: #045482; outline: none; text-decoration: none;">Hart Crane</a> <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/article/245036" style="color: #045482; outline: none; text-decoration: none;">borrowed heavily</a> from a lesser-known poet named <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/samuel-greenberg" style="color: #045482; outline: none; text-decoration: none;">Samuel Greenberg</a>, most notably in his early poem “Emblems of Conduct.” (“No doubt he meant to acknowledge his debt,” <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/james-laughlin" style="color: #045482; outline: none; text-decoration: none;">James Laughlin</a> wrote in 1939. “It simply slipped his mind.”)<br />
More recently, the British conceptual poet Ira Lightman, who was behind many of last year’s revelations, got involved simply because he didn’t see anyone else doing it. “The poetry world is genteel,” he said. “People don’t like to make any kind of stir.” Lightman has taken it upon himself to comb through suspect work, alert the victims, and publicize his findings.<br />
But even Lightman, who spent untold hours last year ferreting out violators, doesn’t want to banish them indefinitely. “I don’t see them all as these sinister, plotting, Machiavellian characters,” he said. “I see it as a corruption. And we’re all vulnerable to corruption.” He suggests that transgressors retreat to self-publishing for a few years, prove themselves honest, and then return to the fold.<br />
If plagiarists are not sinister and Machiavellian, then why do they do it? This question gets asked every time there’s a fresh revelation of plagiarism, whether it’s in the literary world, journalism, or academia. There’s never a satisfying answer, but there are at least lots of guesses, often somewhat at odds with each other: laziness or panic, narcissism or low self-esteem, ambition or deliberate self-sabotage.<br />
In poetry, at least, everyone agrees it’s not about the money. “One of the hardest things is that the stakes in poetry are not very high,” Kocher said. “I’m not a rocket scientist. I’m not going to cure cancer with one of my poems. I don’t get paid an extraordinary amount of money, and I don’t have any great notoriety outside of the writing community. So to take something that most people engage in as an act of joy and sully it this way—it just seems one of the most egregious offenses.”<br />
But does anyone write just for the money? Laurence Sterne, the plagiarist author of <em>Tristram Shandy</em>, said he wrote “not to be <em>fed</em> but to be <em>famous</em>.” Now, of course, he is. It worked.<br />
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The Internet has made both plagiarism itself and its detection much easier for everyone. But the major cases that came up in 2013 have all concerned British and Australian poets, often, but not always, cribbing from American ones. Despite some speculation that our national character makes us less likely to plagiarize—Americans are obsessively respectful of private property! American egos are too big to rely on other people’s work!—there’s also the possibility that Americans have simply been lucky enough to not be caught in the current dragnet.<br />
For one, the primary detective is British, more familiar with the Commonwealth scene than the American one. And it’s not as if Americans haven’t been caught in the past. An Iowa poet named <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/neal-bowers" style="color: #045482; outline: none; text-decoration: none;">Neal Bowers</a>, a former editor of <em>Poet and Critic</em> magazine, wrote a 1997 book about tracking down the Illinois elementary school teacher who published work copied from Bowers in 13 journals over the course of a few years. “It’s a very uneasy feeling,” Bowers told the <em>New York Times</em> at the time, “a bit like having a stalker.”<br />
The gut reactions of the plagiarized are hard to predict. The poet and essayist <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/h-l-hix" style="color: #045482; outline: none; text-decoration: none;">H.L. Hix</a>, for example, found out in October that his work had been lifted by Graham Nunn in an Australian anthology of love poems. He said his first reaction to getting the news from Lightman was sheer surprise: “As a poet one gets used to being completely ignored.”<br />
Some victims feel moved to reach out the perpetrators. Kocher sent a note to Pham through Facebook after he posted a brief apology, which has since been removed, on his blog. She hasn’t heard back. (Pham has defended himself by saying he was simply naive and not taught about proper attribution; he also recently wrote that he has become a victim of cyberbullying.)<br />
After Paisley Rekdal posted her open letter to Christian Ward on her blog, she also asked online for an apology from him. She got one: a one-sentence email that she recalls as something to the effect of “I’m sorry, I’m not this kind of person.” It’s the kind of open, vacuous statement that could make you hate someone, or feel sorry for them, or both at once. “He gave me what I asked for,” she said, “but he gave me no more than what I asked for.”<br />
Is there such a thing as a resolution to a plagiarism story? Plagiarism isn’t a crime, there’s no universally accepted punishment for it, and the perfect expression of contrition may never come. Hix, for his part, says he has no plans to get in touch with Graham Nunn. “These were love poems that are being stolen,” he said. “I don’t have any more interest in speaking with Mr. Nunn than I would with the person who had broken into my house and stolen my property.”</div>
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Originally Published: January 7, 2014</div>
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<br /><br />First of all, I guess I'm surprised that there are poets like out there like Paisley Rekdal (who I've never heard of) who are willing to give plagiarizers the benefit of the doubt in making their original work <i>better</i>. I for one have always been fairly protective of my creative work, probably for two reasons: 1) my dad is cynical, paranoid, and has had many negative experiences with copyright-sort-of-related issues, and 2) one of my professors (of whom I am fond and in admiration as a writer) has indeed confirmed the stereotypical "mature"writer in his well-known catch-phrase, "that's <i>stealable</i>". So I'm no stranger to the "Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal” idea. I hadn't heard the “Bad poets deface what they take” part, but is anyone surprised? Is the original author/poet ever going to think someone else's adaptation of <i>their </i>work, <i>their </i>literary/artistic <i>baby</i>, is better than the original? Rekdal (among others) might <i>say </i>they would accept another rendition, but I am, to say the least, skeptical of the principle in practice.<br /><br />On another note, I've never heard of the "cento" form myself, but if the poem is clearly established as such in written form—a footnote or preface, for example—I don't really see a problem with it. I've experimented with other people's work—I frequently jot down good lines or stanzas in my journal for later use or reference—but when I think I'm even CLOSE to stealing someone else's idea, it makes me quite uneasy, usually enough to make me keep the work to myself or else make a notation, a head nod in the direction of the author, so to speak.<br /><br />A good reminder to me, however, are the words attributed to Laurence Sterne, that the poet writes “not to be fed but to be famous.” It makes sense. Don't we all know this? I've been told by my professors time and time again. You "can't" make money writing poetry. And yet, sometimes, we do, and I guess that's enough to drive people to these desperate measures. You may be thinking, 'really? they're going to write a <i>poem </i>to get rich?' whether on recognition or actual dollars or pounds or whatever the case may be? But if you think about it, it's quite possible that all those people don't really want to do anything "bad". They're not looking to sabotage, really. I think most people would not <i>like </i>to commit a heinous crime to get what they want, whether they do or not (although I do wonder about Graham asserting that plagiarism is not a "crime"; maybe not in the typical sense of the word, but don't people sue—and succeed in getting money—for this sort of thing all the time? Especially in the music industry?). But this small "criminal" act, this little stab at society for the "injustice" of being overlooked as a writer/artist, is perhaps enough for the desperate poet.<br /><br />I suppose this is speculation, since it hasn't happened to me in either direction, but it's worth thinking about, I think, to try and understand the world. More than that, perhaps, the little niches that you always feel yourself looking in on, not a part of the elite. Maybe you're elite in something, but not everything. As for my work and me, I intend to file this essay away for the future when I'm really in the thick of it, out in the real world and trying to make ends meet. After all, it's looming closer everyday.<br /><br />Anyway, I hope all my readers find some little nugget of wisdom in that, whether you're a writer or not.<br /><br />Good luck :)</div>
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Caitlin M. S. Buxbaumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02794272543965318111noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1589799958227825957.post-73011819066907581882013-09-29T01:36:00.002-07:002013-09-29T01:36:21.523-07:00Waiting on me?I don't when I'll be posting to this blog again, but if you want to see what I'm up to these days, check out my other blog, "Psalm 139 East" to read about my adventures in Japan!<br />
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<a href="http://psalm139east.blogspot.jp/">http://psalm139east.blogspot.jp/</a>Caitlin M. S. Buxbaumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02794272543965318111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1589799958227825957.post-32179186852811032612012-12-02T11:42:00.002-08:002014-01-09T23:34:02.424-08:00HomeAs usual, so much has happened since the last time I posted that I'm probably going to have trouble organizing coherent thoughts--at least, in the correct order--so bear with me and my disjointed paragraphs.<br />
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I realize I never got a chance to say anything about the Passion and Purity conference I went to near St. Cloud during the first weekend of November, but there's really only one thing I want and have time to put forth in regard to that, at the moment: at some point on Friday night, an image of my heart encased in shiny metal was revealed to me--my heart was hard. At first it was discouraging, but I accepted that God was going to work in me and help me remove that metal, to soften my heart, if I was willing to ask him, to work towards that end. I drew a picture of it in my journal; one tiny section of flesh near the left ventricle (my left) was free, and as the weeks passed chunks of metal began to fall away. Nothing truly momentous occurred to me as this happened, and yet I saw my heart be freed and grow softer, in my mind. I will return to this momentarily.<br />
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Over the course of the past few weeks, I've been increasingly homesick--and physically sick, for one of those weeks. During this time, I've had a flood of memories hit me at seemingly-random times during the day, concerning anything from past Christmas events to Rwanda to good times had with my ex-boyfriend. While they made me smile at first, all these memories ended up troubling me more than anything, saddened that those time are now irretrievable, essentially. I thought that God was trying to tell me something, but I still haven't figured it out.<br />
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At a bible study last week, we talked about hearing God's voice--how to, what it sounds like, how to respond. Of course no one could give any definitive answers to these questions, but it sparked my intellect, if that makes sense. I went on to engage in what may be termed a superficially philosophical, however brief, discussion (via text/Facebook) with a friend who I did not see as someone actively following Christ, and was pleasantly surprised by their insights and recognition of God as having spoken to them during their lifetime so far. The next day I was equally pleased that I was able to broach the subject in my Buddhist Philosophy class, drawing parallels between the processes of teaching doctrine to unbelievers or skeptics, which led to a short conversation with a fellow classmate I did not know very well, though I had seen her multiple times at a Christian organization event. So these were good things that came out of a great bible study. But that same night, when we were closing in prayer, we all huddled together as usual, and as soon as I closed my eyes, I had the very distinct sensation of someone prodding the backs of my knees, causing them to bend. I didn't want to open my eyes and turn around, for whatever reason (maybe I thought I would be distracted, but then I ended up being distracted throughout the whole prayer anyway, trying to figure it out), so I tried to think of who it could be. My first guess was a visiting alumna who has a sort of prank-ish disposition. Then I had the same sensation again in my right knee. I said to myself, <i>it's a good thing I have two people on either side of me holding me up right now, or I might have fallen over!</i> It was odd, but I imagined that it had been the round end of a crutch that had poked me; there is a young man in our congregation that walks with crutches due to severe lower body paralysis, but I knew he was on the other side of the circle, he was definitely not the type of person to do that to someone who had only exchanged a few words with him, and I would have heard him, besides. I wracked my brain, but when the prayer was over, I turned around to see the two girls I had been sitting next to earlier, who I had never met. One was crying. I hesitated, then asked if either of them had touched the backs of my knees. They said no. I looked around for anyone else looking guilty--and saw no one. My heart beat faster and my face got hot. Was this really God?<br />
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As I mentioned this event to a few friends, I got various responses: God wants you on your knees, God wanted you to see those girls (I regret not having talked to either of them, actually), etc. Again, I have yet to come to a definitive conclusion.<br />
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<br />
Back up a few days. I went to meet with a Christian org that I haven't attended much (just started a few weeks ago, sporadically), but couldn't find them in their usual spot. As I was looking for them, I ran into a friend who was just finishing working out, and we ended up talking for some 10 or 15 minutes about war and truth and how it all worked in God's plan. We were puzzled, to say the least, so my friend says, "I feel like God really wants us to be in the word right now," and, in classic Minnesotan fashion, "you know what I mean?" So we gathered our things, went to a quiet place and prayed/mulled over what to read. I let my fingers move over the pages of my bible and ended up with three passages: Ezekiel 47, Job 31, and Luke 19. I'll let you look into those chapters, but what I drew from this session and the Word was this: I need to reflect on how I spend my wealth--spiritual or financial, I'm not sure, but probably both--I need to be more compassionate, and I need to not be afraid of people seeing my sin. Also, from Ezekiel, there is the important image of a tree with fruit that "will serve for food and leaves...for healing" (verse 12). I think we all need to be that tree.<br />
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Yesterday: I experienced a number of computer/software problems that did not really get resolved and took most of the day. I lost five hours of work that had taken time from the more "academic" work that I could have been doing during that time, but I did essentially redo it in about an hour and half, simplifying the project and using a different program. However, I then spent more time with other unrelated computer issues that are still causing problems, and I could potentially lose a lot of important data. When I realized this, I teared up a bit and set my head on my computer. (I had also done a time trial for skiing that morning and, while it was fun at the time, I fell twice in the first lap of four and later found out that I got last on my team.) Needless to say, I was stressed, and decided, <i>okay, it's time to read my bible</i>. I hadn't even really thought about God all day. I ended up reading a chapter from my roommate's book, <i>The Purpose-Driven Life</i>, written by Rick Warren. I can't recall what I read at the moment, but I remember it was uplifting and led to some much needed worship (I hadn't played my guitar in weeks).<br />
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<br />
And now we come to today. At Two Rivers Vineyard Church in Mankato, there was a baptism service (geared towards children, although two adult women were also baptized). In the worship beforehand, I noticed a girl sitting in front of me, probably 8 or 9 years old: she was flinging her hands out before her and sort of dancing around a little bit in praise. I was surprised at how this moved me, as I've never been particularly fond of working with children, though I smile at them from afar. She then sat down for the next song and seemed very quiet, though she had her back to me. I found myself in awe of how intentionally she worshiped, how intentional her posture was, as this was something we had discussed at Prepare or Cru or something like that a few weeks before. And this girl was younger than 10! So as the baptisms came around--there were <i>seven </i>people, let it be noted--and each person told their story (or those with stage fright had a parent do it), I found myself tearing up with joy and awe and gratitude for God and his unending and unfailing grace and love. All these young people, so on fire...and so supported by older members of the church.<br />
--*I want to break in here for a moment and say that before Rwanda, I never saw myself as an emotional person. In example, when I visited the wreckage of the World Trade Center on a choir trip in 2006, and both our director and choir "president" told everyone at home that there wasn't a tear-less face in sight, I took offense; I wasn't crying! I almost took pride in the fact that I didn't cry as much as others. I was "strong." Then Rwanda came, and I guess since then things have changed. At Passion and Purity (P&P) I cried more than I had in a long time, and I again got teary-eyed when my friends--and others I didn't know, from other colleges--got baptized. So with that in mind, let us resume*.--<br />
Although I was proud of the children in an oddly intimate way, I found myself most moved by two people: a woman just 64 days sober who committed herself to rehab and took the step to be baptized this morning, by her sister. It was beautiful. The second instance was actually the first baptism, when one of our male worship leaders baptized his 7 or 8-year-old daughter, and pulled her out of the water up into his arms, not caring that she was getting him soaking wet too, in his nicer-than-usual clothes. And at that moment when the baptisms were finished, I realized...I LOVE baptism. It may seem like kind of a weird thing to say--I would've thought so myself a year or two ago--but it's so true. I absolutely <i>love </i>seeing people be joined with Christ in such a symbolic way, to be joined with <i>me, </i>even if I never talk to them! It's crazy to me, but I felt connection with those people--in Christ--so substantially that I wanted to reach out and touch them, and say welcome to the body of Christ. We've been waiting for you.<br />
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<i> </i><br />
One other thing that happened at church today (two actually): during the ending prayer, I was standing in the back and one of our school's professors' 2-year old started banging on something. I smiled as a few other people chuckled softly, and then I noticed something. In rhythm with her banging, I saw a hammer pounding down the piece of metal that had been hanging off my heart. (I forgot to mention: yesterday, as I was reading the <i>Purpose-Driven Life</i>, I saw some more metal fall away, or bend back at least, from my heart <i>with a wrenching sound</i>; I actually heard the sound of the metal bending in my mind. This was the piece of metal being hammered off.) It's still hanging on, but I made a connection in that moment; first I asked God to take hold of the hammer, as I've had to remind myself to <i>let go and let God</i>, not trying to take things into my own hands, then I thought, <i>is it children? Is that why I read about compassion in Job? About not withholding [spiritual] wealth in Luke? Is this why I've been thinking about the children in Rwanda so much, about my own childhood memories?</i> <i>Is this confirmation that I should apply for the JET program next year, since a professor said you've gotta like kids? </i>I don't know. These questions have not yet been fully answered, but I know there's a reason I have them, that I've made connections between my experiences this semester and where my life is headed, however vaguely in my eyes. But no worries--God's got it covered.<br />
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So what does it all mean? Why did you just read through that disjointed novel of mine, besides that maybe I asked you to? Well, I don't know. I can tell you I appreciate it. But you know what else? Through all these trials and joyful experiences together, I came to this realization, which I wrote in my journal:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Even when Minnesota doesn't feel like home, when I long for Alaska, Two Rivers gives me peace.</i> <i>It feels like home. God is here. When I am in God's house, I am home.</i></blockquote>
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I am home! "Through the trial and the change, one thing remains: [God's] love never fails"; through the trial and the change, He is with me, and I am home. Always. So wherever I am, and whatever I'm doing, I am in the safest place I will ever be. I am home.<br />
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Home is not only where the heart is; it is where <i>God </i>is. And since our hearts, ideally, are with Him, for Him, consumed by Him, well...let's be home. Let's invite people over.<br />
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Yeah. Go in His grace :)Caitlin M. S. Buxbaumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02794272543965318111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1589799958227825957.post-71480301763548950992012-11-01T20:26:00.001-07:002012-11-02T08:01:44.609-07:00Knowledge is...PainfulBut so. so. so. SO. important.<br />
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I hate to turn people away by getting "political," so hopefully this will be received in the right way.<br />
First,<br />
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I'm not going to talk about the marriage or voter amendments that are being contested in the state of Minnesota right now. I'm tired of discussing it.<br />
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However, as one of the amendments (you guess) is considered a "big issue" in American politics, some of our on-campus ministry leaders decided to invite some guest speakers to talk about another one last night: abortion. I've solidly believed that abortion is wrong from the get-go, but I saw some astonishing things yesterday, and for those of you who are unsure, who are "pro-choice," or don't think it's a big deal what each person believes about the issue, I challenge you to watch these videos. You can view them on the original website at <a href="http://www.abort73.com/videos/">http://www.abort73.com/videos/</a><br />
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If you don't think you have time to watch the whole video, start at the 4 minute mark; to me, that is the most important part of the video, although <i>all </i>the information is enlightening. Even if you think you know all the facts...this information could be very valuable in any future conversations you might have on the subject. It might save a life.<br />
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And let me also add...this is not a "religious" issue. THIS is <i>human rights.</i><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/x-6VLUVglG8" width="420"></iframe>Caitlin M. S. Buxbaumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02794272543965318111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1589799958227825957.post-26693383140533387262012-10-04T13:07:00.001-07:002014-01-09T23:40:25.314-08:00Holy SmokesLet's take a look at this last week, shall we?<br />
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Friday, 9/28: pretty much had the race of my life. That's all.<br />
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Saturday, 9/29: well...I don't think anything particularly noteworthy occurred. Oh wait! I performed at the Musical BAR! My set list was as follows: I'll Fly Away (old hymn), Untitled (Simple Plan), Days (Philip Larkin, poet), Dog Days Are Over (Florence + the Machine). Audience was awesomely supportive.<br />
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Sunday, 9/30: finally had the conversation/answers I needed concerning [dance] partying (in a nutshell), with a person I didn't expect (although he IS on leadership for FCA...).<br />
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Monday, 10/1: Cross Country coach told me I've matured a lot as runner this season (although he seems to think so for reasons I don't exactly agree with) and am having a great season, essentially. Then went and had a killer workout<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 16px;">—</span>in the sense that it hurt a lot, mostly because I didn't get a sufficient warm-up, but I still felt super accomplished afterward.<br />
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Tuesday, 10/2: Read like 2 1/2 books of poetry since I didn't have class due to the Nobel Conference, didn't do any homework.<br />
BUT ALSO.<br />
Roommate took a guy to the ER to get six stitches after watching him crack his head open while longboarding down the hill behind our dorm and get blood all over our floor and sink.<br />
AND.<br />
Was moved to tears listening to an acquaintance describe the amazing and completely miraculous survival of her roommate in a head-on collision with a guy high on meth, the weekend before school started.<br />
(Oh and you can throw in an hour and half meeting with the Firethorne staff to review works of prose written by our very own schoolmates, which was a little bit awesome.)<br />
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Still with me?<br />
K good.<br />
<br />
Wednesday, 10/3: Still Nobel, barely got more homework done, but this was probably more due to the fact that I watched my co-worker pass out and start puking up something very strange looking WHILE UNCONSCIOUS, and less to do with me reading another book of poetry. But hey, I wrote a poem about it after I finished watching a lecture on Ethics and the Ocean which completely escaped me for my distraction by the day's events. Poem (minus the name of the girl, anonymized by "---"):<br />
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<br /><b> Banana Peppers</b><br /><br />rain down on the counter-top<br />in acidic yellow, scattering<br />in loops on the floor<br />that match the perfect O's of surprise<br />forming in the mouths of petrified bystanders<br />while my back is turned<br /><br />one "Oh my goodness!"<br />rotates my body and suddenly<br />adrenaline is moving my hands,<br />flinging aside toxic-yellow peppers,<br />shoving her shoulders over<br />to keep the vomit out of her lungs,<br />kicking myself for forgetting<br />her name (as if it made a difference)<br /><i>and no one is coming<br />and we are alone<br />and</i> wait it's stopping, "S---..."<br /><br />She wipes the alien substance<br />from her face and stares<br />at me in the stock, wide-eyed terror<br />of utter confusion, to which I reply,<br />"It's okay,"<br />and see the peace and truth of those words<br />in her acceptance, reflected<br />in the calm of her eyes,<br />which neither the supervisors<br />nor the medics notice<br />when they ask the girl in the vegetables<br />if she knows what day it is<div>
<br />"Just so you know," she says,<br />"the fainting runs in my family,"<br />as if that really made a difference. <br /><br /><br /><br />And today? Thursday, 10/4: Read more poetry, but also some entries in a public journal sitting on a bed in the campus center set up for some psych/art project. And what after that? Got up, walked five steps to the Interfaith Space, opened and shut the door, and rattled off in tongues for a good three minutes (I think). Why not yesterday, I asked myself, when I found myself almost completely helpless in the face of a physical crisis of another human being?<br /><br />Ha. I should know by now, that we don't ever really get answers to these questions. I don't know what I said today either, except for the one English plea thrown in that foreign prayer: "God, love them." Those people who are hurting, but still have the courage to pour out their souls in writing, albeit anonymously. It was just...<br /><br />Well, let's just say that there's been a lot of "movement" in my life lately. In every sense of the word.<br /><br /><br /><i> "Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance."<br /><br />James 1:2-4</i><br /><br /><br /> God bless.<br /><br /><br /> P.S. Check out "Days" by Philip Larkin (<a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/178046">http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/178046</a>), if you get a chance. It's a short but powerful poem (that I also happened to read for the aforementioned music and spoken word event called the Musical BAR).</div>
Caitlin M. S. Buxbaumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02794272543965318111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1589799958227825957.post-55923427294948503332012-08-22T20:33:00.000-07:002014-01-09T23:41:31.659-08:00The Answer Before the QuestionNo, not like Jeopardy. Forgiveness. Actually came up in a leadership meeting for Cross Country that I attended today (which no one took seriously). Well, sort of. We were asked to write down/circle four values on a large list which we individually believe are most important in...life as a student-athlete, I guess. Anyway, one of mine was forgiveness, as my experience in Rwanda and reading of both Heidi Baker's book and Donald Miller's (<i>Searching for God Knows What</i>) have recently affirmed as crucial in Christian life.<br />
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In my evening ponderings, I remembered a conflict I recently had with my coach over caution versus laziness (basically) in regard to running injured. I hadn't really forgiven him for that, and I'm not going to say that I don't and won't keep returning to my previously angered state at the "injustice" of it all. But as Matt Thiessen so "eloquently" puts it in the Relient K song, "Fallen Man," "because the judge of you is someone I could never be, / Is why you should thank the Lord that it is Him, and it's not me." God's in control. He has it covered. And though I sometimes "want" to be upset that I have been wronged and accused of less than my best effort (a sensitive topic, not just for me, I'm sure), at times like these I remind myself that God is bigger, and that the message of Christ "preached" (try not to add a negative connotation to that word, you who are religious skeptics) is more important than any grievance of my own. <br /><br />This is why I believe in the power of the answer before the question, the "yes" before the "do you forgive me." Because the fact of the matter is, that question may never come in this life (or after), and if you bear that grudge while waiting for an apology, you'll find yourself in a lonely spot, lacking the shared love of Christ.<br /><br /><br />Amis be aha.Caitlin M. S. Buxbaumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02794272543965318111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1589799958227825957.post-32921563264775334672012-08-16T21:29:00.005-07:002012-08-16T21:32:53.530-07:00Blessed are the Peacemakers...and Procrastinators?Probably not. But I only put off this post because I knew I had some really good stuff to say and I wanted to say it right. (Now, of course, I still don't think I'm going to get it all right but at least I'll get it out. Maybe I'll edit it later. But probably not much.)<br />
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Anyway.<br />
<br />
So there I was, on Tuesday, August 14th, in the middle of the chapter on the seventh beatitude from Jesus' Sermon on the Mount ("Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God," Matt. 5:9) in Heidi Baker's book, <i>Compelled by Love</i>, when I get a call from one of my ex-boyfriends. And by "in the middle," I mean I had stopped reading in the middle of the chapter on my lunch break at work, and when I got out of my doctor appointment that afternoon, I had a new voice mail from "somebody that I used to know" (Gotye reference completely necessary). It was a fairly big surprise, honestly, but I found I was strangely happy about it, and I called him back on the drive home. He was a bit busy with college prep stuff (as I now I am), so he said he'd call back after dinner. I still didn't know what the conversation was going to be about, but again I was oddly optimistic.<br />
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So he calls me back. After a bit of 'oh, how's your summer been' small talk (I haven't seen the guy in just over a year), he launches into probably a half-hour-long speech (not atypical of him, though that is not to his discredit) of 'I'm tired of hating your guts,' essentially, which finally turned into an apology. As harsh as the first part sounds, I knew what he meant; it's exhausting to harbor so much ill-will against a person, however deep the sentiment is buried.<br />
<br />
Now I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a huge relief to hear all those words, but what caught me was his explanation of what spurred this reconciliation on. He was packing for college, of course, and he came across some old memorabilia from me, along with, I think, a program or something for a funeral of the parents of two of our mutual friends, when he recalled a sermon, I believe, on peacemaking. Again I was glad to hear that his inspiration to start our relationship anew (just as friends) came from God, but it was only after I got off the phone with him (we talked for almost an hour, without arguing!) that I remembered I had been reading about peacemaking earlier that day. I smiled to myself. There is no such thing as "coincidence."<br />
<br />
But the correlations made between what I read and real-life occurrences this week don't stop there. (Good grammar there, English major. Oh yeah.) At work the day before (or maybe that morning, I don't remember), a man probably in his late forties, early fifties made a purchase of almost $200 at my register, and was bitterly angered that I had the nerve to ask him for his ID when he handed me his credit card. I calmly explained to him that there was no way for us (implying the store/company and all its employees) to confirm that the name on the card was his unless I saw his picture ID; otherwise, there could be liabilities to our store for fraud. Quietly seething, the man took his card back, handed me two hundred dollar bills and said, "I'd buy a lot more here if not for that [standard]," to which I replied, "I'm sorry to hear that, but we have no way of identifying you as the card holder." From there, the conversation was actually quite civil, as I sent him on his way with a "have a good day," which he returned. My heart was hammering in my chest--from fear or power, I have no idea--as I greeted my next customer, but I felt good. I thought, Hm, I handled that pretty well (considering that hard-headedness seems to run in my family). Later, after I had the phone call with my friend (I can call him that again, thank God) and finished the chapter on peacemaking, I remembered the incident and thought, Thank you Jesus for teaching me what it means to turn the other cheek. My belligerent customer felt the need to attack me directly for a policy I did not institute (though I do support it), but by returning it with civility without discrimination, we avoided what could have been a serious bruise to both of our egos, at best, and a nasty shouting match (plus poor store reviews) at worst.<br />
<br />
Maybe this doesn't seem like much, but I have one more (related) situation to report. Although I did not read this in the same chapter ("Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness"), I came across a statement which, while seemingly obvious to some, is nonetheless a very important fact: "There is no inherent value in persecution for its own sake, but there can be a blessing through it." Then in the whole chapter, Baker goes on to describe joy in suffering. While I still find this hard to wrap my head around, I am brought back into Rwanda during that quiet moment when I finally lay down in my feverish state and began to praise God, whisper-singing to Him and thinking, "This is what Karen was talking about. This is what it means to suffer, and have joy." Even then, I knew it didn't make any sense. All I knew was that I was happy, that God loves me more than I have, and maybe can ever love Him. Even in my sickness, my one fear, I found joy. And it was beautiful. So as far as making peace with yourself goes, I think that event is a good example.<br />
<br />
Like I said, I'm sure I didn't say all I could have, but let me just give a shout out to the new friend I made at work just a week ago who lent me the book that has so affected my life (though I won't name names). While I didn't agree with <i>everything</i> she (Heidi Baker) claims in <i>Compelled by Love</i>, and I still have some lingering questions, there is no doubt in my mind that God put this guy in my life to give me that book, at the very least; if there is anything beyond that...we shall see.<br />
<br />
In the mean time, thank you all for being with me and do await another post soon on returning to college, running, and (ideally) a life lived purely.<br />
<br />
God bless.Caitlin M. S. Buxbaumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02794272543965318111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1589799958227825957.post-10923828578371195972012-08-04T23:11:00.003-07:002012-08-04T23:11:52.172-07:00The Fourth RWritten a few weeks ago, work in progress. Pretty "modern"/avant garde, for me. More to come on the subject later.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
"The Fourth R"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Running</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
through blades of glory</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
fashioned like sea creatures</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
flown in on the breeze, </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
stuck—then,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
launching over mud puddles
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
bitten into the earth by a finger</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
on the hand that feeds</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
eternity</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
(MIGHTY over
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
human matters)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
with vomiting rainclouds, purging</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
me of my disease,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
stagnation: excepting</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the licentious serpent</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
only just; three thousand miles</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
easily evaporates good intentions.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Grief eats away
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
from sweeter breath</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
blown softly from a tongue</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
in cheek reality, once gently mocking</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
my qualms of losing grace, now</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
e c h o i n g <b>harshly</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
as a hopeless,
despairing “truth”:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b> DEATH DEATH
DEATH</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
but the feet move
forward,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
patiently awaiting</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
a reminder;</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
redemption.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>Caitlin M. S. Buxbaumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02794272543965318111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1589799958227825957.post-9126108387396294282012-04-15T06:53:00.001-07:002012-04-15T21:50:11.754-07:00Creative Writing FluxI wrote this sometime in early March for my Creative Writing class, but I put off posting it because I couldn't figure out how to finish it. Still not sure what to do with it, but its Rwanda- AND Writing-related so I figured I'd put it up :) Enjoy!<br />
(Also, I've been particularly inspired lately, so I'll include a couple poems afterwards that are also Rwanda-/Writing-related.)<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
"The Banana Tree"<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
The slicing of my brother’s skin elicits peals of laughter from a band of missionaries, and even though I know he’ll grow again, I cringe as his living water spurts, threatening to stain the clothes of his assailants. A corncob’s throw away, the one in the sun hat molests my sister’s fruit like it’s hers for the taking, but for a lack of ripeness, the missionary abandons her game. I try to use the sub-Saharan breeze as a propeller for my leafy wings to reach out to my siblings, but nature confines me; I am rooted to the spot, as I have been for the past ten years. The tiers of my sister’s heart remain visibly unharmed, but I see she mourns the disfigurement of our brother. As for me, the most revenge I can hope for is the browning of the missionaries’ coverings, and I wonder if they can see the juices of my frustration slicking my skin like the sweat screaming from the unconditioned American foreheads bobbing through the forest of our youth. Do they know? Do they know that they are being watched? No one knows—but maybe, some have faith.</div>
</div>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<b></b></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<b><span style="font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></b></div>
"At a Choir Concert"<br />
<br />
notes dance above the heads <br />
of unseen singers as their songs<br />
echo upward with a shimmer, <br />
like the exchange of a silver baton<br />
in a 1600-meter relay: sharp,<br />
crucial, ephemeral—if not,<br />
disaster<br />
<br />
but, perhaps, wearing maroon <br />
robes burned with age and <br />
experience wards off consequences...<br />
<br />
in the sea of pew people,<br />
only I'm thinking<br />
of cassava leaves<br />
and African sun.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Shaken Days"<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
sweeping slowly, a brown hand<br />
around the wooden handle<br />
of a broom; on the same street,<br />
a chocolate hand in mine<br />
swinging slowly to the rhythm<br />
of our sandals in the sand<br />
with a thousand miles behind us<br />
and a million more to go<br />
<br />
when she speaks, I let the r's and w's<br />
roll over me as they bounce off her<br />
protruding belly—one year from now<br />
she'll be teaching those letters<br />
to a mouth more wanting of sustenance<br />
<br />
in twenty years, I wonder <br />
if she'll remember the story<br />
I've already misplaced in the mass <br />
of memorialized strangers—<br />
her story of those shaken days.<br />
<div>
<br />
<div>
<br />
<div>
(P.S. Check out my recent publications, "Expectations" and "Identity"!
<a href="http://www.literaryjuice.com/#/poet-tree-april-2012/4562721175">http://www.literaryjuice.com/#/poet-tree-april-2012/4562721175</a> )<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 36pt;">
<b></b></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<b><span style="font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></b></div>
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>Caitlin M. S. Buxbaumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02794272543965318111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1589799958227825957.post-379811183542585692012-02-13T10:40:00.001-08:002012-02-13T10:40:28.494-08:00A Monday<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Second Monday of Spring semester. It’s snowing, and for some
reason I think that’s significant. Mondays are going to be pretty easy for me
this semester (sorry to those of you who actually have normal schedules), but
this morning was rather…stressful. For my Ethics of Development class today, we
read an article on US aid (from USAID, of course)to Nepal for health/medical
care in 2002 or so that focused on abortion—do the Nepalese agree to the terms
nixing abortion (legally) to get the full $400k+ or disagree and take the
$200k+ cut? While the answer was pretty straight forward to me in theory (i.e.
on the Moodle discussion forum), in practice (class) I was shakin’ in my boots
to say a word to an audience of nonbelievers, albeit “good” and intelligent
people. But I did. Mostly because my professor asked me point blank to voice
the opinions I had stated on the forum (which my classmates failed to read
because of some sort of as-of-yet-unidentified computer/internet error), but
still I spoke, and even though no one chastised me for my opinions, it was
probably the single most terrifying thing I’ve done in a long time. That might
surprise you, but I think it’s true.</div>
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So how does this relate? Well, as you might imagine, I felt
extremely convicted. Why was it so hard to share in an environment that was
genuinely not hostile? I had made most of it up in my head. I mean, the silence
as I spoke was deafening (and awkward, for me at least), but it was civil. That’s
when I realized that I can do this. That all the things I want and need to say
will get said, but only if I take the initiative. In Rwanda, I think I learned
this when I spoke in tongues for the first time (and may or may not have said “I
want to speak” in two different languages that did not immediately register in
my brain). I want to speak, I can speak, I should speak, I will speak. Rwanda
changed me, and I know that greater things are yet to come, greater things are
still to be done—on this campus, in this country, on this Earth. </div>
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As for me, I will serve the Lord.</div>
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God bless.</div>Caitlin M. S. Buxbaumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02794272543965318111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1589799958227825957.post-4880697621070514842012-01-30T13:25:00.000-08:002012-01-30T13:31:32.298-08:00The Results of Great Expectations<br />
<div>
<span id="internal-source-marker_0.22392836958169937"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">The following will be turned in for credit as my final Independent Study project conclusion.</span></span></div>
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><div dir="ltr" style="font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: 12px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In general, I believe that Americans are of the mind that there are certain expectations--established by the individual--which must be met in undertaking a project, academic or otherwise. Based on my preparations in the several months prior to my journey to Africa, however, I feel that my main principle going into the trip was to expect the unexpected--I had told several people that I </span><span style="font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">expected </span><span style="font-size: 12px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">the experience to change my life, but after talking to one individual, I was hesitant even to hope for that, for the very same fear of failure that has been ingrained in American society. Fortunately, my “non-expectation” was indeed met, albeit not in any way I could have imagined, of course. It was in this way and during this month-long residency in Rwanda that I found God to be the only avenue by which to achieve physical, spiritual, social and academic excellence.</span><br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: 12px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>First, there is something to be said for relationships in regard to cross-cultural transcendence. I always thought I had a certain soft spot for designing relationships between characters in my writing, but now I have found that, without solid bonds, it is essentially impossible to move forward. For example, the day that our team visited with members of a village sociotherapy group, we started the day with two hours of shelling peanuts, singing with the locals--us singing in our language, they in theirs--and even teaching them the word “ooftah” and how to count to five in English. At the beginning of the trip, the blisters and dirt and sweat I became covered in might have discouraged me, made me question whether or not the Rwandan people were simply taking advantage of us for a day; and yet, it now seems obvious to me that, if we had not partaken in those activities, had not made clear our desire to identify with them and learn rather than simply hear a story that would stay in Rwanda, they would not have shared the few, short testimonies they did share with us. The fact that we actively made an effort to connect with them through physical labor, socializing and academic interest (at least for me, and as I took notes during their testimonies I believe it is reasonable to assume they understood the concept of our academic purpose at least loosely), even though they could have no idea whether or not we would be back in their country someday, struck me as foundational in creating realistic interactions between fictional characters. </span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But more than that, perhaps, is the fact that I saw </span><span style="font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">genocidaires</span><span style="font-size: 12px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> seated centimeters from victims with my own eyes, and heard them proclaiming their love of Christ with my own ears. When something that seems so impossible </span><span style="font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">does </span><span style="font-size: 12px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">occur in reality, it makes a person wonder--and yet I know that that sort of supernatural forgiveness is only possible through Christ. In the context of seeing thousands upon thousands of skulls and bones--some of which I physically touched--and probably a hundred graves prior to the revelation of this information, too, speaks to this truth, but the published story of Imaculee Ilibagiza is what truly solidified the idea. Over 90 days she spent in a roughly 5’x5’x10’</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">bathroom with seven other girls, no electricity, no change of clothes and little enough food to drop her from 115 pounds to 65. Yet she prayed every waking moment--thanks, forgiveness, the rosary, deliverance--taught herself English with one of the pastor’s (in whose house she hid) books, and survived the genocide well enough to become a distinguished employee for the UN, though only one of her six family members (besides herself) lived. It is stories such as these that convince me that God has a way of speaking in any and every context. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For a long time, during the trip especially, I tried to find a theme--fear, suffering, love, isolation, success--that was capable of bringing every single person together. Each one I came up with is all well and good, but as I was convicted--graciously so, of course--by my teammates for every sour attitude, every grudging comment, every denial of personal issues, every preoccupation (such as running and blogging) that kept me from ministering or simply doing the work God had brought us there to do, any temporary lack in faith, I saw that I </span><span style="font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">can </span><span style="font-size: 12px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">hold myself to a higher standard, and I should. To do this, I need God--for anyone to do this, I believe, they need God. It may not explain why atheist athletes win ten gold medals and live a long life, or why tasteless musicians become multi-millionaires, but when I got sick less than a week in--102.6 degree fever, two days of bed-rest and no food, severe back and intestinal pain kind of sick--God gave me the kick in the pants I needed and could not have received or understood any other way. I can see no reason why God would use both my biggest fear and my least accepted Biblical teaching--getting sick in Africa and the spiritual gifts of the New Testament--other than to bring me closer to Him by completely surrendering my expectations so that I would be able to return home to America with my own story to tell, that it might encourage others in their faith. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Though sickness prevented me from training for skiing and cross country (more than once) in the way I intended, I feel as though the few days I did run and do ab workouts and exercise by hauling bricks and playing with kids were enough to allow me to bounce back. More importantly, I was able to focus on the tasks at hand, and realized that some things--mostly related to God--are more important than training or even school sometimes. Due to translator availability, respect of privacy and time constraints, I was unable to personally conduct interviews or hold formal team discussions on genocide, and there was really no quantitative data that facilitated my project objectives. But through the many memorials we visited, peer-led devotionals, and casual conversations with my teammates, I learned more about myself and what it means to be a Christian </span><span style="font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">in</span><span style="font-size: 12px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> the world and not </span><span style="font-size: 12px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">of </span><span style="font-size: 12px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">the world than I ever could have imagined, or achieved without surrendering my expectations.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">With all of that in mind, I have drawn these conclusions with regard to my writing, professional or otherwise: 1) the glorification and spirit of God must be the motivating force behind what I write. While that may or may not mean directly referencing him, I know for a fact that I can and should keep the amount of violence, swearing and sexual themes to a minimum. I believe this is possible without sacrificing original and creative plot lines; 2) relationships both between individual characters and with God are key. As such, I will endeavor to create innovative but believable connections and interactions between characters; 3) I have to accept the fact that poetry might be the genre I explore and publish first before undertaking a novel project. As my best creative writing throughout the trip has come in that form at the times where my emotions were most passionate, I know I will have to learn how to channel that skill into prose, and that will take time; 4) I have to accept that it is impossible to please or entertain every person, and if I use my relationship with God as my foundation for all my writing, I must recognize that whoever does not have the Holy Spirit may not appreciate what I write. Still, I hope that they will come to at some point, and I must be content with that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the end, the best answers I can give to the questions like “how was your trip” or “what was your favorite part” or “what did you learn” are “life-changing,” “growing closer to God” (largely through discovering my ability to speak in tongues) and “God as defined in the Christian Bible is the answer to everything,” respectively. Some may find that unsatisfactory, but whatever is said, Rwanda changed my life and solidified my passion to become a writer all at the same time, in the course of 22 days. That is what I call a January Interim Experience.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span></div>Caitlin M. S. Buxbaumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02794272543965318111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1589799958227825957.post-5894864144123209642012-01-26T21:05:00.000-08:002012-01-29T13:04:36.999-08:00Impossible<br />
It seems impossible, the variety of things we've done in the last four days. It seems impossible the amount we've accomplished in the last three weeks. It seems impossible that tomorrow, we begin our journey home. It even seems impossible that genocide occurred in this place, not quite 20 years ago.<br />
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But nothing is what it seems.<br />
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I wasn't planning to be overly "serious" with this post, but in light of recent events, I think you might find it an almagamation of many emotions--take from that what you will.<br />
Alright. So Tuesday, most of the GAC team (meaning Alexa, Amanda, Anna and Emily) went to PEFA for their final day of cleaning and caretaking while the rest of us joined the City Hill team for our last day working at Rusororo, and let me tell you, I felt even more accomplished after that day than Friday. We moved 190 cinderblocks (one of which had a gecko inside), covered the ceiling/floor of half the building with them, cleared excess timber from between all the "walls" and around the perimeter of the building, moved a huge pile of bricks and went on two prayer walks around the whole site (in shifts, of course). So basically, an awesome and fulfilling day.<br />
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Wednesday was fairly exciting as far as touristy stuff goes, seeing as how we actually got to go on a safari (that's for you, Taylor) through Akagera National Park as the City Hill team's "fun day" (GAC's was Nyungwe National Park, if you recall). Started out fairly pedestrian (for Africa, anyway), with just some lakes and birds and lots of bushes and bumpy, windy roads (which unfortunately induced enough motion sickness to make half the ride rather uncomfortable), but finally we ran into some real wildlife--baboons, hippos, giraffes, zebras, a jillion antelope type things, warthogs, the whole shebang. Pretty darn cool, but when you're driving under the African sun on the equator in a cramped car for the majority of 15 hours, sucking in enough dust to coat your lungs, face and hair with five pounds of it, and you've been awake since 3:30 in the morning, you wonder if it's worth it.<br />
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But don't worry, I'd say it was.<br />
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<br />
Don't let me leave you under the impression that only the animals made the trip what it was, though--the people in our car entertained us at least as much. While we had some good laughs and enjoyed singing whatever Brittany could teach us, the best part was hearing everyone's testimonies of how/why they came to Rwanda. Sharing mine took enough words to bring back some of my monster allergies or whatever they are (me+lots of talking+lots of dust=cold-like symptoms, apparently), but I'm fairly confident that it was worth it, too, for everyone else to hear it. Plus I just got to know everyone better (both cars were mixed teams, by the way), which was awesome.<br />
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Also, I got to climb a tree :) Although doing it in Spanish gauchos/pantaloons was not ideal...<br />
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After a large and wonderful dinner at the guest house, some last-minute shopping at the nearby grocery-type shops, and a great night's sleep of about 8 1/2 hours, it was Thursday and the event I had been looking forward to for at least a week was finally here--sociotherapy. That might seem strange to some, as I'm sure I've never expressed any real interest in psychology or anything like that to anyone, but as far as my independent study project goes, I thought this would help me the most in really identifying with the people here. So needless to say, I was pretty pumped when I woke up this morning. Did a core workout with Kelly, ate some delicious French toast with peanut butter, honey and bananas, then got ready to go. Little did I know, we had a while to wait, and some interesting things were to happen in the interim.<br />
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We were scheduled to leave at about 9, but found out that our driver still had to fix the car from it's crunch on the way back from Rusororo, and ended up leaving at about 10:30 instead. In the meantime, however, as we sat around a table under the pavilion in front of the guest house (aka the infamous Phase 10 table), we chatted and sang bits of worship songs and even got Willy to teach us the chorus of "Our God is an Awesome God" in Kinyarwanda (which I will happily sing for you when I return to the States if you'd like). As I was sitting on the wall surrounding the area practicing this, I heard a sort of scuffling on the rocks and a serious "OH" and all of a sudden everyone was gathered at the opposite wall. I walked over and found Emily lying on the ground, for some reason asked, "She didn't throw up, did she?" (I guess to make sure she wasn't choking on anything while unconscious?) and after receiving a negative response started sort of pacing and words I didn't recognize--except for one, imana--were pouring out of my mouth. As soon as I would finish the phrase I would repeat it again like I absolutely couldn't stop, and I thought, 'this is real. This is more real than it's ever been.' In a matter of seconds, maybe as much as a minute, Emily was sitting upright, laughing, saying she was fine, felt "good," and then she was on her feet. I'm not saying it was me, but I can't deny the spirit of God. Sorry if you think that sounds cheesy or "preachy" or "too religious," but I've never felt so...affected, I guess, in such a good and powerful way.<br />
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Twenty minutes later, we were on our way to the sociotherapy group in Nyamata with as cramped cars as the day before. Fortunately, we only had to drive for about an hour (and only that long because we got a little lost on the village roads and had to turn around a couple times) before reaching our destination--a narrow, hidden footpath through some herb-smelling bushes on the side of the road. Everyone piled out, not really knowing what was going on, when some people who had been walking the same road greeted us and led us through the brush onto a peanut plantation (or whatever you call it). There were other crops too, and mostly they just showed us around, pointing at different plants and telling us what they were used for (through our translator from FVA), then we turned right around and walked back out, trekked own the road about 10 minutes or so, then spent the next 2 1/2 hours shelling peanuts.<br />
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Um, what?<br />
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In case you were wondering, Karen did mention that we would possibly be helping them harvest peanuts, but I don't think any of us were expecting to get blisters from shelling them (although I think that was just me who ended up with actual fluid-filled bubbles on my thumb and forefinger...). It was fun at first, but by the end I was ridiculously sweaty--for whatever reason--not to mention dirty, and my hands felt like they had been rubbed raw. Finally, though, it was time to talk. As the <i>muzungus </i>doing grunt work had attracted quite a crowd, we relocated to a spot under this enormous <i>ubukuyo </i>tree (which I climbed quite enthusiastically--wish I would've gone higher, but it made Karen nervous) and settled into the grass to hear them speak. We took a long time with introductions, and when we finally got to hear some stories, they said there wasn't enough time and I found myself disappointed. Weren't they going to tell us something that could really rattle our American cages of comfort and privilege?<br />
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(the best climbing tree EVER)</div>
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But I found that there was enough in their body language to show that they had been deeply scarred. Perhaps more amazing, however, was that upon learning that in this group of about 8 people, perpetrators sat so close to victims they were almost touching. And yet, it didn't seem strange or tense--there was just overwhelming forgiveness in the air...but also exhaustion. They all got along, worked for a living, had surviving relatives, but there is no doubt that their minds are beyond the sort of tired that every college student thinks describes them after finals.<br />
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And it didn't stop there. One of our own team members shared their testimony, filled with more horrors than I ever expected, and it was that which really struck me. Terrible things do happen all over the world, and all too often, no one sees them. It was then that I realized how alike people can be at essentially opposite ends of the globe, and maybe it is our suffering that brings us together--especially in Christ, as it was with these people.<br />
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It was on that note (or perhaps a slightly lighter one, in that everyone was smiling at having come together) that we piled back in the Land Cruisers and headed to the nearby Nyamata Parish Catholic Church Memorial. It was small compared to the other two we went to, but walking down into a 3'x15'x45' crypt full of bones and skulls you can touch is a little bit different than standing in the doorway to a room full of lime-encrusted skeletons. Not necessarily more powerful, but when you see them by the thousands, scattered over so much of one country...it makes me tired. It made me a little bit angry today. But I think it's just that, right when you think you've seen every side of a tragedy (if that's even a synonym for genocide), there's something else in front of your face.<br />
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In the next couple hours people generally had some to time to be in their own heads before we moved on to our next and final event of the night, the beginning of our goodbyes--dinner at the house of Karen's good friends and the heads of FVA who have been working with us throughout the month. The food was deliciously Rwandan (I am seriously going to miss some of the meals here), the company was great, and gifts were given all around. It was generally a happy time. But sitting in that beautiful, big house really made me--as well as several others--wonder at what I had seen earlier in the day. Could these really be two parts of the same tiny country the size of Maryland? It seems impossible.<br />
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<i>Imana ishyimwe</i> (God be praised).Caitlin M. S. Buxbaumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02794272543965318111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1589799958227825957.post-64028534312302724862012-01-23T08:58:00.000-08:002012-01-23T10:51:39.065-08:00[They Built a] Brick...'ouse<br />
We sure are mighty, too, but I think what we're letting hang out is a bit different than what The Commodores had in mind ;) (More like our singing abilities and laughs and shirt-tails...)<br />
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Last Friday (today is Monday) marked the Gustavus team's first day actually working at Rusororo (or the Faith Village orphanage site), and either the second or third day the City Hill team had been working there--hauling bricks. And wooden scaffolding that no longer needs to be used. Hallelujah. I don't know how many of you would find "hard labor" as rewarding as I do, and maybe I wouldn't even say that back home, but watching those bricks pile up (even though we weren't the ones actually laying the mortar and building the walls) and seeing some actually progress (all the while clearing out my sinuses from what I still don't know was a cold or serious allergies to some pollutant in the air) felt totally awesome, let me tell you.<br />
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(the hardcore crew--we raced bricks to the pile)</div>
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On our return to the site from lunch at La Planete, however, some more interesting events took place (I'll basically leave it to you to determine the significance). We need two cars to get around now since our team has about doubled in size, and I was in the one driven by Alan/King (no one seems to know which is his real name) with Amanda, Emily, Anna, Alexa, Karen and Cindy (from City Hill). We drove for about 10 minutes (just long enough to get "out of the city" from where we were) when a weird clicking/thumping noise started in the right rear wheel. After a lot of stop and go and phone calls back and forth in Kinyarwanda, we pulled off the road and Bosco came to our "rescue" to figure out what the problem was. Alan/King hopped in the other car and drove the other group to Rusororo while Bosco drove us a little further, then ended up pulling off the road (on the other side, I guess because there was more of a shoulder) and turning the car off.<br />
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We were in for a long wait.<br />
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So what did we do? Well after drawing a hopscotch grid with a rock and Emily's shoe for some little kids walking back from school and dozing on the pavement under an umbrella in the near blistering heat, and seeing another car with about 10 other Rwandans looking to help (I can only assume), we did the only thing there is to do: play Phase 10.<br />
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But wait--wasn't King/Alan coming back for us?<br />
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Yes, but unfortunately, he never got to us. Not long after he dropped the other crew off at Rusororo, King/Alan collided with another vehicle. He allegedly went to the hospital, but was unharmed, as we saw him in perfect health today. Still...it made us all wonder--was there are a reason our car "broke down" (we ended up using the same car to get to Rusororo anyway, and Bosco just took it to the "garage" afterward to get an axel problem fixed), and why we switched drivers? Maybe it was simply to bond with each other, maybe to have the experience of being "stranded" (which, according to Karen, must occur on every mission trip), maybe to teach us to be cautious (as the driving around here is just generally chaotic)...who knows. But ask yourself this for me: are there really such things as coincidences?<br />
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Anyway, we got there eventually and did our after-school program (between intense periods of brick-stacking, of course) and returned to the guest house tired, hungry and dirty--but accomplished. Saturday, then, was a well-earned respite of shopping, reading and lounging around.<br />
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Sunday was much of the same--oodles of cribbage, which I have decided is my new favorite card game, but also a nice candle-lit dinner --but today we got a little change of pace. Our guy at Gisimba, Il de Phonse (Ildephonse?), hasn't obtained the information to complete our proposal yet, so Kelly and I got to go with the rest of the team--and I mean the whole team (minus Karen's husband, who got stuck being babysitter at the guest house for his daughter)--to PEFA for some deep-cleaning. I started out on dishes with Brittni, Alexa and one of the Mamas, Anounciata, but quickly finished that task and moved on to help with laundry until lunch. I probably could've handled that with a little more internal grace, honestly, but now that it's done (and I didn't have to deal with things like scabies and bed bugs, like Anna, bless her soul) I'm glad I could at least help out for one day. Picking up trash after lunch, however, was even less enjoyable, mostly because the only means of disposal they had was a pile on the hill going down from the "playground" to the garden. I just felt like, what's the point? We're just putting all of the trash in a spot where the kids can reach it. Then the guys who were supposed to be working (plus possibly some friends) thought it would be great to take pictures of the muzungu picking up trash in the gutter.<br />
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It took pretty much all I had not to either flip them off, yell at them, or throw things at them. I also tried to avoid glaring but I'm pretty sure that one failed.<br />
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(I suppose now is probably a good time to tell you that muzungu means "white person." You may have guessed that, and you may or may not find it racist, I don't know. When the little kids say it, they're mostly excited, especially when you acknowledge them. Karen has said that now it means something more like "foreigner" or "passerby," and in some cases, it seems like that. But out of the mouths of others, there's no doubt it's used as a derogatory term, and the only thing you can do is remind yourself that everyone is a child of God, whether they believe it or not. Forgive them for they know not what they do, you know?)<br />
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So where does that leave me? Well, back in the comfort of the guest house, it's harder to be angry, to know that, as much as Rwanda has improved, there's still so much to be done. But it's true, and I can only pray that God will use other people (or some of the same, who knows?) to finish what we've started, and what we've furthered little by little.<br />
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May we all come to know what it means to help rebuild God's creation.<br />
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<br /></div>Caitlin M. S. Buxbaumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02794272543965318111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1589799958227825957.post-67594991401657280142012-01-18T10:45:00.000-08:002012-01-31T20:04:46.270-08:00Architecture 101 - Back to School?Before I get to the stuff that actually has anything to do with the title of this blog, let me summarize the last few days. Saturday was the first real day for me (after rising from the dead), being our "adventure fun-time day," in which we drove a total of about 9 hours, spent about two hours at Murambi Memorial--where they have probably 50 rooms housing actual corpses from the genocide preserved in lime--and almost two and a half more on a 5k-ish guided nature hike through the African jungle at Nyungwe National Park, from which we could see both the D.R. of Congo and Uganda at different points on the trail. I'm not going to talk about the memorial, as there's not much to say on the actual historical content of it, and the poem "Precious" that I provided a link to on my last post should tell you enough. As for the hike, well, my camera battery died right before we started since I'd left it on so long taking pictures on the drive over, and I became fatigued pretty quickly since I was still getting over being sick. Also, we were going to stop by a tea factory near there, but it was closed by the time we got there, so we settled for tasting some tea leaves by the side of the road (which I thought were pretty gross, but some people liked them. Anyway, here are a few quick photos from the scenic drive through the Rwandan countryside:<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YB3T2rArAow/TxfBKAXKw2I/AAAAAAAAAFU/LbOeqNeUkKI/s1600/cloud2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5699236231100679010" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YB3T2rArAow/TxfBKAXKw2I/AAAAAAAAAFU/LbOeqNeUkKI/s320/cloud2.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>(yeah, those are really clouds--Rwanda's lowest elevation is at almost 1000 meters and rises to over 4500.)<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vmgBQPzvDiQ/TxfCIu6ZNNI/AAAAAAAAAFg/-xTVz27VVTA/s1600/goat1.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5699237308748346578" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vmgBQPzvDiQ/TxfCIu6ZNNI/AAAAAAAAAFg/-xTVz27VVTA/s320/goat1.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>(yeah, that's a goat in the front there. Farm animals kinda roam free 'round here.)<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uSd82uJURGc/TxfDRJiAEGI/AAAAAAAAAFs/FPaAvtNxJL8/s1600/tea%2Bleaves-basket.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5699238552844374114" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uSd82uJURGc/TxfDRJiAEGI/AAAAAAAAAFs/FPaAvtNxJL8/s320/tea%2Bleaves-basket.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 195px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>Person carrying tea leaves on their head! Also saw a dude carrying a couch...on his head. <span style="font-style: italic;">So </span>wish I got a picture of <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span>.<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-A4d6AnHMJFI/TxfHnEPJSJI/AAAAAAAAAG0/FZgm7qX-h3g/s1600/prison%2Bworkers.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5699243327426742418" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-A4d6AnHMJFI/TxfHnEPJSJI/AAAAAAAAAG0/FZgm7qX-h3g/s320/prison%2Bworkers.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>Prison workers (on rice paddies, I think), identified by their orange and pink uniforms (the first means they've been tried and convicted under the Gacaca system,the second means they're awaiting trial).<br />
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By the time we got back, it was about 9:30 I think, and everyone was dog tired, so it was good the following day was Sunday--which was pretty chill as usual. Monday, however, awesome things happened. Wasn't mentally/spiritually prepared to run (yes there are spiritual preparations for running for me, ask me about it when I get home if you want to know more), but I was ready to move. Unfortunately, I spent most of the day with my butt in a chair, either at the guest house or the Faith Victory Association (FVA, the organization through which we do pretty much everything here) office, but after a full 9-hour work day (with an hour for lunch, of course--let's be real), Kelly and I had successfully designed and photocopied the plans for three schools (elementary, middle and high school) and an administrative/extracurricular building within a single plot of land for the Gisimba Memorial orphanage and Nyamirambo neighborhood, and laid out a solid written project proposal. Sure, probably more than half of the drawings are not completely to scale, and neither of us have any real architectural experience, but 24 hours later we'd had a meeting with our Gisimba correspondent, obtained the OK to hand the plans off to our friend Sandrali (the real architect) and received a promise of information-gathering from the Gisimba people to finish the written proposal, which we are hoping to have finished by this coming Monday. So. Erin Sister Architect--I'm doing what you could be doing, halfway around the world. And now I'll let that work speak for itself :)<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V_W7p5DS8S0/Txg8b8wPCNI/AAAAAAAAAHA/6DVf1r0Cock/s1600/all%2Bplans.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5699371779299936466" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V_W7p5DS8S0/Txg8b8wPCNI/AAAAAAAAAHA/6DVf1r0Cock/s320/all%2Bplans.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pCknBMPkRLE/Txg8vFcMVgI/AAAAAAAAAHM/Xi05HiwQEjE/s1600/gisimba%2Bschools.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5699372108049307138" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pCknBMPkRLE/Txg8vFcMVgI/AAAAAAAAAHM/Xi05HiwQEjE/s320/gisimba%2Bschools.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--W9zYWNqEaE/Txg89_mvfZI/AAAAAAAAAHY/3ezwL-d2ZVY/s1600/secondary%2Bschool.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5699372364180979090" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--W9zYWNqEaE/Txg89_mvfZI/AAAAAAAAAHY/3ezwL-d2ZVY/s320/secondary%2Bschool.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BPzZNDL9Ijs/Txg9LqRN7qI/AAAAAAAAAHk/nJZh4icJ5Nc/s1600/secondary%2Bdetail.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5699372598971723426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BPzZNDL9Ijs/Txg9LqRN7qI/AAAAAAAAAHk/nJZh4icJ5Nc/s320/secondary%2Bdetail.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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But that's hardly the end of the excitement! As some of you may know, my (possibly our?) good Alaskan friend Natalie has been working at the Kigali International Community School (KICS) as a fifth grade teacher for about six months now, and I hadn't seen her in probably over a year when she came to meet me at the airport when we first arrived in Kigali. That was a happy time in itself, but today was the best. I'd given her our team cell phone number on day three or something, but we hadn't really connected other than a few emails. Still, she gave me the name of the headmaster at KICS eventually, and this morning we (Kelly, Anna and I) were able to arrange a day "shadowing" Natalie. Kelly is the only one seriously planning on becoming a teacher, but we all had a reason to go.<br />
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Since we had to share a vehicle with the team going to PEFA, we ended up at KICS an hour early, but as it turned out, God had some additional plans for us--pray for the school. The headmaster informed us that they are currently going through an accreditation process with whoever it is in the U.S. that organizes that, as well as constructing a new science building/library which was supposed to be finished this past summer I think. The receptionist (or whatever you want to call her) also just found out that her adult son in the States is still sick with some unknown ailment, and worse. So we prayed. We walked and toured and prayed and it was so good. Then, just before we went in to see Natalie, a guy (parent, maybe?) who had come to talk to the headmaster informed us that he had heard of Gustavus, was from Minnesota and knew a second grade teacher at KICS from Anna's hometown.<br />
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Small world much?<br />
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So yeah. Talked to her, went to Natalie's class, had a blast singing what we call "campy-camp" Christian songs, listening to a Bible lesson, helping kids spell, eating lunch with the kids (which included a detailed description of a LOTR-style book allegedly being written by an art-obsessed ten-year-old named Trevor), reading Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs and going to a chapel service run by kindergarteners.<br />
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Phew. Sorry, that was a long sentence. G'ahead and catch your breath. Okay, go.<br />
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Also, it was just awesome to hang out with Natalie, and arrange a cribbage date for Sunday. Hoo-rah. Oh and we sat in on the second grade class too, where they had just been talking about MLKJ day, and a little girl named Abby explained to me how the American civil rights activist made a law that allowed her "brown" friend Georgia to play with her white friend Grace. Talk about awesome.<br />
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And then, y'know, we basically got hit on by a motorcycle taxi dude who really didn't speak any English but was able to teach us words for pretty much all of the body parts in Kinyarwanda as we waited an extra hour and fifteen minutes for our real ride. Nbd.<br />
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Also, City Hill team got here yesterday, so the guest house is now twice as full, but it's all good. I'm excited for what's in store for the rest of this trip :)Caitlin M. S. Buxbaumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02794272543965318111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1589799958227825957.post-8158761652530218432012-01-17T05:57:00.000-08:002012-01-17T05:59:05.638-08:00Bieber Mango Caring - AKA Part 2After a relatively-short-yet-unidentifiable amount of time laying in bed weakly praising God (as in practically silent with my eyes close and my brain shutting off but it was still sort of a whispery singing) for keeping me alive and in the company of such loving Christian people, ndshaka hab'la was still in my head. Now Karen gave us a list of Kinyarwanda words before the trip, which Kelly and I were (and still are) really working to incorporate into our vocabulary, and I was vaguely remembering that ndshaka meant something like "I want." As I was pondering this (and life in general--holy emotion overload), I kept thinking, I should ask Karen. Karen. Karen. But I never said it out loud. Still, about two minutes later, Karen walks into my room.<br />"Did you call me?"<br />I smiled. "No, but I was thinkin' about it." God is still working.<br />"Oh! Okay. What's up?"<br />"Does 'ndshaka hab'la' mean anything in Kinyarwanda?"<br />I had to repeat it again as she came closer to my bed, because she couldn't hear me.<br />"Well, 'ndshaka' means 'I want'...and 'habla' means something in Spanish, hey, do you know what 'habla' means in Spanish?"<br />Oh I knew. I know. I start laughing and cover my face with my hands. To speak. I want to speak.<br />"So, you just said 'I want to speak' in two different languages. How cool is that?"<br />...or something to that effect. <br /><br />So yeah. It sounded more like habala rather than habla or abla (how you're actually supposed to say it in Spanish), but it was close enough that there is no doubt in my mind that Karen's suggestion described exactly what was going on. I wanted to speak, and I did. God was working. God is working, in me, in ways I never imagined. And yet, this is what I expected--the unexpected. Granted, I spent the next day more or less unconscious (sleeping), in bed, and the times I was awake there was all kinds of not good pain in my back and general intestinal area. But nothing was really happening. Then Dr. Imaculee spoon-fed me a few bites of some too-salty, creamy, green chicken soup--which I threw up--took some antibiotics and went back to sleep. And the next day was better, I got up and out of my room more--sat in a plastic poncho on a plastic chair in the rain--checked and sent some emails, but I was still weak and maybe a little cranky. Definitely had another emotional meltdown (with tears, though this one was on a slightly different subject). So it was really hard, and I didn't feel 100% (physically, though I'm still not entirely certain mentally/spiritually) until yesterday (Monday, 1/16), but through it all I knew I had something good here, something worth sharing. And of course, that's when I realized a really powerful truth in that "cliche:" sharing is caring. I want good things for all of you reading this (whether you're a super creep that I don't know that somehow found your way onto this blog, or my best friend), and I believe in the power of testimonies. Honestly, those are always what convict me most in my faith, and what really keeps me searching, exploring my relationship with God.<br /><br />So basically, what you should glean from this super long blog (in regard to me personally) is this: I got really sick, had a powerful spiritual experience which I will treasure forever, got better, and I'm still rebuilding my life. Big surprise for a college student, right?<br /><br />God Bless.<br /><br />P.S. Keep checking our team blog, http://gacrwanda2012.blogspot.com/ (A, because it's awesome, B, because I'll be posting to that one about our last 3 awesome days hopefully tonight), and check out my two latest poems (and everything else on there if you so desire) at http://writelikeright.deviantart.com/<br /><br />P.P.S. I'm just going to take this opportunity to give a little shout out to some awesome people I've been thinking about, in no particular order (and just because you're not on this list doesn't mean you're not awesome or I never think about you--I promise): Matt, Mike, Anders, Annalise, Emileah, Meredith, Mom, Dad and Erin. And Shannon and Taylor and Kelly D :) <br /><br />See you all in February! (But don't worry. I'll keep blogging.)Caitlin M. S. Buxbaumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02794272543965318111noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1589799958227825957.post-69546250337747402762012-01-14T21:22:00.000-08:002012-03-12T20:28:34.225-07:00Bieber Fever - A Bad Mango - or Sharing is Caring(Pretend I posted this 2 days ago)<br />
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Hope those titles caught your attention, because I've got a lot of things to cover, and it has come to my attention that my blog should perhaps contain fewer words and more pictures.<br />
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So. For the time being I will limit the words, because I'm too lazy to add pictures right now and will likely be more so after writing this because I must choose my words carefully.<br />
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Ha. And now that I have sufficiently wasted your time, here I go.<br />
Um, where to start. Shoot. Well Sunday was beautiful, and you should read all about it on our team blog (http://gacrwanda2012.blogspot.com/). Monday we spent most of the day at PEFA (Pentecote Evangelique de Fraternite en Afrique)--<br />
(insert abrupt and ephemeral pillow fight here, in real time)<br />
--which is a small orphanage off a ridiculously non-navigable (except by our superman driver Bosco) dirt road "run" by three "Mamas," who care for about 22 kids aged about one to ten (wow that was an awkward sentence. Can you tell I'm thinking about something else? I promise we'll get there. I'm nervous is all. Or something. Sheesh). It was a lot of fun to just play with the kids--and work in the garden, even though I felt pretty inept at it...but Innocent and Manuel were very patient with us and I had the joy of hacking apart eggplants and such using a not-quite-boy scout-safe knife with Alexa :)<br />
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Anyway, it was fun but I can't imagine dealing with all that every day, on top of cleaning clothes, sheets, floors and bathrooms (which are honestly too nasty to describe, and Kelly was the only one who actually saw them at their worst AND volunteered to help clean them, God bless her), so I'm glad I was not assigned there for the week, because it would've been just that--an assignment. My heart would not have been in it.<br />
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Little did I know, that assignment wouldn't mean much this time around anyway.<br />
(Ha. The suspense is killing you, isn't it? I promise I'll get there soon. By which I really mean eventually. Oh geez.)<br />
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After PEFA, we all clambered back into the Land Cruiser with the tricked out stereo and the non-functional seatbelts (sorry parents, I promise it's not terrifying and like I said, we have a super driver) and drove to Gisimba Memorial Centre, which is actually another orphanage. This one was a little weirder, because out of the 141 (or 138, Kelly and I have yet to account for the other three in our calculations for the school project proposal), probably 50% were above the age of 15, all the way up to like, 27. Still not quite sure how that works. But this place was nicer (flushing toilets, hooray), a bit bigger perhaps, and run by people who actually speak English (but have great French names like Jean-Marie, Jean-Francois and Ildephonse). We got a quick tour but it was kind of late in the day for much to get done (things pretty much quit around 3:30 here it seems, and I'm starting to wonder if maybe it's supposed to be nap time between then and dinner time at 7:30...but you also have to keep in mind that when you say you want to be picked up at 3:30, it probably means the car will roll in at about 4:04), so we headed back to the guest house for a pretty low-key evening.<br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Pause</span>.<br />
Wow. It's like by being paranthetical, I think I'm writing less--so false. Sorry guys.<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Play</span>.<br />
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The next morning we headed off to PEFA again for the main part of the day, then planned to make it to the Faith Village site by around 4'oclock (Rwanda time). Started off all well and good, picking up kids and swingin' them around, having our watches messed with until the Chrono mode was all sorts of whacked out and alarms were going off at random times, getting snot and spit smeared in our hair by the Hair Mongrel (don't actually know his name), playing "Hagarara, Genda" (our Kinyarwanda version of Red light, Green light, literally Stop, Go) and generally having a rollicking good time, but all the while I was feeling more fatigued. At one point I sat down next to the orphanage owner's daughter to avoid the climbing children, and after we struggled to converse in English for about 90 seconds she asks, "You know Justahn Biebah?"<br />
Justin Bieber. Of course.<br />
I smile. "Yeah."<br />
"You look like heem."<br />
Or something to that effect (which she later changed to "hees seestah," but we all know the real story). So yes, it is true friends, even half way across the world, where more than half the population probably knows little to no English, I have the same hair as the 13 year old JBiebs. Such is life.<br />
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And it is after this revelation that the real stuff begins. We go out to the "playground" at Pefa (maybe a 60'x40' plot of dirt in the back) to play Hagarara, Genda, and it's getting hot. I'm not feeling great, so I do the yelling of Genda and Hagarara with Karen, but when we switch games, I've had enough. I spend the next 3 and half hours or so in a locked room, curled up on a concrete floor for the most part, trying to tell myself the queasiness will go away.<br />
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It doesn't. But we get in the car and drive to Rusororo (Faith Village site) to host an after school program, and I actually feel a little better when I get out. Amanda and I sit under the mango tree with the bench and exchange emails and fun facts about America with John Peter, one of the workers, while the rest of the team collects kids in the neighborhood with the collective call to come: <span style="font-style: italic;">muze</span>. Once they've got everyone gathered, I take the position of videographer for 5-10 minutes, then pass the camera off to Anna because I think I'm going to vomit. I'll spare you the description of the hole I tried (and surprisingly, failed) to barf in.<br />
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Then I curled up next to the big metal supply container 50 meters from the group and start thinking about that mango I had for breakfast. <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AdyNq2LvNuk/TxVoSbyTDHI/AAAAAAAAAD0/dwZ5DFWOjRk/s1600/blog-copy.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5698575569412885618" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AdyNq2LvNuk/TxVoSbyTDHI/AAAAAAAAAD0/dwZ5DFWOjRk/s320/blog-copy.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>In retrospect, it probably wasn't the mango. Or maybe it was, but my reasoning behind dwelling on that was more likely because of Gunner's bad mango incident on the CHS ski team trip to Valdez junior year. (So I really hope someone reads this who catches that reference.)<br />
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Anyway, it gets to be about 5:30 and I'm freezing. I'm wearing a t-shirt, but I'm also on the equator. I should not be this cold. I'm surrounded by little Rwanda kids staring and pointing at the sick <span style="font-style: italic;">muzungu</span> (I'll explain the definitions behind that word another day), but I don't even care. We get in the car--I'm sitting in the front this time, with the window rolled all the way down--and the shakes are starting, tylenol is being passed to me, hands are being layed on me and the thermometer reads 101 something.<br />
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Yikes, right? It gets better.<br />
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Everyone's praying, some in Kinyarwanda, some in English, maybe one in "tongues." I don't know what to think.<br />
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Thermometer again, and I'm at 102.6. It's a miracle I wasn't swearing in my head, but suddenly I'm hearing two people in tongues. Three. Maybe more. I didn't even know we had that many people in the car who could do that. In all honestly, I wasn't so sure I believed ANYONE could do that anymore.<br />
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I've had my eyes and mouth shut the whole time, but the saline is pouring over my face and suddenly Karen asks me what I think about speaking in tongues.<br />
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'scuse me, what?<br />
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Well you might guess what happened then. I told her what I thought. She told me what she thinks. Words/syllables pop into her head and she speaks the ones she can pick out, the ones that sound right. Suddenly, it sounded so simple. As she was saying this, words were popping into my head. But I fought it. I thought, No way. Not that fast. But I'm a slow learner--is anything too hard for the Lord (Genesis 18:14)?<br />
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No I can't tell you what I said. It sounded like gibberish to me too, but it just came gushing out (even if at a whisper). And then, there was one phrase, the first phrase, that stuck: <span style="font-style: italic;">ndshaka hab'la</span>. I'd ask Karen about it later if I remembered, I reasoned.<br />
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Finally we got back to the guest house, Karen walked me to my room and to bed with the rest of the team in tow, prayed some more, and took my temperature one more time: 99.5. Sleep well, she said.<br />
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...and I'll finish the rest later because I don't have time (and to keep you somewhat in suspense ;))Caitlin M. S. Buxbaumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02794272543965318111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1589799958227825957.post-85779166358401684152012-01-07T23:22:00.000-08:002012-01-31T20:02:04.192-08:00A Blog-worthy Breakfast, Bushwhacking, and Bargain Fest<div>
Our first weekend in Rwanda finds our team in both touristy and "local" situations. At about 6:30 on Saturday morning, Amanda, Kelly and I set out for our first run of the trip, exiting the guest house from the back to go up the hill to Amahoro Stadium (which took about four minutes). It was a lot of laps (although it could've been more, since we ran around the outside of the stadium rather than inside on the track), but I think we all were grateful to get out and stretch our legs in a gratifying way (not to mention it was probably about 65 degrees and cloudy, wonderful running weather). We were the only women running, although there were many other people there, ranging from casual joggers to athletes, and wore the least amount of clothing than anyone, wearing basketball shorts and t-shirts.</div>
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After we returned and relayed details of our endeavor to the rest of our team, it was time for another fruity breakfast, this time consisting of a banana, a bland orange with a green peel and a huge slice of mango. Then the cooks brought us some crepes and Karen got the peanut butter, and suddenly we were in a gourmet restaurant (at least that's how I felt...it's amazing how much you can take peanut butter for granted). </div>
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But the blog-worthiness of that breakfast came after the food. I don't know what started the conversation, or how we got to laughing so much at meals yesterday, but I think Alexa's revelation to us that her Chicken Tandoori "hot, posh wrap" from the airplane dinner on Thursday was still in her backpack--in the closet--was probably one of the funniest things about Saturday. Then Karen said she would pay Emily 25 cents to eat it, and everything got that much better (which is especially evident in the video of Emily actually eating it while Karen vehemently denies that she was being serious and says that Emily really shouldn't eat it). </div>
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Risky [breakfast] business aside, the day was much more eventful and we covered a lot of ground (more literally than figuratively). After a continuation of our Phase 10 game (which is still not finished, and in which I have somehow ended up in about last or second to last place), we hit the streets again with Bosco and Willy, picked up Dr. Imaculee at a gas station, and drove to the revered orphanage site which we had all been dying to see. </div>
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It doesn't look like much, but it's come a long way from the jungle-y plot of land it was before, and the smiles on the faces of the workers told us just how amazing and beautiful and wonderful this project is. Climbing around on top of the building was fun too, but it was walking the grounds that really gave us the eyes to see how much potential the site and even the country has. God is truly working here, and I'm excited to see how He will use our team to bring out that potential.</div>
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After everyone had their fill of taking pictures on and around the building, we gathered around a mango tree for a short prayer and set off on our tour, quickly realizing why Karen (and our Rwandan friends) had told us to wear tennis shoes and long pants (advice which I failed to heed to the appropriate extent). The grass on the majority of the grounds was fairly tall and prickly, and the "path" wound around and through myriad crops planted all the way up to the edge of what I like to call the "anti-squatter fence." But after about ten minutes or so of walking, our Rwandan leader literally had to use a machete to whack through all the brush to make a path. It was cool to see all the different types of plants (especially the banana trees, which we discovered can be sliced through like butter, even though the trunks are about 5 inches in diameter), try several of the crops (including but not limited to fresh corn, a small, bitter type of red eggplant, some kind of potato and some beans or <i>ibihyimbo</i>), attempt to assist in the harvest of beans (which I failed miserably at, for whatever reason) and meet with some of the workers, but by the time we resurfaced from the underbrush, several of us were covered in stickers and burrs, Anna getting the worst of it. It was also getting pretty hot outside, so I think most of us were ready to get back in the car and drive with the windows down just to feel the breeze.</div>
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It was about 1:30 when we arrived at La Planete for lunch, and although the heat had taken my appetite, an hour-plus-long wait in the shade brought it back--until the food came. I was hungry and I ate, but there was so much food that there wasn't more than an inch or two of free space in any given spot on the table. For nine people, we probably had 20 plates of rice, fried "banana" (which tasted like a potato), a coleslaw like dish, some type of pork or beef in red sauce, shishkabobs, french fries (not in the typical sense, perhaps, but the fried potatoes definitely took up most of the space), cassava, peas and carrots, a giant sponge-looking and -feeling dough ball called <i>ugali</i>, and even more. I really don't even know how we ate as much as we did, but I know I was beyond uncomfortably full after that--and, after almost 2 hours at the restaurant, it was time to walk to the market.</div>
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It took about an hour to get there, I think, but according to Karen, we took the long way. The way was hot and dusty, but our slow "Rwandan" pace was actually kind of nice, as it gave us all ample opportunity to take in our surroundings and talk with each other about our experiences thus far. When we arrived at the market, however, most of us found ourselves at least a little overwhelmed--and uncomfortable. Though I was surprised at how well I personally handled the smells of all the decaying organic matter mixed with body odor and generally unidentifiable scents, along with the extremely close quarters and importunate vendors, an hour was absolutely plenty of time to spend in there, and I'm fairly certain we spent at least half an hour longer than that in the roofed market place. Still, I came out with 18,000 FRW (Rwandan francs) or $30 worth of souvenirs, and a better idea of how to haggle better next time. </div>
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After we left the market, however, we still had a long walk back to the guest house--longer, most likely, because some of us were under the impression that Bosco was picking us up, and we'd been on our feet all day, some of us in less appropriate shoes than others *cough cough*. We were tired, hot and dirty, but a pit stop at a wedding dress shop brought us some smiles and laughs as Alexa became our team Barbie doll and posed for the camera, rhetorically asking, "Is this not the coolest thing that's ever happened to me?"</div>
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Probably around 6 o'clock or so, we finally made it back to the guest house, into the common area...and onto the floor, where we spent most of our time until dinner, which of course came too early and with too much food, even at 7:30. We got to try passion fruit and tree tomatoes though (which Willy and Karen had purchased at the market), and had a rollicking good time making designs in our corn cobs with our teeth, even though we were really too full to eat them. </div>
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After dinner and a devotional, it was finally time for bed--not even ten o'clock, but I was finally tired enough to sleep for 7 and a half hours solid.</div>
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And now, on to another day :)</div>Caitlin M. S. Buxbaumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02794272543965318111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1589799958227825957.post-19841155024465534082012-01-06T08:28:00.000-08:002014-01-09T23:42:39.597-08:00Whirlwind 2.0PHEW.<br />
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Crazy. Forty-eight. Hours. And we've barely even done anything yet.</div>
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But here I am! In Rwanda, in a guest house with running water (though it is, regrettably, not drinkable), electricity and WiFi--praise God for technology. Sometimes.</div>
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So what have I been doing? Well after about 17 hours of flying, a very disappointing Nutella confiscation, vomit-inducing (and possibly record-setting) turbulence and learning how to "manually" flush a toilet, we finally got some sleep...but only about 4 and a half hours for me. Solid hours, but I still woke up wide awake at 4:45 in the morning and ended up writing 8 pages in my journal waiting for everyone to wake up. When it got close to "normal people" (an awkward adjective I seem to have taken to describe a large number of things here--i.e. "oh so this is the normal-people-entrance") wake-up time--meaning 6:30, yeah, yuck--I decided to tackle the curtain-less shower concealed by a bathroom door with a four inch gap between its bottom edge and the floor. Wouldn't seem that crazy, except that Karen told us ahead of time we'd probably get water pretty much everywhere--and she was so right. Some of the holes in the showerhead seemed to be plugged in such a way that caused them to shoot water out in random directions, then one of the plastic pipes that connected to the showerhead (and seemed to be rather extraneous, actually) came loose and water was pretty much gushing down the wall--</div>
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But hey, maybe that miniature swimming pool threatening to edge its way into our room drowned the cockroach I found last night.</div>
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Anyway, our team got cleaned up as best we could and headed out to the lobby for a breakfast of tea, a huge slice of pineapple, a tiny but surprisingly delicious banana, white bread with jam (or "Medium Fat Spread," probably a close relative of "Butter; it's not!") and the kicker--papaya. Now this was my first time trying the raw "fruit," and up until that point all I had heard from my team members was that it tasted like feet, onions and something very non-fruit-like. After consuming one large forkful, I agreed with the first description as much as I could imagine what feet taste like. But I ate it anyway, figuring it had to be good for me if it was organic and tasted nasty.</div>
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After breakfast we went through some more team stuff, I led a devotional (which I came up with at somewhere between midnight and 7 in the morning) and the GAC girls had an awesome impromptu worship sesh which may or may not have included a dance to a "campy-camp" song (led by Emily) which required moves resembling the chicken dance in the middle of the common area of the guest house. Obviously that's what cool people do when their team leader is talking with the host (whose name is Willy, by the way, which I thought was pretty awesome and totally fits him, because he's awesome) about what the heck we're going to do for the rest of the day.</div>
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So what did we end up doing? Well after an hour of playing Phase 10 and sneaking pictures of Karen and Willy, we finally set out to have lunch at a buffet restaurant called Karibu with our "chauffeur" Bosco. We stuffed ourselves on delicious, genuine Rwandan food, then headed into town to exchange our good ol' USDs for Rwandan Francs (which Karen did, actually, while we all sat cooking in the Land Rover and got badgered by an old woman with really bad teeth who couldn't seem to do anything but smile and moan but was apparently asking for money). Then we were off to our real destination: Kigali Memorial Centre.</div>
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After a sobering 2-hour sojourn through the history of the Rwandan genocide, we reconvened at the memorial café and left the premises for a lovely driven tour of Kigali--and found a place to run! I think the Amahoro Stadium will be my new favorite place :)<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HD_Ld4SVk9w/TwmX2X11LGI/AAAAAAAAAB4/DuopWxvl8nw/s1600/DSCN0124.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HD_Ld4SVk9w/TwmX2X11LGI/AAAAAAAAAB4/DuopWxvl8nw/s320/DSCN0124.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695250164155231330" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>Caitlin M. S. Buxbaumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02794272543965318111noreply@blogger.com1