Jason in Uganda

I’m so lonesome I could sing my praise to the Lord.

Two weeks ago I gave the big lecture to two groups of 400 students. Descriptive writing. I spread out the huge American flag that used to fly in Lake Michigan sun and snow over Ravinia until Larry gave it to me a few days before I left. I tacked it up to the back wall of the stage. The biggest Ugandan flag I could find was about 1/50th the size of big ole glory--I was conscious of the unintentional metaphor and the laugh I’d probably get explaining it. The exercise was to describe the two flags and the difference between them ... to a blind man--can’t use color. I made a deal with the students that I’d write my description and read mine if three people read theirs. It went o.k. Then I had them describe their busiest day at the university in a letter to a much older or much younger person back home (for most back home is the village). Then I had fun. I told them I was going to play three very different songs and all they had to do was listen and make a few notes. I told them I intentionally picked songs I thought they wouldn’t like so they could tell me WHY they don’t like them--descriptively.

There’s a pretty good sound system in the auditorium/hall where we have chapel services twice-a-week and then two services on Sunday--recently dedicated Nkoyoyo Hall in honor of the Archbishop--big brick building with a big roof and no walls--square bricked pillars open in between to allow people and air and wind and rain and sound to come and go as they please. The Lecturer always uses a microphone and it’s always the same guy in the sound booth--Samuel Kato. I know Kato all right because he and I’d worked together the week before showing Fiddler on the Roof to the students at the Friday Night Feature (gotta write something about that). So Kato had the sound cranked up just a little louder than he should have.

Danielson Famile, Radiohead, and Johnny Cash

The songs played and people laughed and moaned and danced in their seats and people came down from the canteen and up from the cafeteria and over from the main hall to see who was singing. When they got close and heard the full bands playing and saw on stage a lone mzungu not even holding the microphone they knew it was recorded and walked off or came closer if they were intrigued. But when it was Johnny Cash singing mournful Hank Williams with Nick Cave and a guitar, they had to squint and come closer to see if the big American on stage in front of his flag was teaching a class, or if all the people in the hall were gathered just to watch and listen as he moaned his last moan to the unlistening world, “I’m so Lonesome I could Cry.”

After the song I offered 1000 shillings (50 cents) to anyone who could tell me who was singing. One guy in the second group guessed Johnny Cash and I gladly paid up. But my favorite answer came from the first group, after four students who couldn’t hear each other guessed Jim Reeves and one guessed Kenny Rogers, a guy way in back said “Mr. Jason” and I said “who?” and he stood and pointed and said “YOU!” Everyone laughed including me. And I didn’t think until now that I should’ve taken that guy’s name and sealed a giant A for him for the semester--what a subtly enormous metaphor.

Last night I slept the first night in what will be my place for the rest of my time here. After morning church and lunch, spent the early afternoon in swimming pool sun trading cannon-balls and having breath-holding contests with missionary kids from New Zealand, then came back and packed and moved and unpacked and arranged. Midnight, hot and tired, showered and the rain-cold shower felt good. Crawled in under the mosquito net knowing the sleep was gonna be deep and wide. Thanked God for Life, Love and occasional comforts. Slept. Woke up this morning, almost 8:00, no crowing roosters, just tender-voiced little morning birds, and I smiled gracious and happy and added my morning voice to theirs in the only song I could sing. I was happy. I didn’t wonder why it was the only song I could sing. I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry.

Posted by at 11:31 AM | Permalink

(written on the guest house porch during a thunderstorm the afternoon of my first day here--found the paper while moving out yesterday)

thinking about trying to count the souls who’ve been in this Africa forever--wanna say there’s a million for every rumble rolling long down the streets and alleys of the well-rested and wild celestial cloud city of Africa. But maybe there’s one for every big-circle brush-stroke tree-ringed around on the rain collecting concrete by one well-skilled man probably younger than me or maybe two men older than me but younger than my father. That mad fast pull-away globe shot that bounces from my chair on this porch in power-outed ash-smelling Uganda out to the ozone satellite and then fast back down and crashes on my people in my home--that mad fast shot is only cathartic because I think I’m still there--home--but I’m here home--I need to feel that--understand it if possible but mostly feel it--the comfort of the hepatital tropic breeze, ash tropic breeze, bean cake tropic breeze, Africa tropic breeze gauzed through African tropic rain in or out of season. I can’t remember. I can’t remember the seasons, but I can remember the felings that mattered then, were unformed then--just existed then and still exist now to tell me about God in a place where God is only God the Father of Jesus and no apologies are made--if I can in my self-cursed conscious state be led back to those feelings I’ll sleep nights like an angel forever after days full of unscientific understanding. Tonight I’ll eat ice cream with parents and children from Ireland or Canada or New Zealand or somewhere. Missionaries. 8/20

Posted by at 11:29 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

(a note to the Episcopal Church office in NY)

Yanick

Thanks for the addresses and the Yankees/Sox update. I didn’t see the Martinez apology interview, but I did see a few photos of the fight on the internet--crazy stuff. But it’s nice, believe it or not, that Baseball’s getting back to what Baseball used to be--much better to see men acting like children because of what happens on the field instead of what happens in the front office. Me, I’m crazy for the Cubs so I’ve had shots of hope injected into my psyche at odd points during the last few weeks--walking back from a frustrating class or even a rewarding class and looking at the crazy Ugandan clouds and thinking something like “they win tonight and they’re in the World Series in Boston or the Bronx.” And I keep walking, knowing that if I was in the US I’d do whatever necessary to see the Cubs in the World Series in either Boston or New York and instead of bothering me, it makes me even more happy and secure where I am.

But I won’t have any more of those little shots of strange hope. Stephen and Peggy’s daughter Abby and her husband Mark just arrived Wednesday and Mark’s a Cubs fan too so we got up at 3 a.m. and listened to game 7 over the internet in Stephen’s office next to his bedroom. He came out and listened to the beginning and the end with us. Disappointment all around. The next morning I saw a few Ugandan buddies standing around and they asked me how things were and I’d talked to them about the Cubs before so I said, “I’ve got bad news.” Instantly their faces all got somber and they prepared their hearts and souls to receive my grief and offer comfort--the same involuntary thing that happens every time one person approaches another with tragic news. I felt terrible. I smiled and said no about ten times and told them it was just that my baseball team lost. They smiled and I said, “See. That’s the kind of bad news we have in America.” These are all guys I’ve talked to before about their stories--trying to convince them that their experiences and the experiences of their families are important to their people and are just as important to people in the West--because people in the West generally have no exposure to the faith it takes to rely on nobody but God and Jesus for survival--I don’t know how many people in emails referred to “praying for the Cubs”--pretty naively backwards.

Everyday something big or little happens that adds to the hill of learning God’s turning into a mountain. So many things happen it’s impossible to relate them all and they’re all packed into the hill so it’s impossible to pick out one or two. The one thing I keep coming back to is the air. There’s a strange thickness in the physical Ugandan air--clogged with diesel fumes and charcoal kitchen fumes and head-to-toe body and cow and chicken fumes and banana leaf fumes. But there’s wonderful clarity in the spiritual Ugandan air--unchecked clouds form heavy and huge and different in all directions around the hill and they do something to clear the air for prayers often offered and answers always returned. So many things that never made sense back home, are starting to make sense out here.

And one of those things is the fact that America is HOME. I talked to the Writer’s Club last Saturday. (The students are very clothing conscious--they might have no more than three outfits, but they’re nice outfits--dressing “smart” sets you apart from the people back in the village in their “uncivilized” rags. I think that’s a little dangerous, but it’s not my society to challenge.) I showed up in old sandals and my ragged-out American pants I’ve been wearing for 10 years and a Wrigley Field t-shirt under an unbuttoned old cowboy shirt and told the story behind every piece of clothing I had on. My point was, as a person and especially as a writer, you must know yourself. Then I told them it was Saturday morning in America and that if I were there, I’d be wearing those exact clothes and walk downstairs and down the street to a little breakfast joint where I’d shake hands and wipe sleep out of my eyes and talk about the Cubs. My second point was, you must know where Home is and direct your energy to appreciating its comfort and challenging its deficiencies.

I’ve never been more American than I am right now. And I’ve never been more sure that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Adjustments were made the first two or three weeks--big adjustments--but since then I’ve settled in and the place has settled in around me. You know I’m nuts about New York. Well, Uganda is like Manhattan in a way--a place with a million exciting things to see and learn. But unlike New York, in addition to looking and learning, I’m being asked to show and teach. And it’s a relief to realize I’ve got something to offer. It’s a nice place to be. Thanks for asking

hope things in New York are fine. It was shocking and sad to hear about the Staten Island Ferry accident. Hope you and your family and friends are all safe. I’ve been joining my prayers with all the others being offered for the future of the Episcopal Church. In a way it’s nice to be out here with too many things to do, discuss and enjoy to spend time complaining or arguing about politics, American or Episcopal. But I can’t let myself forget the situation and can’t neglect to look for opportunities to help the church heal and turn toward the Kingdom in thought word and deed.

Jason

Posted by at 12:20 PM | Permalink

(part of a long note last week to the best men in America)

but I’ve prayed--I’ve prayed out here like I’ve never prayed before--it’s not that there’s something in the air, it’s that there’s not something in the air--there’s no pretense and suspicion and security in Ugandan air blocking prayers

would love to get you all out here at some point--so you could smell the air and see the clouds and say unblocked prayers

smell me some American air--it might be full of prayer blocking evils but I still love it love it love it--what we need to do is smell it and love it and pray the literal hell out of it

Posted by at 12:17 PM | Permalink

September 28th

I wanna tell you everything.

Maybe I want all of you to ask me about everything.

Maybe I want all of you to want to hear everything from me whether you ask or not.

Maybe I don't care so much about you. Maybe I wanna tell you everything because I wanna know that I understand everything.

I can't tell you everything.

But everything's happening out here in Uganda.

I'm giving myself this Saturday hour after breakfast to sit and say what I can.

There are classes scheduled Saturday mornings from 8-noon. It's not a normal thing, but this semester we're getting all the freshmen through the required classes of Old Testament and Writing and Study Skills in the first semester. We were told to plan for a maximum of 750 students--982 have been registered. So we've had a first-rate planning crisis in a country where even minor planning usually results in what the West would consider a crisis. But thanks to Saturday and three tutors who have no problem teaching Saturdays and one tutor who actually prefers teaching Saturdays, three weeks into the semester, things are normal. The first week Stephen Noll asked me how things were going and I told him the teaching was fine but the scheduling was a nightmare and would probably take a couple weeks. He told me it took him a month to get the schedule regular for Old Testament his first year here and if I beat that I've accomplished something. So I've accomplished something. Equally important--I don't have to teach on Saturday. BUT--the last two weeks I've shown up at classrooms Saturday mornings to direct traffic and organize and talk to tutors and, for reasons, ended up teaching all morning.
This morning, I had to meet tutors to give them class rolls I finished last night. I woke before the alarm to the rain out the window and rolled around a little listening. I'm where I'm supposed to be. But I thought a little about where I'd like to be--rolling around a Wheaton bed, then rolling out to drag on a sweatshirt and pants and sandals and meet Bensen in the hall and grab a hat and step out and smell the crisp breakfast air wiping sleep from eyes and take the few steps to Egglectic and push in and shake a hand and get a table and Cinnamon Roll French Toast and coffee and talk about the Cubs. But I rolled out and pulled on trousers and proper shoes and a shirt with a collar and umbrella-ed down to the classrooms and passed out the rolls and got to the final class and there was no teacher. Most teachers live off campus. And most teachers don't have cars--most Ugandans don't have cars. So getting to campus is taxi-vans and rides on the backs of motor-scooters. And rain greatly complicates the process--most roads are clay dirt either up or down hill with rain pouring down and rushing down in the ruts it's made for years and the taxi-vans are full and sliding and the motor-scooter drivers are seeking shelter. Mr. Ojullu was on his way in the middle of all that and I figured he was and opened the book and flipped to the chapter on study skills and talked for an hour about taking notes and explained how Education is a process by which individuals gain freedom and responsibility reflexively--told a couple stories about first grade naptime--and the hour was up. Mr. Ojullu showed up right at the end.
After class I stood around answering dozens of very politely asked questions: one student surrounded by many, all looking at you, except the one speaking who now looks at your shoes a she speaks almost inaudibly "Good morning sir," waiting for you to reply good morning, "Excuse me sir, I have a problem..." All the students repeat the shoe-looking questions. And almost all the questions are questions you've answered a dozen times in front of them and 400 of their peers and then said, "Is that clear, are there any questions.?"
I'm not complaining. I'm assuming you want to know what's going on out here and that's what's going on. Things like that. And last night a handful of us mzungu teachers were invited to a Rotary dinner that was to begin at 7:00. We arrived at 7:05 and were the first people there. Things got going around 7:30 barely audible introductions were made and "the honourable" this and "your excellency" that and then we moved to the dinner tent and walked by trays of covered food being warmed by propane underneath and sat at tables and heard many more introductions and speeches, this time delivered into a microphone passed all around the tent--every single introduction and address began with "Distinguished guests, Madame President, Past District Governors, Rotarians, Roteractors, Interactors, and visitors..." Dinner was served at 9:40.
After teaching the note-taking class, I walked under the umbrella to the computer lab for some email and to see if the Cubs are still in first. The computer lab is shut down for construction. Got back to the guesthouse and Rebecca, who cooks and cleans and does laundry, was on the floor in front of a woman sitting in a chair getting her hair done. So I walked in the kitchen and flipped on a burner and cracked a couple eggs and thought alot about Egglectic and dropped into the toaster a couple pieces of good wheat bread I bought special in Kampala yesterday and eyed over at the ketchup bottle I bought special in Kampala with a few centimeters left in the bottom and I scrambled the eggs and the toast popped up and the ketchup was reachable with a knife and I sat with a stirred glass of strong Mango tang and a cup of tea I let get as dark as possible and had myself a darn good breakfast that drew an involuntarily smile.
It's noon.

Posted by at 11:23 PM | Permalink

October 9, 2003 -- 2:57 a.m.

"You are welcome" is what they say in Uganda when you walk into a room you're not normally in. Then you say "thank you." Sounded strange and backward at first and I almost made the mistake of deeming it incorrect until I realized we're the ones in the West who've got that particular exchange reversed. Lord knows that ain't the only one.

This here website has been put together by James Stewart--an honourable Englishman with whom I spent a wonderful sun-breezy honky-tonk afternoon in Nashville last spring--you should all have such a pleasure.

Thanks to the funds and prayers of many of you folks, I'm in Uganda doing lots of things. Thanks to James Stewart, I have an outlet to thank you as regularly as possible and share some of the tangible and ethereal things that you've allowed me to participate in and observe. I figure this is much better than getting those emails with lists of recipients longer than the message.

as will always be the case, there's more to come

the Cubs and Marlins start game two of the NLCS in three minutes--I'm gonna listen--late nights are the payable price of serving God and Ron Santo--tomorrow's a day-off besides--Ugandan Independence

thanks for looking

Jason

Posted by at 1:03 AM | Permalink