A couple of weeks ago I was in conversation with a good friend of mine who works to repair machinery, both mechanically and electronically. Having just finished his education on the island, he has returned to the mainland to take up a job offer with a manufacturer near our hometown.
This manufacturer makes torch-on roofing product. Besides the product itself containing tar and other hazardous materials, the method of production is fossil-fuel intensive, as is the installation of this product. While not an explicitly destructive product, it is not the most environmentally sound way to make a living. To say nothing of the big-box, warehouse-type buildings that the product is primarily used on.
So my friend is generally well-paid, in a supportive company that provides opportunities for growth and learning in the trade itself, as well as other areas (he is able to go to Quebec to learn French through his company), but there is a piece of doubt and guilt sitting undigested in the pit of his stomach. During my pacing today I've come to recognize this as spiritual sickness.
He sees what he is participating in as sin, though he would never call it that, non-religious as he is. So the question for me is: how does one treat a malady that the sufferer doesn't have ways to admit. I patently refuse to simply point out the ailment as I see it because that would be divisive. I need to be able to find a shared understanding of it in order to have terms to talk about it in. But is that understanding pre-required for effective treatment? I think it might be. What is important to remember is that it is probably useless for me to try to get a person to discuss something on my terms. This means I need to learn how this person frames their world before I can help them frame a problem, let alone see a direction to move.
I'm certain this particular malady is not the sole territory of my friend. In fact, I had the very same dilemma during my time working for an ESL school in Taipei. I was participating in a system of privilege and dishonesty. This was a major contributing factor to my leaving the country, among a few others. Although, at my work, I did find a few opportunities for doing good, I never did find a way to reconcile what I was participating in with what I believed. Never did find peace without sacrifice there.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Spaces to Connect
I re-signed myself up for a task tonight, to create digital, online, physical and offline spaces for people to connect. More specifically, to help people connect names to faces. The forms for this are up in the air a bit, but it involves photographs.
How do we interact with photos of people? I never got any of my high-school yearbooks, though I have enjoyed the very few occasions I have looked through them from my time there. I generally looked to them for reflections of my associations and accomplishments in that environment. Something along the lines of "wasn't that great of me to do that." Ze Frank proposes that perhaps we use photos to make an experience more real, that somehow a representation, regardless of how distant, gives witness in a way that experience does not. The Placebo Camera: doesn't take pictures, but makes you feel like you were there.
Read an article in Adbusters today about "Hipsters." It briefly highlighted the photographic culture within hipsterism. The blog, the "social networks." To paraphrase a line from it: if we carried stones like we carried cameras, we'd look like revolutionaries. Instead we look like...well, like hipsters. Is looking at pictures of myself in yearbooks, on facebook, on my phone, self-obsessed?
I propose that our thorough obsession with the sharing of photos is an expression of fear. If we're not in the media, we're not real. This is not an inherited fear. The project I signed up to do is directed towards providing another layer to pre-existing connections. This is the photograph of our parents. Our photograph is how we create and sustain the connection. This is dishonest. The connection is there. We've forgotten how to see it. We only know how to see the media. We have un-learned how to admit the connection.
I'm sitting writing this in front of my church with a cigarette in my mouth. I'm reminded of Sartre's Garcin, in my shirtsleeves, doing the manly work of writing. I'm connected to a tradition. It is not ironic. This very place is where I make my regular practice of outwardly admitting the connection. The photo below, however, is ironic.
How do we interact with photos of people? I never got any of my high-school yearbooks, though I have enjoyed the very few occasions I have looked through them from my time there. I generally looked to them for reflections of my associations and accomplishments in that environment. Something along the lines of "wasn't that great of me to do that." Ze Frank proposes that perhaps we use photos to make an experience more real, that somehow a representation, regardless of how distant, gives witness in a way that experience does not. The Placebo Camera: doesn't take pictures, but makes you feel like you were there.
Read an article in Adbusters today about "Hipsters." It briefly highlighted the photographic culture within hipsterism. The blog, the "social networks." To paraphrase a line from it: if we carried stones like we carried cameras, we'd look like revolutionaries. Instead we look like...well, like hipsters. Is looking at pictures of myself in yearbooks, on facebook, on my phone, self-obsessed?
I propose that our thorough obsession with the sharing of photos is an expression of fear. If we're not in the media, we're not real. This is not an inherited fear. The project I signed up to do is directed towards providing another layer to pre-existing connections. This is the photograph of our parents. Our photograph is how we create and sustain the connection. This is dishonest. The connection is there. We've forgotten how to see it. We only know how to see the media. We have un-learned how to admit the connection.
I'm sitting writing this in front of my church with a cigarette in my mouth. I'm reminded of Sartre's Garcin, in my shirtsleeves, doing the manly work of writing. I'm connected to a tradition. It is not ironic. This very place is where I make my regular practice of outwardly admitting the connection. The photo below, however, is ironic.
I want this in classes
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Matt gets Angry
Matt gets angry a lot. When Matt gets angry, he hits people. He knows this isn't good. He knows he does this because he doesn't feel good.
Sometimes he hits people at school. When his teachers and principal calm him down, he says it is because he misses his foster dad. Sometimes he hits people at home. When his foster dad calms him down, he says it is because he misses his grandfather.
Matt doesn't always hit people. He is very often a polite and helpful young man. When people congratulate him for being so good, he says it is because his grandparents and his foster dad taught him how to use his manners.
Questions for Discussion:
1. Is Matt a bad kid?
2. Has Matt heard what he was taught?
3. Does Matt do what he was taught?
Sometimes he hits people at school. When his teachers and principal calm him down, he says it is because he misses his foster dad. Sometimes he hits people at home. When his foster dad calms him down, he says it is because he misses his grandfather.
Matt doesn't always hit people. He is very often a polite and helpful young man. When people congratulate him for being so good, he says it is because his grandparents and his foster dad taught him how to use his manners.
Questions for Discussion:
1. Is Matt a bad kid?
2. Has Matt heard what he was taught?
3. Does Matt do what he was taught?
Monday, June 9, 2008
Wil and His Long-Johns
When Wil liked to wear crazy clothes to school. He loved bright colours and patterns. Almost everyone else at his school, especially the boys, wore t-shirts and jeans almost every day. They really didn't like the way Wil dressed. They knew what the right shirts were, and how to wear them, and they knew that Wil did it all wrong.
One day, some of the boys and girls were bugging Wil about his clothes.
"Hey Wil, I can see your underwear through your knees!"
Wil looked down at his ripped jeans to see his bright red long-johns showing through. "Well, would you look at that," he quipped, "I can too." Then he walked away.
As he walked off, one of the girls threw a crumpled-up wrapper at the back of Wil's head and yelled, "Why do you dress like that?"
Wil answered simply: "Why do you dress like that?" and carried on his way.
Questions for Discussion:
1. Does Wil care about how he dresses?
2. Do the other kids care about how they dress?
3. Is this worth worrying about?
One day, some of the boys and girls were bugging Wil about his clothes.
"Hey Wil, I can see your underwear through your knees!"
Wil looked down at his ripped jeans to see his bright red long-johns showing through. "Well, would you look at that," he quipped, "I can too." Then he walked away.
As he walked off, one of the girls threw a crumpled-up wrapper at the back of Wil's head and yelled, "Why do you dress like that?"
Wil answered simply: "Why do you dress like that?" and carried on his way.
Questions for Discussion:
1. Does Wil care about how he dresses?
2. Do the other kids care about how they dress?
3. Is this worth worrying about?
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