"What a world that I'm livin' in,

Will the rainstorms ever end,
Still I feel my... path narrow,
I run again,
See happyness is gone again,

And then you see 'em,
Grey clouds up above man,
Metaphor to my life man,
Still I feel my...heart stronger then its ever been,

Awake in another state,
Livin' in a new space,
Still I feel my...mind runnin' at a steady pace,
God help me so I'll win the race"

-"The Sky Might Fall" Kid Cudi

Some kids had babysitters when they were young. Of course, my brother, sister and I had a myriad of short lived experiences with after school helpers. There was the the teenager who let me as a toddler shout expletives out the window at the elderly man across the street. The elderly couple who, routinely had some type of potato for dinner every night to break from the influx of "Days of our Lives," and "General Hospital" blaring in their ever-too-hot household. The cousins, the friends, but none served a better guide and role model than the Bremerton High School track.

My father can be called many things; mentor, role model, coach, leader, friend, yet the one constant from birth to present is simply stated: runner. There was never a time in my life that my dad did not saddle up Aisic classics, zip up windbreakers and close the door with a simple, "heading to the track." I remember brisk mornings, amidst fly bys of chiseled men and women in numbered paper in Portland and Seattle, waiting as he would pass and one of us would have to expertly hand off a Dixie cup of water for him to splash his face as the next "wall" of 26.2 miles approached. I remember stories from my childhood of "tornadoes on the horizon," "bees in my pants," and stretches of mid-western horizon "as far as the eye could see." It was not a surprise then, as a child, whenever my dad would head to the oval track, to train for his next marathon, de-stress from the day at the office, or simply stack up another mile in a 40 year career, he would take me along.

Before youth races, before spikes for young kids, before road trips to Eugene, OR for "Track City," there was images of rain, sleet, or even snow falling on the Bremerton track and the focused look of patience, but determination as I would sit in a sand pit, run with imaginary friends, or create mischief as my Dad kept a watchful eye on me, but continued to circle the black-top and count the mileage like a odometer.

It was my first sport, track and field. With my father's creation, the Bremerton Jaguars, I trained and learned the value of practice, and racing, and went out time and time again, racing the best youths in the state of Washington. I hated it. I despised the angst coming before a race, I hated that every calculation, time, repetition, hydration, diet, played into the seconds I would be attempting to knock off my race time, to get a closer take on my competitors. I despised the over and over monotony of going around and around the same stretch of track day in and day out, and for the latter part of my teenage years, had no idea why my dad continued to practice, what to my team sport dynamic was punishment for a bad play. "Offsides, go run a lap, bad lay up go, run a lap." Running was something you did for punishment, yet as the years past, the same look, the same determination, the same tranquility never left my dad's face.

I ended up in Micronesia, teaching and spending my days immersed in discipline and lesson plans, in attendance, and in community, which brought joys and stresses all in itself. Amidst a foreign culture, and challenges to my free time with little money, I tried many routes. Basketball of course was a great way to meet locals, yet, as the year progressed, I found that courts would be locked up early, that the rain could appear and end a game as quick as the passing Pacific storm, and that trying to schedule anything in Micronesia comes slow and un-easy. Softball was played, but would often be reliant on other teams getting to the field on time. On certain Friday nights, league games scheduled for 4 in the afternoon would get pushed back due to rain, then a team would not get the message, and due to attempt after attempt, it would not be uncommon to see a softball game going on at 11 or 12 at night, not exactly teacher hours.

Pain struck me, fear took over me. I had come to the realization that to deal with the everyday stress and demand of life in Pohnpei i would NEED to exercise just like I would need to eat or sleep. There seemed to be one last option. A small strip of road connects the airport, through the ocean, and unto the main island where I live. It had relatively little traffic in the evenings and mornings, when it was cool enough to exercise, and there were no dogs. I looked myself in the mirror, in horror, and thought of the millions of times I had told my dad that I would NEVER, under any circumstance take up running, I ate my words, tied my shoes, and headed to the causeway.

I run every day in Pohnpei, and some days twice. Despite the quick shot of exercise I got that first time, I noticed many other things. I noticed the reds and pinks that crystallize the morning sky as the sun dances over the Pacific. I noticed how the fog gets caught on the pleasant green, jungle infested, hills of Pohnpei. I noticed how the calm blue waters could be glass one second, and a strong wind would bring white heads and ripples as fast as can be imagined. I noticed the sight of a storm passing over Sokehs ridge in the evening, as the blue hughs of rain clouds mix with the sun set to actually create a purple sky. I noticed these all as I trouped along, 3 miles at a time, reflecting that there was so much I was seeing, while I traveled along my small stretch of road.

Then, something even worse happened. As I returned from Chuuk from the summer, I started to get anxious, irritated even, if I did not get the chance to run. I started to run in my dreams, and I did something that I would hold dear and secret; I began to smile while running. It was gradual and took a long road of concrete in the equatorial Pacific, yet finally, to my father's chagrin, I became a runner.

Running is an every day part of my life in Pohnpei, people see me out (of course Micronesians think it is crazy to run unless something is chasing you, knowing my background I do not really blame them) and wave hello. There is a common group of walkers I see each morning and greet with a hello, and of course, 4 year champion and my running mentor (and former JV) Tim Smit is an ever-present figure. It has become, as I described to the Jesuits at spirituality night, a type of contemplation for me, as it no doubt is for my father, that look of peace I saw on his face, for 22 years, is slowly finding its way on to mine.

The truth is, running forces me to do something that is not very easy, as strange as it may seem, it forces me to slow down. Running takes concentration. One must keep the back straight, create a fluid motion, breathe successfully, focus on foot control, and so on and so forth. Further, as one runs harder and longer, the famous "wall" begins to set in. That is, the idea of fatigue becomes so great, mental capacities kick in, and fight with all strength to make the runner stop. Here in lies the breakthrough, rather than stopping, the wall can be beaten by a deep breath, a mental check and a thought of "indifference." A runner knows he or she is tired, but simply chooses to continue through the challenges, knowing that it will be OK. A skilled runner (I assume as despite my love I still meander around around like a three legged dog) can train himself mentally like a meditative, or contemplative, to get "out" of his body, to know his body so well, his mind can escape the pain associated with it.

This type of "higher athletics," has roots in Ignatian Spirituality. This idea of indifference is central to understanding our roles in our relationship with God. As each one of us attempts to meld his her life how he or she wants, we loose sight of God's intent, we see the forest for the trees, and what could be obvious or clear with less stress or emotion becomes what Albert Camus would call, "the absurd." Yet, if we become indifferent (not the traditional definition, instead like a spiritual yuji board) we accept the realities of this world, and in such acceptance, allow God to work through us. We know we are tired, know our body wants us to stop, but are indifferent to it, and continue running. Of course, my indifference lead me to the lessons of my father (slowly but surely) and has allowed me a joy, given to my own designs and ideas I probably would have never found.

As the sun goes down each night, my shoes get laced up and I reach for my Ipod to get me through my next run. As I run and see the sun set, I smile, not for the beauty or the joy of another run, but smile at the idea somewhere, undoubtedly on that same track, my dad might be smiling back.

My track these days (the little stretch right in the middle)

"Cash, Rules, Everything, Around, Me
C.R.E.A.M.
Get the money
Dollar, dollar bill y'all"

-Wu-Tang Clan

Economics.

Recently, in his book The Age of Turbulence, Alan Greenspan, former chairman of the Federal Reserve, informs his reader that a study and analysis in economics can not be surmised in a study of markets, supply and demand, inflation, or any other monetary term. Instead, Greenspan notes that to truly understand economics, to get to the heart of why prices fluxuate, or credit and loans become stable or not, one must study people, must understand how they work as governments, cultures, and even individuals.

I had a very narrow view of Micronesia when I boarded a plane nearly 20 months ago. I figured the simple lifestyle of the Pacific was integral to life here. That a coconut and a sandy beach would be an ever present part of the day, and that the last thing on my mind would be economics. Yet, despite my uninformed views (mangrove forests prevent beaches, and no one I know swims in the trash and sewage infested water close to our house and jobs) the study of people that Greenspan describes has become a real description of my time here.

The truth is, language has come slow, I am not the most linguistic of peoples, and my skills in Pohnpian remain limited. Despite that fall back, however, I spend my time and energy in attempting to get an understanding of how Micronesians live their lives. An economist I am not, yet this study has letely melded into my approach.

I teach Science and Literature at the newly formed Catholic high school in Pohnpei. As such, I teach the skills necessary to achieve at the highest necessary level. The reality of this meant and means (at least in the back of my head) that I was training kids to go off the island and attend schools in Guam or Hawaii, or even possiblly the United States. Going to college in Spokane, Washington at a Jesuit college in which very few of the students stayed "home," when home was applied to Spokane, this trend had a name: brain drain. Throughout my year, these sentiments crept into my thoughts and refelctions. Was it not counterproductive to the mission of JVI and essentially the Catholic School I worked at to be training students to simply leave the place I was trying to help? Where was the justice in that?

It was this question that lead me to Alan Greenspan and economics, via Fran Hezel (SJ). Fr. Fran, the origin of my basketball career in Pohnpei, and further the head of Micronesian Seminar (micsem.org) , and the pre-eminent expert on Microneisa. Father had written an article on Micronesia and the future of "self sustainability,"titled "Is that the Best you can Do? A Tale of Two Micronesian Economies," found here: http://www.micsem.org/pubs/articles/economic/frames/taleoftwofr.htm.

In the article the idea of emigration by Micronesians abroad is adressed, not as a hinderence, but instead as a viable and real option. Further, cultural norms, such as the history of outer atoll dwellers sending the young off to other islands when food suplies began to dwindle, always yielded desirable results; meaning they returned, with the necessary goods. Further, that today, those Micronesians who left for college education, or jobs abroad, sent remitance home and would continue to, creating an economy of sustainability in itself.

Sidebar: As a Jesuit Volunteer, I ascribe to systematically examining all aspects of my host country. Jesuit Volunteers as an orginization takes very seriously the "preferential option for the poor," outlined by Catholic Social Teaching made so prevelant in the post-Vatican II Church. Personally, I came to Micronesia to see the way a foriegn people live each day and do my little part to teach at a school, given all that I could learn in the mean time. Poor or not made little difference in a country where subsistance living is still a reality. However, as these ideas of economic development invaded my everyday life, I struggled (and struggle) to equate where as a Jesuit Volunteer I stand on development on markets economies.

I had read, The End of Poverty by Jeffery Sachs and examined the idea of capitalism and free-market economies bringing a new quality of life to the poor, yet had not truely seen the reality of it. I continually asked myself when diserning JVI (a program that focuses itself on living life in a simple lifestyle, working with the poor, and continually examining the influences of American and therefore capitalistic culture and upbrining), would Jesus have been a capitalist? He had a job as a carpenter, did he charge a fair price? Did he strive or a profit? Of course, these questions bared little important to his ministry or message, yet on such questions I reflected (and reflect). Further, what about St. Ignatius? Surely an orginization such as the Society of Jesus would need a net profit to continue, and certainly the markets of 16th and 17th century Europe helped spread and fund the work of Jesuit saints in Latin America and Asia. As a JV, what should my stance on econimic development? Who were my models? As Catholics, we proclaim to embark on a life dedicated to Jesus message. Undoubtedly this message tells us to be with the poor, the sick, the meek, the lame. Yet, can this work be done on Wall Street, through capital investment, by createing sustainable econimies, in which statistics prove life rates are higher, infant mortality rates are markedly lower, and the poor are given the option to pursue those material niceties previously un-prescribed (in meer months Pohnpei will be recieving a fiber optic cable allowing for high speed information processing).

So I was led to a few memorable names from my college Political Science classes for insight. I glanced a few times at Adam Smith, re-read a few lines of John Locke, and amidst teaching a Confirmation class for english speaking Micronesian's, kept an eye to the Gospel. Thus, I landed on Alan Greenspan's memoir. Upon reading it, one thing is clear, the former Chairman of the Fed. Reserve is an undying believer in the power and un-wielding strength of market economies. As I read his reflections, I was amazed on his un-changing favor of "market" forces." The extent to which Greenspan believes that markets can save peoples and the world can be called nothing but faith.

Sidebar 2: On an island, and with a dedication to living a simple lifestyle and less than normal information feeds, I was less than in touch to the extreme recession taking place in the States. As I received emails and talked to friends and family, one thing became incredibly obvious; the greed of a few had influenced the trends of certain profit wielding enterprises, henceforth, the fall-out and repercussion of that greed had led to the slippery slope recession now going on at home and casually around the globe.

Greed. Certainly this did not play into Greenspan's formulas for thriving economies. Further, little was said by Mr. Smith as well. Jesus states time and time again about needles eye's and camels, in summation, that the wealthy do not have much of a place in the Kingdom of Heaven. Greed, however, is not a cause of market economies. Cain killed Able before Adam Smith wrote anything, Pharos of Egypt led slaves to build monuments to their greed before Moses saw any burning bushes. Greed is as old as human beings, and further, was as present to communist countries political structures as capitalist's.

So, I offer one glimmer of hope. Capitalism, as a philosophy, not a science, offers the same thing that most other philosophies do: a glimmer of hope in an idea on humanity. Winston Churchill tells us that democracy is "The worst form of government besides all others we know." Certainly the same can be said of capitalism. As a follower of Ignatius Loyola and his systematic approach to "find God in all things," I then look for God in the ways in which men and women (whether in the States, in Micronesia, or anywhere else) trade goods and services and why. Whether it be for money (dollar bills, euros, francs) or for slabs of fish, breadfruit, or other, the fact remains that we all live in societies in which one thing is necessary to continue in the face of development, sustainability, or recession; a hope and a faith in our fellow man. As a foreigner, whether they are going abroad or staying for good, I can answer honestly that I have found that hope in the people of Micronesia, whether they say the same for me is a goal, and the only target market, I hope to acquire.

"From my understanding people get better when they start to understand that, they are valuable And they not valuable because they got a whole lot of money or cause somebody, think they sexy but they valuable caause they been created by God And God, makes you valuable And whether or not you, recognize that value is one thing You got a lot of socities and governments tryin to be God, wishin that they were God They wanna create satellites and cameras everywhere and make you think they got the all-seein eye I guess The Last Poets wasn't, too far off when they said that certain people got a God Complex I believe it's true I don't get phased out by none of that, none of that helicopters, the TV screens, the newscasters, the.. satellite dishes...they just, wishin They can't really never do that When they tell me to fear they law When they tell me to try to have some fear in my heart behind the things that they do This is what I think in my mind And this is what I say to them And this is what I'm sayin, to you check it..." 

   -Mos Def "Fear Not of Men"

When did we all become so afraid? From an anthropological standpoint, of course, to curb the daily danger and fear of a single man vs. a deadly nature, humans banded together, first as hunter-gatherer tribes and later as societies for security. Security from natural disasters, from famine, from illness, and especially from those everyday dangers that can creep up on us when our backs are turned. With another, or many others, we are able to figuratively and subjectively put eyes on the back of our heads.

Yet, this notion escalated. Encampments turned to towns, towns to villages, and villages became metropolitans. A lean-to became a cabin and a cabin became a castle, a castle needed a moat, and a moat needed a guard. Slowly, but painfully sure enough, our societies began to entice fear, rather than placate it.

So what do we have today? We have terror levels. We have swine/west nile/mad cow flu, which is hoping and waiting to uncover a new mutation and sneak in and decimate the human population. Our news tells us to fear cities, for their high crime rates, and to lock ourselves into suburbs to escape the villains of metropolita. Often the fear of said "villains," is rooted in a old and devious fear, as those criminals who un-proportionately fill our prisons have a skin color that is of the vast minority. Yet, we are inscribed that the more we put in prion, the less we will have "to fear."

At what point did we all decide that there was so much to fear in this world?

Many may have recently heard of the string of earthquakes in American Samoa and Vanuatu, as well as a few in Indonesia. In the South Pacific, such earthquakes can often be the source of alarm, due to the incursion of tsunamis in a ocean based quake.

This Thursday, as I was sitting eating lunch with my staff at Our Lady Of Mercy Catholic High school, a parent came in reporting she had heard Pohnpei was on Tsunami watch. From my school I can see ocean on 3 sides, and as the word tsu met the word nami my stomach began to lurch. Hoping to absorb the norm of the people here I looked around, and saw nothing but smiling faces. As seconds passed, most of the staff began to laugh at the notion, and make jokes about a tsunami. Not only were we predominately safe due to our barrier reef, but the notion of going berserk on a Pacific Island over a giant wave you had no control over carried no resignation with those in the room.

Our maintenance man coyly remarked to me with a smile, "Eat up Luke, this may be your last meal before the Tsunami hits," laughing, as he packed up his food, got his weed-wacker and continued the work he had been doing before lunch. I did precisely that, and following suit, held class and continued my day without the idea of the ocean, or its waves, entering my thoughts once.

Pohnpeians, and I feel Micronesians in general, have escaped the fear-monger that plagues us as Westerners. Rather than fight, toil, and create whatever means we can to control nature, it is far simpler and easier to allow nature to run its course. Some may call this foolish, some may call it unrealistic, but I call it faith.

What it boils down to is a lack of faith. If you want to call it in God, in Nature, in spirit, in love, it is of no consequence. What can not be argued is the ever-present loss of faith in something outside ourselves in Western culture. Our fear is rooted in this. Without control, we fear, when in actuality we are as minute, as insignificant, and as finite as a simple flake of sand to a rouge wave. We need to give up control, and it is only through this release that we can escape our fears, and hope to find love and happiness, and mot importantly peace, with ourselves, our families, our friends, our jobs, and our world.

"You are either on the bus or you are off the bus..."

-Ken Kesey in Tom Wolfe's The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test

As the leader of his group of "Merry Pranksters," Ken Kesey was known to break down his ideas and take on life in a simple metaphor relating to the bus, and bus trip, he and his troupe embarked on in 1964. In an attempt to break the social norms of the day, while at the same time engaging in a sort of oneness with one another, Kesey and his group hightailed it across the United States in a dilapidated bus painted with glowing paint and disguised in grandiouse costumes that fit their LSD trips. The bus became a symbol of oneness. You can get off the bus, and still be on it, but if you choose to truely leave and individually rift oneself, you can no longer be on the bus. 

It was the last day of summer school when Matt Miller, my JV compatriot, Gonzaga alum and Micronesian promise brother,  ran into our Saramen Chuuk apartment with one simple question, "Are you ready for an adventure?" The summer in Chuuk had been refreshing, re-vitalizing, and the perfect way to get ready for my second year in Pohnpei. Matt and I, freinds from college, would sit for hours discussing our time in Micronesia, problems and successes, and amidst a light course load of summer school classes where immersed in the stark beauty of the Chuukese landscape and the Chuukese people. Intertwined in our time in the Lagoon a pervading sense of security enveloped us. Of course, spending two years in a foriegn country is an adventure, yet, our summer routine was allowing for a sense of stagnation. 

The breakdown of island states, from Yap to Kosrae, in the FSM follows that each state is made up of large reef islands, with lagoons and series of outer atolls, or small reef islands outside the larger lagoon. As Jesuit Volunteers we focus most of our attention to the larger lagoon islands and don't get to spend much, if any, time on the outer islands. The reality lies that as the larger lagoon islands develop, a certain limbo strikes in which most of the traditional culture is preserved on the outer atolls. This was communicated to Matt and I time and time again throughout the summer, and it was a dream of ours to get out and see these outer islands, not just for adventure sake, but to gain a better understanding of the Micronesian landscape, to diversify the picture in our mind of this area, country and people. It was with this goal in mind that Matt and I started to pursue routes to make it to the outer islands before I left for the summer, to educate ourselves and engage in the sense of Micronesian oneness we had glimpsed and hinted at time and time in our year here.

It should also be noted that boat schedules, if they can be called that, are inconsistent at best. With so many people unable to afford air-travel, boats remain their only way to transport themselves and goods to some of the most remote places in the Pacific. We routinely asked around but were somewhat dismayed with the reality of schedules with our schools, and my return to Pohnpei, it did not seem like the trip would materialize. My mindset was such as Matt streaked into our apartment to let me know of the opportunity awaiting us. 

The boat, a 45 foot transport, was leaving for the Hall Islands, in 2 hours Matt said, and if we wanted to make moves, move we must. The Halls, I found out, were located a 12-15 hour boat ride North by Northwest of the Chuuk lagoon. We knew no one there, but the captain informed us at the least we could sleep on the boat for the duration of the trip if no one took us in.

After deliberating for a few minutes, the adventure seemed too much to pass up and after a small amount of food, an even smaller amount of clothes, and a large amount of reading materiel were stuffed into a bucket Matt and I sprinted down to the dock. We were on the boat.

Much like Kesey's bus, the boat serves as a central metaphor to life in Micronesia. It was with dual-rigger canoes the first Micronesians ventured the open spaces of the Pacific to reach the Philippines and central Asia to inform Western explorers of their existence. It was with boats that entire islands would establish networks of trade, communicate, and conduct war. It was with boats that foreigners came and stayed in these islands and it is with boats today that the majority of Micronesians travel amidst the vast ocean surrounding them. Thomas Merton explained that "no man is an island," when discussing the individual in context to the collective. It is with boats that Micronesians were able to establish a sense of oneness to the extent that "no island was an island." Boats served as the connector, the path, and the binding that brought things, people, and ideas together.

After explaining, with difficulty, to those waiting on the dock who we were, what we were doing, and why we were coming to their home, our fellow travelers warmed up to us. Kids started to laugh and joke with us, and the roaring engines struck water as the bow lead us out of the safety of the Chuuk lagoon and into the vast expansion of the Pacific Ocean. Finding space on a few ice chests stacked next to one another, Matt and I decided to try and rest, despite our excitement, of finally being on the boat. As we tossed and turned, the Pacific graciously stilled ourself for her new travelers. The water, much like its namesake, calmed and sat as we put distance between our past and our new adventure. To put us to sleep, and elderly Chuukese man sang in a deep baritone to the dark ocean around us. The whisk and clap of the waves on the bow served as the perfect back-drop to this man's native tongue and soon enough sleep enveloped us.

We woke up with tiny islands on the horizon, and as kids passed us a makeshift breakfast, Dorito chips and Kool-Aid, we watched the sun eclipse Bafun, known to us as the Hall Islands. The day served as a ferry of islanders from island to island. Amidst the fray Matt and I were introduced to the Mayor and the the Captain. For our entire trip, their real names would never be revealed, however, they served as our saving grace and their hospitality was unceasing. As mid day approached, we made more friends, were given local foods, and as the hot sun illuminating the clear blue we relished in the fact that we were truly on the boat.

At sundown we reached our final destination, the island of Ruo, where we were informed a room was prepared for us and we would be staying as the boat, we found out, would be collecting fish to be sold on its return to the Chuuk Lagoon. The mayor, awaiting us, already had fish cooked and breadfruit pounded to us as we progressed amidst a bevy of children awestruck but un-pensive to the foreign visitors. The boat remained anchored outside the island but the oneness and connectedness of everyone enveloped us. We were on Ruo, but we were still on the boat. 

We slept like babies and awoke to the silent greetings of our host, Dougie, who simply pointed downstairs with a grin to indicate breakfast was ready for us. We ate and drank coffee and set out to explore Ruo. Unceasingly, we were asked to come join families to eat, if there was anything we needed, our if we could be helped in anyway. Despite communication barriers, what was always given was a warm smile, a calm hello, and an overriding sense of togetherness. We spent the day with the people of Ruo after attending mass in the one church where, symbolically, the captain also served as the priest. 

For the next two days the people of Ruo treated Matt and I as family, we enjoyed meals together, joked, and simply sat and watched the waves crash on the reef, or the stars illuminate a sky void of street lights, neon signs, or candles for the most part. In Ruo, simplicity was a state of mind, and it was accompanied by a togetherness felt rather than told of or describable. By the time it was time for the boat to leave the lagoon and venture the ocean once more, our hosts had stacked piles of food for Matt and I the same as families sending off brothers, sisters, sons and daughters; we were still on the boat. 

Possibly seeing our luck, upset with our choice to leave, or simply as unpredictable as she can be, the Pacific did not grace us with the gentle ride returning home. Not to mention the close proximity of a packed boat full of not only passengers of the human variety, but pig, turtle, and an amass of fish caught to be sold in Weno. Matt and I entertained ourselves with talk of the trip, memories from home and despite a long trance, saw the sun rise over the Chuuk Lagoon before we knew it. We scrambled to get our things as the boat docked and as quick as we had decided to embark were outside our apartment again.

We were off the boat, but the boat was still with us.

“So when they say anything,
Say why is it?
Class is in session till the teacher gets a pink slip,
40 to a class
No wonder we delinquent,
Half the school never make it to commencement”
-Blue Scholars “No Rest For the Weary”


Culmination. Completion. Depending who or what group one is referring to these words could have varying definitions. In about a week Pohnpei Catholic School will celebrate the commencement of the 8th grade students whom I have had the honor and distinguish to teach this year. Certain students have spent 9 years at this school and the celebration will be the fulfillment of their academic career so far. Others, new to the community or transfers from different schools will walk alongside as companions on the journey. A small few will go on to top private high schools. Some will go to public school. Some will undoubtedly fall to the wayside, filing in the cycle of deprivation that a lack of education sustains. All are products of a system I have spent time reflecting on and observing and would like to express some thought on.

Amidst the preparation for the ceremony, it was communicated to me how important this day was for the students and parents. Further, that despite not saying their opinions, many parents would have high expectations and would be silently observing the ceremony to a “T.” I remarked to a staff member that I did not remember 8th grade commencement to be such a highly touted affair in my years and in my culture. He grinned and stated, “here in the FSM, we love praising mediocrity.” He chuckled, but I do not think his full intent was humor. Amidst conversations, this idea of mediocrity carries forth throughout my goals and aspirations as a teacher. In my strive for an ideal in education I continually hit this wall of, “that’s just the way it works here,” and “its different than in the states.”

The fact of the matter is, in 9 months of observing, living, and interacting with Micronesians they are not a people I would classify as “mediocre.” They are extremely dedicated to their families, willing to give of time and energy without thought or consideration to themselves. Here no one would ever spend time in the hospital alone, it is simply unfathomable that a family member would not dedicate time, money, and effort to make sure they or another member be with a sick relative around the clock. The sick member takes precedent not only over jobs, chores, and other, but also sleep, food and relaxation. The need of self is unanimously revoked for the need of the sick. This hardly strikes me as mediocre.

Other men I have met subsistence fish during the night because it is a free food source for their family. What struck me is they do this amidst working a 9 to 5 job that often can be physically and mentally demanding. This is always done without complaint, despite the lack of sleep or down time. Hardly mediocre.

Homelessness is fairly infrequent here due to the fact that a family is usually willing to give. People here rarely starve because those who “have” are almost always willing to “give.” Not exactly the sign of mediocrity.

Yet, as an outsider to the culture here I have a mindset based on a Western model. The highlight of that model is striving for excellence in all arenas, particularly education. One must do well in school to go to a good college. A good college gets one a good job. A good job provides for a healthy family. Multiple healthy families make up a striving society. Central to all this is an ever present un-attainable goal, that transcends until one must have a good funeral to reflect that one worked hard, had a good life, a good family, and the cycle continues on and on.

What is mediocrity? And why does MY model allow for its definition in a culture and for a people I am foreign to? Because they culminate their education at 9 years or 11 years with no college diploma or masters? I think not. Some of my students will never graduate high school. Some may certainly never go to college. But completion, success, culmination, and commencement are not measured by pieces of paper, speeches, or fancy robs and hats, at least not in the world I want to live in. True success, true “commencement” lies in the ability of each person to truly wish to better his or her situation. Whether that is by working harder for their family, fishing nights to eat, or studying to further one’s education is of no consequence. All provide a better life, a better world and exists as a converse to any definition of mediocrity.

Also its been awhile, but amidst a confirmation class retreat, confirmation, 8th grade retreat and many other events I have some more pictures:

Mass at the confirmation retreat
Myself and Tim, sunset...thank Luke Ricci for the new KC t-shirt (its the envy of all Micronesia)
At The Village for my 23rd
The kids swimming on the retreat
Me with my students at the completion of the retreat.

"I tell you one lesson I learned

If you want to reach something in life

You ain't gonna get it unless

You give a little bit of sacrifice..."

---The "legendary" Roots crew

Feet. Due to the tropical climate here in the Pacific, shoes loose their allure quickly. Instead, the cool, temperature considerate flip-flops, or “zorries” as they are called here take precedent in foot apparel. As such, outward appearances of feet in everyday situations tell you a lot about someone. If they have been working in the field, feet bear a tan, greenish color due to loose grass and foliage. If walking long distances, feet bear a rough, rugged, exterior. Furthermore, if someone spends his or her time sitting inside, feet also have an un-shielding look to expose where and what they have been.

 

For me the most reveling of feet are that of the elderly here. In a place where paved roads, the automobile, and forms of transportation took over for feet in the last 40-50 years, and due to size all necessities are within a walking proximity, it is still possible to see the work and toil of a life of walking, on the feet of the old.

 

Recently, in my 8^th grade religion class, I had a brief discussion of “compassion” with my kids. To them, the breakdown of the word meant, “to feel sorry for someone.” I challenged them on to see it deeper and eventually we as a class came to a consensus after a wonderful example. One of my students stated, “See Mister (as they call me for short) it is like that saying, you can’t understand someone until you walk in someone’s shoes. If my grandfather has a bad feet, I can’t be compassionate to him until I feel the pain it is for him to walk.” In a mass of pride and luck (I couldn’t believe I had gotten that stellar of an answer) I left the discussion at that and moved on to the next point.

 

This last weekend the staff of OLMVTS and PCS took the chance to go out and retreat from the monotony and everyday life in Kolonia Town. Fr. Jim led us in many exercises to grow as Catholic educators individually and collectively. It was the first reading of the retreat that brought me back to the idea of feet and their revealing quality. The first reading, found in the Gospel of John brought up the washing of the feet of the disciples by Jesus.

 

Jesus as a servant caught up my thoughts. Whether Catholic, Christian, or other, the figure of Jesus as a servant is acceptable. Jesus came not to rule, not to conquer but simply to serve. What further transfixed me was the metaphor of dirty feet. Simply put, no matter who you are, where you are from, your status, your possessions, wealth, or power, in a place where everyone wears sandals your feet inevitably get dirty. We are the same way as humans. No matter our background, no matter our future, our friends or enemies, our work ethic or lack there of we all have dirty souls. Like our feet, some of our flaws are evident, while some flaws lay hidden deep beneath our skin.

 

Yet, our greatest flaw, and antithesis to service, is when we focus entirely on our own dirty feet, our own individual flaws and continually put the whip to our backs for our humanity. As this process continues, we shy away from washing the feet of others, and instead focus on how dirty they are and pass the same judgment we have on ourselves to others. It is in this regard we loose sight of Christ’s example and succumb to our humaneness.

 

A big lesson for myself as of late has been to accept the dirty feet of others by first accepting my own. By regarding each other as imperfect, dirty, faulty, sinners we begin the first step in service to one another, we accept one another as we are, and in such an acceptance forgive others and ourselves. It is in this way our soul’s become clean, and we begin to clean the souls of others, as Christ so called.

Communion

"You go down there looking for justice,

 

that's what you find,

 

just us..." 

 

-Richard Pryor sampled in GangStarr's "Alongwaytogo"

 

I am a cradle Catholic. I was born, baptized and have spent 100% of my life in the Roman Catholic Church. I am proud of my beliefs, and feel confident enough to test the limits of, not only my own personal beliefs, but the day-to-day Catholic teachings, as well as the institutional church I belong to. Yet, being here on Pohnpei has asked me to look deep into the historical significance of faith, missionaries, and the spread of religion to a people where it was formerly foreign and unknown.

Communion, as defined by a web dictionary, is 1)the act or an instance of sharing, as of thoughts or feelings. 2)Religious or spiritual fellowship. 3)A body of Christians with a common religious faith who practice the same rites; a denomination, as well as 4)the sacrament of the Eucharist received by a congregation, the consecrated elements of the Eucharist, and the part of the Mass or a liturgy in which the Eucharist is received. 

The fact that Jesuit Volunteer International was a Catholic volunteer program greatly weighed on my decision to partake in its pillars for two years. Being a Catholic has shaped and molded many instances of my life; recently I was challenged as to why.

In the states I often looked past the Eucharist at mass. It always seemed to me a commonplace practice and ritual. I often went through the act without much cause, thought, or incite. Yet, at a recent spirituality night with the Jesuits, the Eucharist was the topic of discussion. I thought back to my First Communion at Our Lady Star of the Sea; I remembered my starched white shirt, my shined black shoes, and my tie with various sport paraphernalia on it, and I remember standing in a group of young Catholics to be, in anticipation for that wafer of initiation. At the time it seemed very magical, very surreal. From my young outsider perspective those who received were all members of the group, to receive meant to be a part of something, to belong. I rejoiced at the fact that soon I too would join "the line."

I then reflected on my late teens, when going to communion meant something much different. The week was filled with studies, sports, chores, and many other things. Church on Sunday offered a special time to sit back, reflect and enjoy the company of a community also worn out from a long week. I reflected on my enjoyment of the post-communion prayer, when I would kneel down and feel at ease with the church community I had grown up with and around; it was familiar, easy, and most of all comfortable. 

My first mass in Pohnpei I stood up at my introduction and looked around to foreign faces, names, and peoples. Amidst new languages, foods, customs, temperatures, and ways, the place I had always found ease and comfort, the church, was new and foreign as well. The reality of my new situation struck hard when after communion I did not recognize a single face, save the priest I had met minutes before mass. 

Slowly but surely things changed, the culture I was foreign to opened its most admirable feature frequent and often; hospitality to the outsider. With my work at the school faces became more recognizable, names became known, and encounters became hellos. Before I knew it, I had friends who I was looking forward to saying hello to before and after mass. It did not happen at some sudden moment, but gradually I was beginning to feel like a part of the community.

This last week I had the privilege of serving as Eucharistic Minister for our school mass. Neat the end of the line I watched as all of my students approached me for Communion. I looked each in the eye, served, then sat down fulfilled with the experience, there was no funny looks, no snickers, it was business as usual for all parties; once again I finally felt liked I was beginning to belong. 

I am by no means the most conservative of Catholics, and am apt to question as much dogma and faith based belief as I can. However, whether the work of the Eucharist or not, I find it to be a miracle that communion has continually had the ability to draw me in with groups of people. Yet, I have begun to question where the notion of community comes from, the community at large, or the group that gathers under the banner of the Eucharist?

This Christmas we traveled to Chuuk to spend the holiday with the volunteers working at the high schools on that island. In one of the rooms at Saramen Chuuk there were questions spanning multiple subjects written all over the walls. One question caught my eye and has had me thinking ever since. It read, “was God here before the missionaries?” The notion is simple, that if Micronesian’s had never been given God’s word and message, would they know God? Would they know his Son? If they never heard the word, Eucharist, would they still understand communion? Micronesian history is ripe with missionaries who came preaching a different way of life to locals than what they had known, aspects of the culture were kept, but many were denounced. As for now, one can not drive very far in Pohnpei without seeing a different religious order from some foreign place telling people the their way is the best way

So I pondered the question in conjunction with my experience with the Catholic Church and I came to a conclusion; I realized that it is of no consequence. That in life there is no clear-cut concrete way of life, instead people are at their best when they allow give and take from one another and start enjoying one another for who they truly are, not what they want them to be. It is only then when we can learn from one another, and then when we can truly see each other in communion, whether at church, at the store, in jail, developed, poor, rich, strong, weak, confident.

As well, below are some pictures of the PCS Christmas program (theme: Jesus was born in Pohnpei) as well as JVI Christmas in Chuuk.

                                          Pisar, in the Chuuk lagoon, the sight of our retreat
                                            Micro volunteers
                                           Lavin and Miller reunited, plus staches
                                            Pohnpei volunteers.

                                       Pohnpei Catholic School Christmas program
The gift bearers with the 8th graders in front.