. . .looking back, the me that woke up the morning of September 11 seems so charmingly naieve - I could not in my wildest dreams have imagined the horrendous crash and burn that was about to happen, not only in New York, but in my own life.
I was up early. I had an 8 am class, which I typically tried to avoid, but it couldn't be helped that semester.
Pauline Epistles with Dr. Craig Koester.
That's where I was when it happened.
Blissfully oblivious.
I don't remember which epistle Koester was lecturing on that day.
I do remember the second class was over, Dr. Diane Jacobson calmly walked in to the room and somberly told us "There has been a terrorist attack on the United States, airplanes have been hijacked and flown into the World Trade Towers and the Pentagon. It is not certain whether there are other planes or what their targets may be. We are gathering in the chapel."
WHAT?
I went to chapel. I don't remember exactly what we said and did. . .a lot of praying, and speaking and singing lament psalms, I think.
My memories of the day are like that - certain things are crystal clear, while others are vague and hazy.
I do remember - clearly - it felt like time slowed down and the day would never end.
I was supposed to go to God, Evil, and Suffering next.
Ha.
But my neighbor Dana was expecting her cousin Sebastian to land later that day, coming to visit from Germany. But everything had been shut down, and who's to say where he was? And Dana didn't speak German. I went and explained the situation to Drs. Sponheim and Fretheim, and they said, by all means, go help your friend find her cousin.
His plane was halfway over the Atlantic Ocean when the pilot abruptly announced the United States had closed its borders and its airspace, they were turning around for Europe immediately.
I can't imagine what it must have been like for him to hear that, sitting on that plane, halfway through a long journey he'd been planning and looking forward to for months. I would have asked myself, "What do you mean, they closed the borders? WTH is happening on the ground?"
But at least he was safe, and made it back to his family alright.
From there I must have eaten something for lunch, though I doubt I had an appetite. And I must have finished out the very full day of class, with Lutheran Confessions, and Preaching. . .but honestly those parts of the day are also fuzzy.
I was working for Pilgrim Lutheran at the time, and they pulled together a prayer vigil that evening. I do remember going to that.
And I distinctly remember yelling at God the entire drive to the church: "Where were you? Where ARE you? Do you not care that we are perishing? Do you not understand what this means. . .with THIS President in particular at the helm?. . ."
I distinctly remember praying for our enemies at the service, because I could not fathom what kind of hell a person must live in, day in and day out, that would lead them to see such a suicide mission as their best and only way forward.
I distinctly remember all the hope and joy of the summer being sucked completely out of me in a matter of moments, as if a Dementor had followed Dr. Jacobson into the room, then grabbed hold and followed me out of it.
For me, September 11 was the beginning of a year of absolute hell, and an epically dark night of the soul. That journey was long, and is a story for another day.
Today in her sermon, Jen asked us, 10 years later, where do we find hope?
Which was a hard question because over the past few months, the devolving state of various situations in the world, which we never seem to gain traction on, have left me feeling increasingly hopeless and fearing we are, collectively, hell-bent on getting to a Fahrenheit 451/Clockwork Orange kind of world as fast as we possibly can.
Perhaps my old Dementor has been lingering a little too close lately, but I really had to think about this question.
I decided - I find hope in the people who choose life, who live life abundantly, who relentlessly rebuild this world even as others actively tear it down.
And I find hope in the God who continues to create beauty and truth and goodness, even out of the chaos and the rubble.
I give thanks to God for both Jen and Jeni, two of the saints in my life who give me hope, and for the brilliant sermons they each preached this morning.
And I leave you with this prayer, which we sang in worship today (though I thank another hopeful saint, Choral Girl, for this particular link):
Showing posts with label tragedy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tragedy. Show all posts
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Saturday, September 10, 2011
10 Years Ago, Part One
10 years ago I spent the summer in Dresden. The Fund for Theological Education was kind enough to give me a large scholarship with very few strings attached. "Do something that will enhance your ministry and then tell us about it" they said.
So I went abroad, took classes at the Goethe Institut during the week, and bummed around Lutherland on the weekends. Though I had been abroad before, it was my first time truly living abroad for an extended period of time.
It was an awesome experience. I liked Germany before, but that summer I fell in love with it. I loved how easy it was to go pretty much anywhere on public transit; I loved how ecologically conscious they were; I loved how walking, cycling, or taking the tram was the default mode of operation; I loved broetchen for breakfast everyday; I loved the little hole-in-the-wall doner stand down the street from the school; I loved the tasty senf at the beer garden where we'd have our weekly Stammtisch; I loved the gelato cafe on the Neustadt side of the Augustbruecke; I loved the Semper Oper and the Zwinger gallery; I loved the noise car tires made as they rolled over cobblestone streets; I loved that church bells rang to announce the noon hour; and though it took a period of adjustment I came to love that you were expected to bring your own bags to the grocery store, and that most stores would be closed by 6 pm every night and always on Sundays; I loved that people would spend Sunday afternoons with friends and family, relaxing at home or out hiking or touring or something.
I loved my class at the Goethe Institut too - our teacher, Ute, was fantastic, and I loved the diversity in the room, with students from France, Romania, Libya, China, Mexico, Canada, and the U.S. - I feel like there were even more countries represented (and certainly among the whole institut there were more) but these are the only ones I can remember right now. In any case, it felt like we were this mini-UN, working together to learn and understand this language and culture that was not our own, sharing things about our own cultures in the process.
When class ended I joined up with some German and Slovak friends (including Adri) to go hiking in the High Tatras mountains, an incredible way to cap an incredible summer.
It was a summer that filled me with such hope for the world - that if our little microcosms of national diversity could learn from and learn with each other, and work together so effectively to reach common goals, then certainly we as a richly diverse global body of humanity could get there too.
I had a hard time with cultural readjustment upon my return. I was cranky and frustrated with Minnesota for all the ways it failed to be Germany. I was (as I always am) sad for saying goodbye to Adri and not knowing the next time we'd get to see each other. And I was wrestling with some deep vocational issues - I had been a reluctant seminarian to begin with, and certain things about the summer had me seriously questioning whether I should really be a pastor.
I went to bed the night of September 10 thinking these were the greatest of my problems. Despite my frustrations, I was still so enthralled by the winds of that summer - the view they had allowed me, the incredible ride they had provided me - that I was completely oblivious to how close they had carried me to the sun. . .
So I went abroad, took classes at the Goethe Institut during the week, and bummed around Lutherland on the weekends. Though I had been abroad before, it was my first time truly living abroad for an extended period of time.
It was an awesome experience. I liked Germany before, but that summer I fell in love with it. I loved how easy it was to go pretty much anywhere on public transit; I loved how ecologically conscious they were; I loved how walking, cycling, or taking the tram was the default mode of operation; I loved broetchen for breakfast everyday; I loved the little hole-in-the-wall doner stand down the street from the school; I loved the tasty senf at the beer garden where we'd have our weekly Stammtisch; I loved the gelato cafe on the Neustadt side of the Augustbruecke; I loved the Semper Oper and the Zwinger gallery; I loved the noise car tires made as they rolled over cobblestone streets; I loved that church bells rang to announce the noon hour; and though it took a period of adjustment I came to love that you were expected to bring your own bags to the grocery store, and that most stores would be closed by 6 pm every night and always on Sundays; I loved that people would spend Sunday afternoons with friends and family, relaxing at home or out hiking or touring or something.
I loved my class at the Goethe Institut too - our teacher, Ute, was fantastic, and I loved the diversity in the room, with students from France, Romania, Libya, China, Mexico, Canada, and the U.S. - I feel like there were even more countries represented (and certainly among the whole institut there were more) but these are the only ones I can remember right now. In any case, it felt like we were this mini-UN, working together to learn and understand this language and culture that was not our own, sharing things about our own cultures in the process.
When class ended I joined up with some German and Slovak friends (including Adri) to go hiking in the High Tatras mountains, an incredible way to cap an incredible summer.
It was a summer that filled me with such hope for the world - that if our little microcosms of national diversity could learn from and learn with each other, and work together so effectively to reach common goals, then certainly we as a richly diverse global body of humanity could get there too.
I had a hard time with cultural readjustment upon my return. I was cranky and frustrated with Minnesota for all the ways it failed to be Germany. I was (as I always am) sad for saying goodbye to Adri and not knowing the next time we'd get to see each other. And I was wrestling with some deep vocational issues - I had been a reluctant seminarian to begin with, and certain things about the summer had me seriously questioning whether I should really be a pastor.
I went to bed the night of September 10 thinking these were the greatest of my problems. Despite my frustrations, I was still so enthralled by the winds of that summer - the view they had allowed me, the incredible ride they had provided me - that I was completely oblivious to how close they had carried me to the sun. . .
Friday, January 29, 2010
Life is Alright in A-me-ri-ca. . .If You Are White in America
The Broadway fairies were good to us - tickets for West Side Story were indeed available at TKTS yesterday, so Sarah, Rob, and I went to see it last night. It was awesome. The dancing was incredible. The set design was fantastic and creative. The cast was top notch (although - oddly - Tony and Maria each sounded fine on their own, they sounded fine when singing with other people, but when they sang duets with each other, they did not sound good at all - it was weird).
This revival has the Puerto Ricans speaking in Spanish the majority of the time that they are among their "own kind," and also often singing in Spanish. Sarah didn't care for this directive choice at all (though she speaks fluent Spanish and could follow what they were saying and singing). I know only a smattering of Spanish vocab, and thus couldn't understand what they were saying 99% of the time, but it didn't bother me as much - I can see how it would make sense, it's what 1st generation immigrants often do when among their fellow immigrants. And I'm familiar enough with the music to know what the songs were about in English, but it still did change the experience to not be able to understand what was being sung. I suppose the effect they were going for - aside from the realism - was to alienate English-only audience members to the same degree that the PRs are alienated in the play.
On a similar note - I did notice right away that the words to "America" were different than what I know them to be. I am most familiar with the movie soundtrack, which I listen to pretty regularly, and which casts "America" as the girl Sharks singing the glories of America (idealizing the land and their experience of it, focusing on the possibilities America offers), and the boys keep popping in with sarcasm and the reality of how they are treated here. In the play, it's only the girls singing, one of whom is homesick and idealizing life back in Puerto Rico, while Anita keeps reminding her of the harsh realities of life there, and why America is better than that.
Prior to yesterday, I've only ever seen the play staged once, over a decade ago, at my hometown community theatre. I don't remember noticing this difference in the songs back then, but I also don't remember if I'd already owned the CD and was super familiar with West Side Story back then. . .in any case, Sarah owns the original Broadway recording of the music, so we listened to her version today, and it matched the play exactly.
This just makes me wonder why they changed the lyrics for the movie?
It also makes me wonder why they didn't use the movie version for this revival of the play? I mean, I suppose to be a true revival, it would have to be true to the original. But this production seemed to emphasize the bigger picture issues addressed in the play - of immigration and community violence. The movie version of the song serves these purposes much better, as it is a much more pointed political commentary on both the dreams and the treatment of immigrants (especially non-white immigrants) in this country.
The original lyrics, on the other hand, better serve the individual tragic trajectories of the play: Anita is the one defending America in the song, her blindness to its dangers (whether true naivete or intentional ignorance) is her tragic flaw, and Anita is ultimately betrayed by America, whose violence kills her beloved Bernardo and then attacks her when she tries - even after his horrific death - to continue believing in the promise of America, the violence attacks her as she tries to help Tony and Maria find the somewhere they can live in peace. I guess that makes the same point, teases out the same themes, just on a much more personal scale.
This revival has the Puerto Ricans speaking in Spanish the majority of the time that they are among their "own kind," and also often singing in Spanish. Sarah didn't care for this directive choice at all (though she speaks fluent Spanish and could follow what they were saying and singing). I know only a smattering of Spanish vocab, and thus couldn't understand what they were saying 99% of the time, but it didn't bother me as much - I can see how it would make sense, it's what 1st generation immigrants often do when among their fellow immigrants. And I'm familiar enough with the music to know what the songs were about in English, but it still did change the experience to not be able to understand what was being sung. I suppose the effect they were going for - aside from the realism - was to alienate English-only audience members to the same degree that the PRs are alienated in the play.
On a similar note - I did notice right away that the words to "America" were different than what I know them to be. I am most familiar with the movie soundtrack, which I listen to pretty regularly, and which casts "America" as the girl Sharks singing the glories of America (idealizing the land and their experience of it, focusing on the possibilities America offers), and the boys keep popping in with sarcasm and the reality of how they are treated here. In the play, it's only the girls singing, one of whom is homesick and idealizing life back in Puerto Rico, while Anita keeps reminding her of the harsh realities of life there, and why America is better than that.
Prior to yesterday, I've only ever seen the play staged once, over a decade ago, at my hometown community theatre. I don't remember noticing this difference in the songs back then, but I also don't remember if I'd already owned the CD and was super familiar with West Side Story back then. . .in any case, Sarah owns the original Broadway recording of the music, so we listened to her version today, and it matched the play exactly.
This just makes me wonder why they changed the lyrics for the movie?
It also makes me wonder why they didn't use the movie version for this revival of the play? I mean, I suppose to be a true revival, it would have to be true to the original. But this production seemed to emphasize the bigger picture issues addressed in the play - of immigration and community violence. The movie version of the song serves these purposes much better, as it is a much more pointed political commentary on both the dreams and the treatment of immigrants (especially non-white immigrants) in this country.
The original lyrics, on the other hand, better serve the individual tragic trajectories of the play: Anita is the one defending America in the song, her blindness to its dangers (whether true naivete or intentional ignorance) is her tragic flaw, and Anita is ultimately betrayed by America, whose violence kills her beloved Bernardo and then attacks her when she tries - even after his horrific death - to continue believing in the promise of America, the violence attacks her as she tries to help Tony and Maria find the somewhere they can live in peace. I guess that makes the same point, teases out the same themes, just on a much more personal scale.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Atonement
I just saw Atonement at The Campus, and, WOW - it is beautifully and brilliantly filmed, powerfully scored - if you haven't yet seen it, you need to. Soon. I feel like I need to watch it again, just because it was so rich in imagery and language and symbolism - I'm sure I'll pick up more with repeated viewings.
But tonight I'll attempt to process a bit of the first time through. If you haven't seen it yet, and you don't like knowing anything about movies before you see them, quit reading now.
I'm serious, I'm going to talk in some detail about the film - don't say you weren't warned. . .
Where to begin? It's a tragedy, but it's a very odd sort of tragedy, for Briony's tragic flaw is her wild imagination, which sets off a chain of events that brings those around her down in typical tragic fashion, and it brings Briony down, in a sense, but not in the typical tragic fashion, for she has lived to tell the tale, and the survivor's guilt obviously weighs on her, there has been a "death" of the old Briony in that sense, but the tragic flaw didn't kill her outright as it normally does, and in fact, the untold story is that the tragic flaw is also the source of her comedy, of her rising, as we find out in the end that she is a successful writer. A haunted, yet successful, writer.
There is also a lot of playing with the truth in this story - this is a film of brutal honesty and brutal dishonesty. . .the whole tragic turn of events is set off by Briony's unreliable narration in the beginning, and it comes full circle as we discover that Briony is just as unreliable a narrator in the end - and yet, the story that plays in between is brutally honest as to the consequences of her dishonesty. It minces no words or images as to the grotesqueness of war, of separation, of estrangement. And Briony is at least fully honest about her dishonesty, both times, in the end.
Her dishonesty in the end is her attempt at atonement, of making the amends she was unable to make in her life, giving her sister Cecelia and C's paramour Robbie the happiness which they longed for, which she stole from them with her original dishonesty, by reuniting them and apologizing to them in the context of her final, autobiographical, piece of fiction. I would say this is Briony's attempt to redeem her story and her error, normally I would use the terms redemption and atonement rather interchangably, and yet, in the film it is clear, there is no redemption here, there was no resolution to the pain Briony has caused, there is only her atonement for what she has done, only this small gesture of kindness, offered too late in one sense, though offered before it's too late in another (before a condition that will cause her inevitable mental demise robs her completely of the memory).
Here again, the interplay of the tragedy and the comedy is fascinating, for it was through Briony's tragic flaw that Cecelia and Robbie met their deaths, and yet through this same imagination, in the end, she gives them life - in telling their story, their love lives on, their story continues every time it is read or told.
There is some rich religious imagery in the movie as well - some significant scenes involving immersion in water, as well as a confessional scene and a footwashing that are somewhat surreal oasis' in the midst of the brutal honesty - in retrospect, I'm thinking these latter two in particular are more of Briony's imaginative embellishments, but I'd need to go back and watch again to process what they might mean in the larger story.
Well, I think that's about as much traction as I'm going to get on this film tonight. If anyone else has seen it, comment or send me an e-mail, I'd love to hear your thoughts.
Peace,
Catrina
But tonight I'll attempt to process a bit of the first time through. If you haven't seen it yet, and you don't like knowing anything about movies before you see them, quit reading now.
I'm serious, I'm going to talk in some detail about the film - don't say you weren't warned. . .
Where to begin? It's a tragedy, but it's a very odd sort of tragedy, for Briony's tragic flaw is her wild imagination, which sets off a chain of events that brings those around her down in typical tragic fashion, and it brings Briony down, in a sense, but not in the typical tragic fashion, for she has lived to tell the tale, and the survivor's guilt obviously weighs on her, there has been a "death" of the old Briony in that sense, but the tragic flaw didn't kill her outright as it normally does, and in fact, the untold story is that the tragic flaw is also the source of her comedy, of her rising, as we find out in the end that she is a successful writer. A haunted, yet successful, writer.
There is also a lot of playing with the truth in this story - this is a film of brutal honesty and brutal dishonesty. . .the whole tragic turn of events is set off by Briony's unreliable narration in the beginning, and it comes full circle as we discover that Briony is just as unreliable a narrator in the end - and yet, the story that plays in between is brutally honest as to the consequences of her dishonesty. It minces no words or images as to the grotesqueness of war, of separation, of estrangement. And Briony is at least fully honest about her dishonesty, both times, in the end.
Her dishonesty in the end is her attempt at atonement, of making the amends she was unable to make in her life, giving her sister Cecelia and C's paramour Robbie the happiness which they longed for, which she stole from them with her original dishonesty, by reuniting them and apologizing to them in the context of her final, autobiographical, piece of fiction. I would say this is Briony's attempt to redeem her story and her error, normally I would use the terms redemption and atonement rather interchangably, and yet, in the film it is clear, there is no redemption here, there was no resolution to the pain Briony has caused, there is only her atonement for what she has done, only this small gesture of kindness, offered too late in one sense, though offered before it's too late in another (before a condition that will cause her inevitable mental demise robs her completely of the memory).
Here again, the interplay of the tragedy and the comedy is fascinating, for it was through Briony's tragic flaw that Cecelia and Robbie met their deaths, and yet through this same imagination, in the end, she gives them life - in telling their story, their love lives on, their story continues every time it is read or told.
There is some rich religious imagery in the movie as well - some significant scenes involving immersion in water, as well as a confessional scene and a footwashing that are somewhat surreal oasis' in the midst of the brutal honesty - in retrospect, I'm thinking these latter two in particular are more of Briony's imaginative embellishments, but I'd need to go back and watch again to process what they might mean in the larger story.
Well, I think that's about as much traction as I'm going to get on this film tonight. If anyone else has seen it, comment or send me an e-mail, I'd love to hear your thoughts.
Peace,
Catrina
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)