2011 Status Report (part 2): Where am I now?

Coming back home has been great. As I said in my last post, my arrival was greeted by a greatly missed group of family and friends who provided me with hugs and a good hour or so of late-night catching-up at Steak and Shake.

At our house, the Christmas season is not to be missed. My Dad is the uncompromising, iron-clad director of Christmas in the Davis Household. He decorates with an authoritarian zeal that has epitomized the holiday season throughout my Childhood. The moment the thanksgiving turkey is taken from the table, lights, garland and other various golden knickknacks slowly begin appearing on every mantle, end-table, bench and ledge of our home--even the dog is adorned with festive scarfs. Our tree is a brilliant and burning ball of yuletide joy. It stands 7 feet tall and has nearly 4,000 lights. It literally radiates heat. I can easily read a book by its light from across the room. It is draped with thick gold-lined, ivory ribbon and is dripping with glass icicles and vintage-looking golden ornaments. The heat from thousands of incandescent lights coupled with all of those stunningly flammable adornments--it's a wonder that this Davis-family marvel hasn't gone up in flames. My sister and I used to joke of fears that helicopters bound for the hospital (which sits a few blocks away from our house) would mistake our house for a helipad and attempt a landing. Although my sister and I have made a tradition of harassing my Dad's seasonally-onset mania--we secretly love it, and both agree that the Davis home is really a wonderful place to be for Christmas. --Also, speaking of my sister, she is the eccentric one in the picture (above), sporting a Sari that I brought her from India.

Amid Christmas and New Year and all that those holidays bring with them, I have also been working--a lot, since I have gotten home. I hadn't been home a week and I had already gotten my old job back as a server at the Spaghetti Warehouse, in Columbus. It's a fun place to work, and probably the most diverse group of people that I have worked with... ever. For those of you who don't know, the Spaghetti Warehouse is literally just that--an old Warehouse that was built in the late 1800's. The place was one first cold-storage facilities of it's type. The mammoth building was converted into a gigantic restaurant with seating for over 800 people. The lobby still features the giant fly-wheel (it stands about 10 feet high) that used to pressurize pipes with ammonia gas, which was used to refrigerate the facility. Inside the main dining room is an old street car from the early 1900. The street car was formerly used for commuters in Columbus, now you can eat dinner in it. Regardless, it's a fun place to work, and it has kept me busy and connected with people since I have gotten back.

It has been exactly two months since I have landed in the United States. I have notice that my culture-hopping skills have been greatly honed over the past few years. The transition has not been nearly as hard as previous years. Coming back to my home culture is not as easy as it would seem. After a couple years of immersion in the cultures of South-east Asia, adjusting back to the US usually leaves me in a heavy sort of existential dilemma. Living at home, the people and places are all so familiar, and it is because of that familiarity you would expect the whole scenario to be comfortable. But, it's not.


Immersion in another culture has a way of changing you. It opens you up to alternate ways of thinking about people and society. In many South-east Asian nations, relational harmony is a key value. That means, its important to minimize one's own points of conflict with another, in order to maintain smooth interpersonal relationships. In America, we often value the "bottom line". The bottom line couldn't really care less about relational harmony. It more concerned about the end result, and ones own ability to produce that end result in a quick and efficient manner. This has made us into the people that we are. It is not necessarily a bad thing. In fact, this is more than likely one of the reasons of America's great success and productivity over the years. It's really a great value. However, if you are coming from a more euphemistic culture (ie. the Philippines) that would rather placate than deliver cold objective truths for the sake of a revered "bottom line"-- then, this American cultural reality will hit you like a glass of cold water to the face, and it always does.

I credit my ability to deal with all of this to what I have been learning in ethnography. I have learned how to observe and value something from the outside. It has taught me how to respect the great differences that I see in people and appreciate them for what they are. Rather than going into a deep existential dilemma and bemoaning the fact that I don't fit in, I have learned to simply observe, learn, and enjoy the people around me, including all of their cultural oddities and personal peculiarities. This has been revolutionary to me. It has allowed me to gain perspective on my own culture and upbringing, and rather than throwing me into a dilema, it's given me an understanding of who I am.

Who I am inevitably leads to "where am I going?" That is something that I would like to talk about in my next post.

2011 Status Report: Where have I been?

It has come to my attention that this blog is in serious need of an update. Looking back through my previous posts, I think I last left you somewhere in Bangalore, India. For the record, I made it back to the Philippines in one piece and with a host of stories to tell--some which I may have to tell in posts to come. The trip left my mind reeling with thoughts. I don't think I have ever experienced such a vast and diverse array of culture in my life. Sit down for 5 minutes in Tamil Nadu and take a good look. Peddlers wearing lungis, Sikhs wearing dotis, holy men, business men in western business attire, saris and Coach purses. There is not much that one won't see. It is a colorful and paradoxical world of both tradition and progress. For the outside observer, it's nothing short of a sensory overload. Needless to say, I look forward to getting back.

Coming back to the Philippines from India, I was swept into a world of deadlines, requirements, and expectations. The biggest obstacle that I found staring me in the face was my thesis. It was an all-consuming task. I nearly immediately dove into weeks of pouring over recorded interviews and their transcripts, as I did my best to tell the story of a squatter relocation community, which I have given the alias: "Looban". My research looked at the relationship of a particular mission "outreach church" and their "mother-church" in that community. It dealt with the perceptions and self-identities that were formed as the two VERY divergent groups interacted. My research had been on going for the better part of the previous year. Thus, this two month period was kind of a culmination of everything.

My experience with "Looban" has been unforgettable. They are perhaps one of the more easily misunderstood groups of people in the Metro-Manila Area. There is a certain stereotype or pre-conception that is applied to groups of people who make their lives on the "margins." It was my honor to sit for a while and share a bit of my life with this dynamic community, hear their stories and write of their great potential. The thesis ended up being a monstrous 130-some pages of narrative and analysis. There were several points at which I thought to myself, "Seriously? Are you STILL writing this thing?" But, in the end, I feel that every sentence had its place.

I finally defended and passed my thesis defense on November 23rd, 2010 (pending some revisions). I can't tell you the sense of relief and accomplishment it was to hear those final words from our Academic dean--putting an end to the work of more than a year. The defense came in just enough time, because just three days later I had a flight booked for the United States. My final days in Manila were like a marathon. They were intense and stressful. It seemed that everything was demanded from me at once. There was little sleep, many tasks, and no time. It was a piercing headache that lasted nearly a week. That is why it is so important that I plan my travel the way that I do.

In an effort to both save money and bask in my fetish for travel, I broke up my flights and planned an extended 18 hour layover in Hong Kong. I had never been to Hong Kong before and I was eager to explore it. I had 18 hours--all to myself--doing the very thing that I love the most: traveling, meeting new people, exploring new places and cultures... it was wonderful.

A day or so later my plane touched down in Columbus, Ohio where I was greeted by my family and a group of my closest friends. We have made a wonderful tradition of going out to Steak and Shake--directly from the airport-- to share stories and update one another on our lives. It happens nearly every time I come back. It makes me love that group of people even more.

This brings me up to December. More to come in a few days...

How I Met My Hindu Realtor:

(Note: I wrote this post about 5 months ago while I was completing my internship in India. I recently found it on my computer and decided to publish it to the blog.)

I have just returned from a failed attempt to search for Wifi in the neighborhood--with nothing but a sack of mangos. Now... how I GOT this sack of mangos... that is a story that I must tell.

I went out at about 11, looking for a restaurant, coffee shop, or something that would allow MAC to connect to the internet. Sadly, I found nothing. What I DID find, however, was a very talkative, slightly inebriated, Hindu Realtor in front of a large temple to the god Ghatrapathi, just about 8 blocks from where I am staying. He stopped me and asked where I was from. I answered, “the Philippines”... which gave him a somewhat confused look as he tried to process the anomaly of the color of my skin and the country that I was coming from. The man preceded to tell me all about the temple that he was coming from, which was solely for the worship of this particular god who had the head of an elephant and legs of a man. He told of the harsh conditions that were suffered by the people of this area, long ago, and how this particular god had brought liberation from that suffering. His story eventually lead him (how... I do not know how) into a long historical description of what India was like before and after the Arabs came and then a long lecture of british colonialization and how Ghandi finally sent them all home in 1947. As he told his story, the man kept meeting people, waving, and interjecting sentences to passers-by. I could tell this man was well-connected in the Bangalore “social scene.” Finally, at the conclusion and finale of his talk, I looked at the watch that I don’t own, which doesn’t sit on my wrist and said that it was about time that I be getting home. He gladly agreed and began walking alongside of me telling me that he just lives up the block, which meant that we could continue the stories as we walked.

Arriving at his apartment, he spotted a caucasian couple across the street and told me, “OH, wait here, I’ll introduce you, they are from Britain!” (As if their caucasian-ness would give us instant camaraderie). He quickly jogged off the edge of the curb and part of the way across the street, motioning the couple to come over. As they exchanged glances and began to walk over, I began inching away, as I felt my “awkward threshold” reaching critical mass. The couple walked over and, come to find out, they actually did know the man. In fact, he had sold them their house. We talked for a brief bit, exchanging where we were from and why we were here and they parted ways. I assumed that the talkative and slightly inebriated, Hindu realtor and I would part ways as well... but then he met his friend with the sack of mangos. This changed everything. As I introduced myself to the friend with the sack of mangos, the very talkative, slightly inebriated, Hindu realtor just continued talking, telling all about his friend and where he comes from. This seemed to be a relief for his friend who seemed to have a bit of anxiety about speaking in English. In place of words, the man offered me one of his mangos, a firm green one. I thanked both of them warmly, looked once again at the watch that didn’t exist, and told them that I must be going.

As I turned and began to talk the realtor stopped me and nearly insisted that I come up and visit his apartment. I kindly turned him down, but he insisted that he at least needed to get me a riper mango from upstairs. Slightly, apprehensive of what ulterior motives the talkative realtor might have, I, once again, turned him down. He insisted once again, and I began to analyze the situation. This man checked out. He was a realtor--the couple confirmed it. He knew everyone, and just about everyone on this block had noticed him, or at least heard him chattering on. He was too well known to be up to something, and beyond that, both he and his friend appeared to be unarmed. Not to mention, they were much smaller than I--I was sure I could take them if they tried anything. “Sure... but I have to get back in just a couple of minutes,” I told them.

Out of the nighttime air, we quickly ducked into his building and tromped up several flights of narrow stairs to the third floor where he lived and kept a small office. As I entered the small room, I watched their hands and looked for any suspicious shifting in their eyes. There was none. I was asked to have a seat just across from the talkative, slightly inebriated, Hindu Realtor. With the realtor seated before me, and the mango toting friend lingering over me at the back, the realtor ducked behind his desk, grasping a large mass that he had hidden out of my sight, and out towards me, on to his desk came... another sack of mangos! Only these were a bit more ripe this time. Following that, came a plastic bag from his desk, into which he placed about six very nice-sized green and yellow mangos. He then brought out a map and proceeded to show me the location of his village and the village of his friend with mangos. I pointed to Philippines, and showed him where to find Ohio, clarifying that it was NOT in Great Britain or Australia. After are short, but very kind meeting in his apartment we shook hands, he walked me down the stairs, and I have had a wonderful lesson in Indian history, I have a strange story to tell, and a several mangos to eat for breakfast in the morning. Not bad.

Reflecting on Bethel

I will honestly miss Bethel. As I am presently sitting on a train headed to Bangalore, my mind keeps reviewing the faces and the the stories that I have been privileged to encounter over the past week. I was brought to the train station in a car that was arranged for me by Dr Kanagaraj.  We arrived and found the appropriate waiting area. After about 20 minutes, I received a phone call from one of the students, he and another were there at the station! They had come to say goodbye. We sat and had tea there at the station and they remained with me until the train pulled away. What a wonderful group! No doubt, I will miss the people the most.

It has been a marvelous week of sharing in stories and experiences. Dr. and Mrs Kanagaraj were wonderful and made me feel right at home, or at least as if I were staying at Grandma and Grandpa’s house for the week. I think I have been to just about every major project on the Bethel campus, talking with directors and staff people, getting to know who they are and how they minister. I was able to teach the first two days of “Introduction to Communication,” which was a lot of fun. This morning I spoke in chapel, which was also a good time, but most fulfilling of all was the time simply spent in conversation with the students. Perhaps one of the most memorable experiences will be the time that I spent in the villages last Sunday, walking from place to place, trekking through fields, and seeing the places that the students minister.

Yesterday Jacob took me through the farm and fields. He explained a bit about where Bethel came from. It all started with a large plot of land that was given by Danish missionaries to be used to provide resources for the villages and to train the villagers how to farm and make a living. From there the farm grew, and diversified. Before long there was a hospital, and a school, an orphanage, a home for children, and eventually, a bible institute for training rural missionaries. Jacob was a product of this place, and he showed me around with a comfort and familiarity, I could tell that he was home.

I hope that I will see some of these students again. Possibly even at APNTS. Jacob is planning for Master’s work, and he would prefer to do it internationally. Andrews is also thinking about possibilities in graduate education. Whatever happens, I believe Pamela, the wife of Dr. Kanagaraj, put it best, “Lord willing, we shall meet again.”

Perhaps one of the most wonderful and distinctive things about this experience was that I had the opportunity to be in the dorms, attend classes, eat the same food as the students, and eat it in the same way--hands only. Everyone seemed to have so much doubt at my ability to stomach all the local foods with their spices, exotic seasoning, and indigenous methods of preparation. I was offered to have prepared special food that would be more agreeable to my stomach. Many doubted that I could handle it. That is why I told no one about vomiting in the bathroom of the Baby home. I figure, somethings are best left unsaid... at least for the sake of my pride. :-)

This week has also afforded me the chance to explore new and exciting forms of relieving oneself. I am proud to announce (especially to my dear brothers and sisters in the Philippines) it has been more than a full week since I have last touched, seen, or otherwise interacted with a piece of toilet paper. Beyond this, it has been another good 6 days since I have made contact with a toilet bowl. I think I need not elaborate. For many of you reading this right now, you are scratching your heads, wondering what I am talking about. That is fine. Don’t worry; don’t ask. Others who are reading these words may find themselves laughing out loud, knowing exactly what I am talking about. As for me, I type these words with a quiet pride. This is a true milestone for me. Perhaps one of many to come. So, take it as you may. I write these words with my head held high. I may have quivered with the cuisine, but in the bathroom... I was victorious.

It all seriousness, the week was unforgettable. Tedious at times, but nonetheless unforgettable. I am humbled by the wonderful hospitality that I have been shown, by the friends that I have made, the culture and cuisine and dynamic learning of which I have been placed in the midst. I have learned much, and look forward to the things that are still to be learned ahead.

It is now nearly six o’clock. The day is cooling as the evening sets. I have another two and a half to three hours till I arrive in Bangalore. I have made contact with Santosh Gnanakan, a former student from APNTS who minsters in Bangalore and is the host of a Radio program on one of the local radio stations. I am told to give him a call when I arrive. He texted me that there is dinner and a bed waiting for me when I arrive. Once again, I am humbled my the hospitality and sense of welcome that has been given to me ever since I have arrived. Tomorrow will be a new city, a new culture, and a slightly cooler climate, I am told. I look forward to see what I will find at the end of the train track.

Meet “Jacob”.

I would like for you to meet Jacob. Jacob is what they call a “Bethel Boy.” At the age of seven, he was brought from his rural village to Bethel by his single mother. He has grown up in the home for boys, studied at the matriculation school, and is now entering his second year of college at Bethel Bible Institute. He is an outstanding young man. Just the other night I sat with him in his room looking through old papers that he had submitted at the school. I have to admit... he put me to shame. His work was meticulous, everything was well-researched, cited, with full bibliographies and stated in nearly perfect english. Did I mention that he was only 19? Did I also mention that all of this papers were done without a computer? Paper after paper was hand-written with numbered footnotes, organized original sources, and evenly-measured margins. He told me that it often took him several tries to make the paper just right. After seeing those, I didn’t even think to tell him about my habitual negligence to proof-read my papers that have been word-processed and automatically formated. He told me that he wants to continue through his Masters and Doctoral work so that he can be a New Testament professor like Dr. Kanagaraj (the man whose house I am staying in). I would certainly assess that he has what it takes.

It’s wonderful to understand where this boy, and many others like him, have come from. They have been provided with a nurturing (albeit, firm and disciplined) christian environment. His tuition and living expenses have been paid by a foreign sponsor church, which the school has provided him, that he keeps in contact with regularly. He remembers his sponsors from early in his life, often sending letters and grade cards to them, and receiving gift from them at Christmastime.

We have talked and shared quite a bit over the week that I have been here. He loves talking about culture and theology and is a little nerdy when it come to Greek (obviously, we get along wonderfully). It is the people like this that have made my stay here most memorable. It is beautiful to see how God can work in and through the lives of his people.

Sunday Morning Review

Good morning, and happy sabbath. We (the Kanagaraj’s and I) have had an early morning this morning. Church starts at 7:30, I understand, so we have been up with the dawn to get there in time.

I have been asked to say a few words this morning in church, mainly about who I am, where I come from, and why I am here. So, before I do that. I thought that it would be good to write a bit of that down here.

In part, this trip is an internship for my degree in Intercultural Communication. The plan is that I will travel around (backpack, really) to meet with Nazarene, Evangelical or otherwise Holiness Missionaries who are in Tamil Nadu and other parts of India. The goal is to learn as much as possible about what sorts of things God is doing, (and perhaps trying to do) in this region, among the various people in ministry. It is, in part, a kind of reconnaissance mission, as well. I am looking at these various ministries and seeing what, perhaps, we (APNTS) could do along side of these ministries, how could we work together, and what potential might there be for partnership? This is the second part of the mission, asking how we might be able to interface, partner, assist, or otherwise join-in what God is doing here, or even being something new.

I honestly hope that something could work out. The community-focused mission and drive of a the Bethel campus as a whole is a beautiful and honorable undertaking. I believe that their mission and passion would almost seamlessly mesh with the mission and drive of APNTS. Whether we work together by means of sending our students for internships and teaching or they send their MA-bound students to us for further education, or some other way of working together... some sort of relationship would be wonderful to see.

However, there is some doubt as to how much longer a project like Bethel can last, due to rising prices and decreasing foreign support. Tuition and fees per student, per semester are at about 30,000 rupees (~$700). Although, this is not a bad price to ask for this area, it is still difficult for such a school to be self-supporting without outside support. The hope would be to either find a better way of generating income for basic operating budgets or finding additional and reliable outside support.

Bethel Matriculation School

Today I met a “very dynamic woman.” At least, these were the words used, on several occasions, to describe her before we actually met. After meeting one another, I found the words to be quite fitting, indeed. Her name was Mrs. Nganaraj and she is the principal of the Bethel Matriculation School.

Now, a quick paragraph for those of you (like myself) who are not fluent in Indianized Britishisms (and, yes I did just make up that word), a “Matriculation School” is something like a boarding or preparatory school where the students are brought up in a highly regimented manner and usually live together on or near the school’s campus. So, it is something like college in the states (but minus the regimented lifestyle, of course).

My day began at 9:15 sharp in the office of Mrs. Gnanaraj. She was a robust but elegant women, beaming with self-assurance--but in a positive way. She was the kind of woman who, when you stand in her presence, your posture becomes a bit straighter, and you are all of a sudden aware of things like whether or not your shoelaces are straight and if the line of the buttons on your shirt is askew from the buckle of your belt and the zipper on your pants. She wore an bright and regal silk sari with a grand-patterned sash that whipped in the wind as she walked. I have to admit that I had equal levels of fear and respect for this women--she was good at what she did.

Anyway, after a short introduction we started out across the dusty schoolyard into the ranks of schoolchildren, at attention, standing shoulder to shoulder, about 2 feet apart. We crossed into the dead center of three troops, all facing one another. As the principal proceeded forward, I began to hold back--slightly intimidated by the phalanx of children that I saw before me. Seeing that I was falling behind, the principal gave a brief wave of her hand and uttered a quick, “Come, come!” So, I sheepishly proceeding forward into the ranks. I stood before them, just a few feet behind their headmaster. She called the children to order, and the ranks suddenly became a bit stiffer. Following her call, she maintained a piercing silence, which lingered in the air as a dagger, threatening any deviants who might dare to fall out of line or break the well-honored stillness.

She gave a short introduction of who I was and what I would be doing there. She demanded that the children “show him how we behave around here,” and I believe that both the children, as well as myself, knew good and well that this was a loaded statement. Following my introduction, the day began with hymns sung in Tamil, and a warm singing of happy birthday to one of the girls who wore a long-patterned red dress instead of a uniform as the others were wearing. The principal placed her hand on the shoulder of the girl and lead the crowd in singing “happy birthday” followed by additional verses of “God bless you, dear child” and “long life to you, dear one.” After the sweetness of that moment, the principal gave another quick wave of her hand accompanied with a firm, “get back in line,” and the birthday girl scurried away.

Apart from learning a bit about Matriculation Schools and the Indian/British school system. I got to see the greater function of the school in a context such as this. This school is the nurturing ground for the children living in the Children’s home, and the school of the babies and toddlers from the orphanage. The school gives strong christian (although, strict) upbringing and nurture. Behind the firm hand and high expectation are loving hearts that are working to create well rounded, with a firm understanding of who they are as christians.