Church
I went to the Catholic church today, at the behest of a Catholic employee in the mayor’s office. While going to church is usually a chore I tend to avoid (since I am not Christian), I felt especially obligated to keep up appearances in the community and meet some new folks. On the one hand, going to church in Senegal is easy and pleasant. A quick walk from my house there is a nice, little chapel, replete with, bell tower, wooden benches, pigs playing in the courtyard, and 70’s-era Messiah decco artwork hanging above the altar. Mass starts promptly at nine thirty, and the choir isn’t bad. On the other hand, it is church AND it is Senegal.
I arrived promptly at 9:30 and took a seat on an empty bench. My aim, as is often my aim in Senegal, was to put on a pleasant appearance, enjoy the experience, and avoid any awkward situations. Never mind the fact that I was the only white person there- this was normal and expected and hadn’t felt awkward for months. But somehow, awkwardness crept in. I ended up sitting on the wrong side of the aisle (women and men sit separately) and became self-consciously aware of it once I realized why no one was sitting next to me. Then, while I was watching a group of late boys nudge their way onto to an overcrowded “male” bench on the other side of the aisle, ‘it’ happened.
About three quarters of the way through the pleasant service, the priest announced that there was a new visitor in the parish. With a hundred eyes looking in my direction, I innocently turned my head searching to see if anyone new was standing behind me.
Hmm... No one to the left. No one to the right. That must mean...
After hesitating a few seconds, I finally accepted the title of esteemed visitor and the attention that came with it. I was invited up to the altar by the priest to share a few inspirational words with the congregation. The most I could muster was a short thanks to the community for welcoming me, and I think I told the children to lead their lives in a way that God demands. I didn’t really mean to put it like that.
I blame the language for my brief oratorical lapse. It’s amazing how your French won’t come to you when you’re simply expecting to sit and daydream for a good hour but instead are called to speak in front of a large audience. At once you forget how to conjugate the word for welcome and by the time you remember you’ve paused for a good five seconds and have forgotten what exactly you want to say next. At a loss for words, I wanted to sit down badly. Much to my chagrin though not unexpectedly, I was made a lesson of in the typical Catholic fashion. I was kept standing a bit longer but since I wasn’t going to say something of moral value, the priest did it on my behalf. When asked what my name was, I replied Abdoulaye Dialo, which was the name given to me here by my host mother. The priest demanded what my real name was, and I replied Daniel. Then, my name was magically transformed into the topic of a homoly. The priest told the congregation not to be shy about their Christian names, nor their Christian identity in the predominantly Muslim country. If your name is Rose or Joseph, he said, you should be proud of that. They were, after all, but a mere ten percent of the country’s population and should try hard to maintain their identity.
A good enough message, granted, but a bit ad hoc. Personally, the only non-ephemeral distinction I see between Christian and Muslim in Senegal is tha Christians tend not to blast Koranic chants from their car stereos. Also, they tend to have only one wife.
The Christian/Muslim naming distinction is beyond me, and I refuse to read into it any more than I have to. I just took a Senegalese name because kids had trouble with the American one. I have only so much patience for being called “Jannaa”. Besides, the Senegalese have a strange fixation with giving white people Senegalese names, and I was wont to oblige- It brings them much joy.
After I took my seat, the ‘it’ that I was trying to avoid all morning continued. The Peace Corps-peace-peace on Earth-Jesus connection was made, and magically, I was transformed into a martyr for the cause. Though the word martyr is of my own choosing, I believe I was described as willfully choosing a life of poverty to help save the poor Senegalese... much as Jesus chose to leave leave heaven in order to save the meek on Earth.
Pardon me, but did he say Jesus? As far as I know- as far as you really can know anything definitive about Jesus- he didn’t have a fridge or a computer. Which is all said and good since he never had to devote fifteen percent of his monthly stipend (thirty dollars, for those keeping score) in order to maintain and enjoy the lifestyle to which he had grown accustomed. Also, as far as I know, Jesus never worked on Excel nor had to defend his country’s stance in geopolitical affairs.
Though flattered, I secretly questioned the aptness of the parallel. For starters, while I did choose to live in country 155 out of 173 on the Human Development Index, I don’t ever remember taking a vow of poverty. I am not poor- in fact, I earn almost as much as a school teacher. And since I don’t have any family(ies) and/or girlfriend(s) to support, unlike some, I have some spare change to throw around at the end of the month. Between you and me I doubt Jesus enjoyed a vacation from time to time at the tourist sites along the Sea of Gallilee, graciously mining through a pile of freshly-caught shrimp. I doubt he wandered around Jerusalem from bar to bar, and I doubt there was ever semi-sincere talk of establishing a semi-weekly round of golf amongst the disciples. As for me, I have done these things in my free time and with my living allowance. Call me bourgeois if you want, but if it cost you five dollars, you would do these things, too. I am not ashamed to do these things in the midst of poverty, mainly because I know the Senegalese do exactly the same when they have the money. Granted, this is not a terribly pliable moral ethic, but it works for now. Please remind me to start questioning it after I buy my first Mercedes.
The long of the short of it is that I am not here to be Jesus. The Catholic missionaries did a fine job of that a couple centuries ago, and the Methodists and others are keeping to it today.
But if I’m not here to be Jesus, this it begs the question, “What am I doing here?”, aside from teaching people business and fixing their computers. This question I haven’t quite figured out yet, nor have a lot of folks here. Nevertheless, a myriad of responses from my peers may answer the question in part.
When asked a similar question, one volunteer responded that in effect, we’re on a mission of cultural imperialism. This is not as bad a thing as it may sound, since Americans happen to do a lot of things that are beneifical, like accounting and basic business management, or washing hands and not spreading cholera. Though you can’t really lecture people, the idea is to help the kind folks here understand, little by little, that doing things like the white folks do may actually be good, and it doesn’t mean that they’re any less African.
As another volunteer put it, half the job is just hanging around, talking to people, and being yourself. That’s not as artificial an activity as it seems, since one of the goals of Peace Corps is to spread understanding of American culture. And since we’re given no physical or financial resources, it’s helpful to have an ambiguous goal or two to achieve.
Before coming, I talked with a returned volunteer from Zambia, and he asked if I was one of those save the world hippie types. I responded in kind, “No, not really,” to which he replied, “Good those guys pack up and leave after the first month.” Why is this? Because nobody likes hippies...
Actually, they realize that they’re not going to change the world, primarily because nobody will change their ways to attain some version of utopia. Also, when you can get everyone to work together it’s usually an unproductive mess. Boo hoo.
This is the way that it is, much to many people’s chagrin. The world, good and ill, is a take it or leave it package, and no one has the resources to single-handedly change things. You live your life and do your part, and if you’re content in your day to day goings, that’s explanation enough for why you’re here.
Besides philosophical musings, what else did I get out of going to church? I was used to being called Abdoulaye, but now I’m prone to rethink identity and the bounds of cultural sensitivity. I am not here to be Senegalese, but I am here to be with the Senegalse. And besides this, when I walk down the street, there’s a new host of kids who call me Daniel. This sounds completely out of place and confuses the heck out of me.
I arrived promptly at 9:30 and took a seat on an empty bench. My aim, as is often my aim in Senegal, was to put on a pleasant appearance, enjoy the experience, and avoid any awkward situations. Never mind the fact that I was the only white person there- this was normal and expected and hadn’t felt awkward for months. But somehow, awkwardness crept in. I ended up sitting on the wrong side of the aisle (women and men sit separately) and became self-consciously aware of it once I realized why no one was sitting next to me. Then, while I was watching a group of late boys nudge their way onto to an overcrowded “male” bench on the other side of the aisle, ‘it’ happened.
About three quarters of the way through the pleasant service, the priest announced that there was a new visitor in the parish. With a hundred eyes looking in my direction, I innocently turned my head searching to see if anyone new was standing behind me.
Hmm... No one to the left. No one to the right. That must mean...
After hesitating a few seconds, I finally accepted the title of esteemed visitor and the attention that came with it. I was invited up to the altar by the priest to share a few inspirational words with the congregation. The most I could muster was a short thanks to the community for welcoming me, and I think I told the children to lead their lives in a way that God demands. I didn’t really mean to put it like that.
I blame the language for my brief oratorical lapse. It’s amazing how your French won’t come to you when you’re simply expecting to sit and daydream for a good hour but instead are called to speak in front of a large audience. At once you forget how to conjugate the word for welcome and by the time you remember you’ve paused for a good five seconds and have forgotten what exactly you want to say next. At a loss for words, I wanted to sit down badly. Much to my chagrin though not unexpectedly, I was made a lesson of in the typical Catholic fashion. I was kept standing a bit longer but since I wasn’t going to say something of moral value, the priest did it on my behalf. When asked what my name was, I replied Abdoulaye Dialo, which was the name given to me here by my host mother. The priest demanded what my real name was, and I replied Daniel. Then, my name was magically transformed into the topic of a homoly. The priest told the congregation not to be shy about their Christian names, nor their Christian identity in the predominantly Muslim country. If your name is Rose or Joseph, he said, you should be proud of that. They were, after all, but a mere ten percent of the country’s population and should try hard to maintain their identity.
A good enough message, granted, but a bit ad hoc. Personally, the only non-ephemeral distinction I see between Christian and Muslim in Senegal is tha Christians tend not to blast Koranic chants from their car stereos. Also, they tend to have only one wife.
The Christian/Muslim naming distinction is beyond me, and I refuse to read into it any more than I have to. I just took a Senegalese name because kids had trouble with the American one. I have only so much patience for being called “Jannaa”. Besides, the Senegalese have a strange fixation with giving white people Senegalese names, and I was wont to oblige- It brings them much joy.
After I took my seat, the ‘it’ that I was trying to avoid all morning continued. The Peace Corps-peace-peace on Earth-Jesus connection was made, and magically, I was transformed into a martyr for the cause. Though the word martyr is of my own choosing, I believe I was described as willfully choosing a life of poverty to help save the poor Senegalese... much as Jesus chose to leave leave heaven in order to save the meek on Earth.
Pardon me, but did he say Jesus? As far as I know- as far as you really can know anything definitive about Jesus- he didn’t have a fridge or a computer. Which is all said and good since he never had to devote fifteen percent of his monthly stipend (thirty dollars, for those keeping score) in order to maintain and enjoy the lifestyle to which he had grown accustomed. Also, as far as I know, Jesus never worked on Excel nor had to defend his country’s stance in geopolitical affairs.
Though flattered, I secretly questioned the aptness of the parallel. For starters, while I did choose to live in country 155 out of 173 on the Human Development Index, I don’t ever remember taking a vow of poverty. I am not poor- in fact, I earn almost as much as a school teacher. And since I don’t have any family(ies) and/or girlfriend(s) to support, unlike some, I have some spare change to throw around at the end of the month. Between you and me I doubt Jesus enjoyed a vacation from time to time at the tourist sites along the Sea of Gallilee, graciously mining through a pile of freshly-caught shrimp. I doubt he wandered around Jerusalem from bar to bar, and I doubt there was ever semi-sincere talk of establishing a semi-weekly round of golf amongst the disciples. As for me, I have done these things in my free time and with my living allowance. Call me bourgeois if you want, but if it cost you five dollars, you would do these things, too. I am not ashamed to do these things in the midst of poverty, mainly because I know the Senegalese do exactly the same when they have the money. Granted, this is not a terribly pliable moral ethic, but it works for now. Please remind me to start questioning it after I buy my first Mercedes.
The long of the short of it is that I am not here to be Jesus. The Catholic missionaries did a fine job of that a couple centuries ago, and the Methodists and others are keeping to it today.
But if I’m not here to be Jesus, this it begs the question, “What am I doing here?”, aside from teaching people business and fixing their computers. This question I haven’t quite figured out yet, nor have a lot of folks here. Nevertheless, a myriad of responses from my peers may answer the question in part.
When asked a similar question, one volunteer responded that in effect, we’re on a mission of cultural imperialism. This is not as bad a thing as it may sound, since Americans happen to do a lot of things that are beneifical, like accounting and basic business management, or washing hands and not spreading cholera. Though you can’t really lecture people, the idea is to help the kind folks here understand, little by little, that doing things like the white folks do may actually be good, and it doesn’t mean that they’re any less African.
As another volunteer put it, half the job is just hanging around, talking to people, and being yourself. That’s not as artificial an activity as it seems, since one of the goals of Peace Corps is to spread understanding of American culture. And since we’re given no physical or financial resources, it’s helpful to have an ambiguous goal or two to achieve.
Before coming, I talked with a returned volunteer from Zambia, and he asked if I was one of those save the world hippie types. I responded in kind, “No, not really,” to which he replied, “Good those guys pack up and leave after the first month.” Why is this? Because nobody likes hippies...
Actually, they realize that they’re not going to change the world, primarily because nobody will change their ways to attain some version of utopia. Also, when you can get everyone to work together it’s usually an unproductive mess. Boo hoo.
This is the way that it is, much to many people’s chagrin. The world, good and ill, is a take it or leave it package, and no one has the resources to single-handedly change things. You live your life and do your part, and if you’re content in your day to day goings, that’s explanation enough for why you’re here.
Besides philosophical musings, what else did I get out of going to church? I was used to being called Abdoulaye, but now I’m prone to rethink identity and the bounds of cultural sensitivity. I am not here to be Senegalese, but I am here to be with the Senegalse. And besides this, when I walk down the street, there’s a new host of kids who call me Daniel. This sounds completely out of place and confuses the heck out of me.
posted by Unknown at 6:34 AM
3 Comments:
Save the world Hippe type .. Like that, enjoyed your blog
mynewsbot.com
Interesting account, enjoyed reading it. I am a lapsed catholic but sometimes go to church overseas (where I feel like a tourist as I am.) Once in Indonesia many years ago this led to my friend and I being asked to sing a hymn for the congregation. All we could think of that we both knew was 'Away in a Manger' or 'Silent Night' or something similar!
By the way, I notice you have some 'spam' comments. I turned on the verification option where people have to type the letters they see and that seems to stop these critters.
All the best!
Margaret
Jenny and I had a similar experience at a Presbyterian service on Espiritu Santo island--Vanuatu. We were called on to say a few words to the assembled flock and we just said, "be nicey nice" or something to that effect and that we were from Africa and American but lived in Australia.
Religion is strange. You don't want to step on the good word. At the same time, you don't want people to be following an ideology like a flock.
Sounds like you walked that tightrope with aplomb.
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