It is roughly 10 p.m. on Christmas Eve of 1994, and I am walking on an extremely dark, pot-holed street in Kingstown, on the island of St. Vincent, in the southern reaches of the Caribbean. I am in the “don’t walk there at night if you are a tourist” part of the city. A winter thunderstorm is producing enough water that the side of the roadway is a riverbed occasionally lit up by a flash of lightning.
I have just been verbally neutered by my soon-to-be-ex companion of three years and am reeling with unrelieved anger and rage with no way to escape. Emotionally dazed, I left the guesthouse in which we are staying because I simply do not know what else to do but to start walking into the night. I don’t care that what I am doing is dangerous and quite stupid. I just don’t care. As I am stumbling along the heavily trafficked street, I start tearing up. Here I am, 48 years old, in a dangerous stretch of a town 2,000 miles from where I live, dodging cars and scared to death. Why am I once again miserable and alone and crying on Christmas Eve? What is wrong with me? Most people seem so happy this time of year. Am I a huge loser or is everyone else a huge liar? No, it is my problem. I am just one of those jerky guys with a good job and a life that is otherwise as screwed up as the situation in which I now find myself. I just want to beat the crap out of someone, or get the crap kicked out of me. I just don’t care.
Suddenly, from the bushes above the road, a tall dark form leaps directly in front of me, blocking my way. I can barely make out the details of his body from the headlights of the fast moving cars and mini-vans speeding by. The passing headlights reveal a very rough-looking, down-on-his-luck man, but I cannot quite see his facial features. I am able to see a bucket in his left hand however my eyes are strongly pulled toward the 24-inch machete or cutlass in his right hand.
“I need mohny, mahn, I noht eaht nuttin’ in tree dahys, give me sum mohny, jus’ tree dollah, dat’ ahl mahn. Cohme ohn mahn,” he screamed above the roar of the downpour.
My North American psyche takes over. Maybe because I am emotionally spent or because I’m just a scared rabbit, in either case, every milligram of adrenaline in my body rushed into the fight or flight or wet your pants mode as I am certain that this desperate man is going to hack my head off and put it in the bucket before he took the few bucks in the pocket of my cargo shorts. I can only think that at least my miserable relationship will be over!
As this outrageous thought flashes through my head, I realize the irony and absurdity of this whole picture. My mind clears enough to realize that if this guy were a maniacal killer, my head would already be peeking out of that bucket dangling from his left hand. Instead, we just stared at one another for what seemed like a minute. We just stood in the pouring rain and stared at one another. It was during this minute that everything shifted.
“My nahme be Elbert,” he half-cried, “ahn I won’ try tu foohl yu, mahn. I hahve been tu prisohn. I be ah teacha’ befoh dat but I mahke sohme big mistahke and dey puts me in jail foh five yeahs.” But I no problem now, I leahn da’ way ah de Lohrd.”
He stood there in front of me, as if I am a judge, not a jerk. Standing in the darkness, a number of cars passed in both directions, illuminating our features somewhat clearly. We look one another over. It is weird; we are roughly the same size, have the same glazed over deranged looking eyes, and have similar beards and curly hair. It is like a surreal mirror has been created.
At this moment I do something I never do. I reach into my pocket and pulled out a $10 EC bill (about $4.00 USD). I never give beggars money . . . and I still haven’t.
“Here Elbert, Merry Christmas.” You would have thought I just gave him the keys to my Miata mid-life crisis mobile.
“Oh-oh tanks mahn, I know yu goht de goohd heaht,” he says as he approaches me to clasp hands Caribbean style.
This prompts me to perform another original act as I say, “God bless you Elbert.” I wonder for a split second why I said it until the destitute man in the torn and ragged clothing from the slums of Kingstown, St. Vincent, freaks me out when he replies:
“But He have alreahdy bless ahl ah we.”
. . . . . . . . . . . .
“Compliments ah de seahson tu ahl.” May you find blessings in unexpected places.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Overworked? Meet Gregor Hippolyte
“Yeah mahn, we be ‘Wahlk an’ Wuk,’ no plague by ambishion, no enslav’ by time,” the tall dreadlocked man calls out as he and his partner approach me. I have just finished creating my beach nest, but I’m always up for a couple of local island guys trying to scam me and depart with a bit of my cash. You can learn a lot about people when money is involved.
“I be Gregor Hippolyte an’ dis be Rasta Robbie. We be ‘Wahlk an’ Wuk’.” The two men knuckle bump and belly laugh with delight before plunking their bags of mystery down in the sand. Both men are dressed in the African colors and sport years of hair growth. Robbie fires up a doobie and offers me a toke.
Gregor Hippolyte and his “bruddah,” Rasta Robbie, craft pieces of rough cut midnight black coral into astonishingly beautiful bracelets, necklaces and rings to sell to bewildered tourists here on St. Lucia’s gorgeous stretch of north shore beach. The twin peaks of the Pitons get all the post card attention, but to my way of thinking, the beauty of the island is found in the spirit of the people. These two men survive by consciously using their innovative and artistic talents to transform elements of their natural surroundings into beautiful art. They are non-stop in hustling their works. They literally walk all day as they work, thus “Walk and Work.” We hit it off totally irie (good) and we agree to meet tomorrow, early.
I am intrigued by the paradox of “no plagued by ambition, no enslaved by time” that Gregor repeats about every third statement while his fingers move in frantic motion transforming a jagged coral stem into a graceful figure. It appears a blatant contradiction. I am fascinated by the effectiveness of their awareness, ingenuity, and persuasive language skills. This is why I decide I will do a little research. I return each morning just before daybreak to the tiny hideaway cove to lime with my two new friends. Actually, our lime is mobile as “nuttin’ stop Wahlk an’ Wuk.” They are perpetual motion machines. I am trying to find out how these men can work so feverishly from dawn to dusk and not feel “enslaved by time?” Additionally, Gregor’s artistic skills are not the beach junk one usually finds being sold on Caribbean beaches. This is gallery-level work, and it is all done “on the fly.”
. . . . . . . . .
I came to St. Lucia to get away from the numbing unconsciousness of frantic work, computers, phones, meetings, endless grading, and “to do” lists that are never completed. I come from an immigrant family with a “work until you drop” mentality. However as a second-generation son of immigrants, I never felt the embrace of my Italian or German cultural heritage. I am not captured by the immigrant joy of “getting” to live in the U.S.A. Nonetheless, starting at age 12 I have spent my life scrambling for my piece of the American pie. Yet all the while I never feel like I am doing enough. Grazie mamma.
I thought that for seven sweet days on St. Lucia I could escape my “never enough” work-aholism. Not so. My maxi-work ethic followed me here as I am more than eager to “Walk and Talk” everyday, sun up to sundown, to find out how Gregor and Robbie combine an incredible work ethic, dangerous diving, creating beautiful artwork, and at the same time live stress free lives. It isn’t simply, “Because they live in paradise.” Having lived in the Caribbean, I know that being a tourist and living on an island are completely different experiences. Unless you have a huge chunk of change, island life is hard, very hard. Most Caribbean islands would be called “Third World.” A 50% unemployment rate is not uncommon. I keep having this intuitive “vibe” that Gregor and Robbie’s fierce Afro centrism has something to do with this island mystery. I can’t stop being a Sociologist, even on Spring Break!
. . . . . .
After a few days, I ask Gregor where he lives. He simply sang a Bob Marley line, “Cold ground was my bed last night, rock was my pillow too,” and laughed with a full grin. “Where do you eat” gets my favorite response, “Ah Ahlan, dem fried plantains buhddy, mahke yu finga’ lickin’!”
“Dat be if we sell we wuk,” Robbie adds with a wickedly zoned-out laugh. Both men grin at one another with ear-to-ear joy as Robbie fires up another “smoke.”
I think that if anyone would be stressed by their work, it is two guys with no home, no way of knowing if they will eat the next day, and free dive 100 feet down into the choppy open sea off a north shore cliff to harvest precious black coral. The paradox fascinates me. I have to know every detail. “How do you free dive so deep?” I ask Gregor.
“Eahsy Ahlan. Firs’ yu swahlas’ a mout’ ful ah cookin’ oil, den ohf wit yu pahnts, stick de sawblade in yu underwears an’ dive an’ cut. Me fahtha’ teahch me an’ he fahtha’ teahch he.” Gregor and Robert look at one another and repeat in unison, “an’ de deepah yu go, de dahka yu geht.” Again, they break into laughter. I am clueless. Is this a description or is this a metaphor?
“Walhk and Wuk, dohn stop fuh nuttin’,” Gregor forcefully re-emphasizes.
“Why is it this way?” I ask Robbie as he is hyper inhaling. Gregor, who never smokes allowing him to dive deeper, uses Robbie’s prolonged inhale to respond in heartfelt sincerity, “Cause Ahlan, yu got ta’ live clean an’ let yu works be seen. Dat’s why we here ohn dis eahrt.” His words dive deep into my head.
“Hard and constant work in order for your works to be seen.” That brings joy? It certainly doesn’t work that way for me. I, and most people I know, work their bums off to show their best effort, yet most everyone I know is constantly stressed out. Every day of the school year, including weekends, I pour over minute details for class presentations, create assignments, and grade papers until my eyes blur and yet I never feel that I have time to do all that I am suppose to do. How do Robert and Gregor do it? It is not by toking up and walking the beach, too simple. They are extremely joyful, enlightened men as passionate about their work as they are proud of their African heritage. But I am also passionate about my work, so why am I not at peace with myself? In my work culture I feel like I am driven by an external force, waiting for me to mess up, and always reminding me that more is never enough. And by no means am I alone in this perception.
The problem is that this perception has become the norm. Literally, everyone I work with, faculty, staff, students, and administrators continually uses the phrase, “I am burnt out.” To Gregor and Robert “burnt out” is when a “spliff be finish.” For us it means we are diving far past 100 feet and we never feel we have enough black coral.
We computer-dependent, smart phone fanatics in North America are not clever enough to see that we are literally killing ourselves with our work lives. Where is the passion, pride, and inner peace of Gregor and Robbie? Why don’t we emulate the internally driven work lives of these men? The mystery remains, except for this intuitive thought I have about pride in heritage leading to internal pride in “our works.” My hypothesis is simply that if more of us are consciously engaged in what we do well, and are honored for “letting our works be seen,” would that not assist in ending this madness of our present work model and allow each of us to see who we are at our core level? But self-reflection has been replaced with emails, calendar pop ups, f-booking and tweets.
There is a Spanish proverb that goes, “Those in a hurry, arrive first at the grave.” The proverb illuminates the sad reality that overloaded North American work lives impede a person’s creativity, induces physical and mental health problems, and steals our joy, which is a human entitlement.
Hangin’ with Gregor Hippolyte and Rasta Robbie made me think about one of my favorite books, The Tao of Pooh by Benjamin Hoff. While re-reading it I came across a most relevant passage, no doubt a wake up call.
There was a man who disliked seeing his own footprints and his shadow. He decided to escape from them, and he began to run. But as he ran along more footprints appeared, while his shadow easily kept up with him. Thinking that he was going too slowly, he ran faster and faster without stopping, until he finally collapsed from exhaustion and died.
Benjamin Hoff’s runner lived in a place, as do many people I know, where an unconscious life is driven by the perception of external forces. Gregor and Robert remind for me to wake up, to “Wahlk and Wuk,” and to let my “wuks” be seen. This is how I live my passion.
“I be Gregor Hippolyte an’ dis be Rasta Robbie. We be ‘Wahlk an’ Wuk’.” The two men knuckle bump and belly laugh with delight before plunking their bags of mystery down in the sand. Both men are dressed in the African colors and sport years of hair growth. Robbie fires up a doobie and offers me a toke.
Gregor Hippolyte and his “bruddah,” Rasta Robbie, craft pieces of rough cut midnight black coral into astonishingly beautiful bracelets, necklaces and rings to sell to bewildered tourists here on St. Lucia’s gorgeous stretch of north shore beach. The twin peaks of the Pitons get all the post card attention, but to my way of thinking, the beauty of the island is found in the spirit of the people. These two men survive by consciously using their innovative and artistic talents to transform elements of their natural surroundings into beautiful art. They are non-stop in hustling their works. They literally walk all day as they work, thus “Walk and Work.” We hit it off totally irie (good) and we agree to meet tomorrow, early.
I am intrigued by the paradox of “no plagued by ambition, no enslaved by time” that Gregor repeats about every third statement while his fingers move in frantic motion transforming a jagged coral stem into a graceful figure. It appears a blatant contradiction. I am fascinated by the effectiveness of their awareness, ingenuity, and persuasive language skills. This is why I decide I will do a little research. I return each morning just before daybreak to the tiny hideaway cove to lime with my two new friends. Actually, our lime is mobile as “nuttin’ stop Wahlk an’ Wuk.” They are perpetual motion machines. I am trying to find out how these men can work so feverishly from dawn to dusk and not feel “enslaved by time?” Additionally, Gregor’s artistic skills are not the beach junk one usually finds being sold on Caribbean beaches. This is gallery-level work, and it is all done “on the fly.”
. . . . . . . . .
I came to St. Lucia to get away from the numbing unconsciousness of frantic work, computers, phones, meetings, endless grading, and “to do” lists that are never completed. I come from an immigrant family with a “work until you drop” mentality. However as a second-generation son of immigrants, I never felt the embrace of my Italian or German cultural heritage. I am not captured by the immigrant joy of “getting” to live in the U.S.A. Nonetheless, starting at age 12 I have spent my life scrambling for my piece of the American pie. Yet all the while I never feel like I am doing enough. Grazie mamma.
I thought that for seven sweet days on St. Lucia I could escape my “never enough” work-aholism. Not so. My maxi-work ethic followed me here as I am more than eager to “Walk and Talk” everyday, sun up to sundown, to find out how Gregor and Robbie combine an incredible work ethic, dangerous diving, creating beautiful artwork, and at the same time live stress free lives. It isn’t simply, “Because they live in paradise.” Having lived in the Caribbean, I know that being a tourist and living on an island are completely different experiences. Unless you have a huge chunk of change, island life is hard, very hard. Most Caribbean islands would be called “Third World.” A 50% unemployment rate is not uncommon. I keep having this intuitive “vibe” that Gregor and Robbie’s fierce Afro centrism has something to do with this island mystery. I can’t stop being a Sociologist, even on Spring Break!
. . . . . .
After a few days, I ask Gregor where he lives. He simply sang a Bob Marley line, “Cold ground was my bed last night, rock was my pillow too,” and laughed with a full grin. “Where do you eat” gets my favorite response, “Ah Ahlan, dem fried plantains buhddy, mahke yu finga’ lickin’!”
“Dat be if we sell we wuk,” Robbie adds with a wickedly zoned-out laugh. Both men grin at one another with ear-to-ear joy as Robbie fires up another “smoke.”
I think that if anyone would be stressed by their work, it is two guys with no home, no way of knowing if they will eat the next day, and free dive 100 feet down into the choppy open sea off a north shore cliff to harvest precious black coral. The paradox fascinates me. I have to know every detail. “How do you free dive so deep?” I ask Gregor.
“Eahsy Ahlan. Firs’ yu swahlas’ a mout’ ful ah cookin’ oil, den ohf wit yu pahnts, stick de sawblade in yu underwears an’ dive an’ cut. Me fahtha’ teahch me an’ he fahtha’ teahch he.” Gregor and Robert look at one another and repeat in unison, “an’ de deepah yu go, de dahka yu geht.” Again, they break into laughter. I am clueless. Is this a description or is this a metaphor?
“Walhk and Wuk, dohn stop fuh nuttin’,” Gregor forcefully re-emphasizes.
“Why is it this way?” I ask Robbie as he is hyper inhaling. Gregor, who never smokes allowing him to dive deeper, uses Robbie’s prolonged inhale to respond in heartfelt sincerity, “Cause Ahlan, yu got ta’ live clean an’ let yu works be seen. Dat’s why we here ohn dis eahrt.” His words dive deep into my head.
“Hard and constant work in order for your works to be seen.” That brings joy? It certainly doesn’t work that way for me. I, and most people I know, work their bums off to show their best effort, yet most everyone I know is constantly stressed out. Every day of the school year, including weekends, I pour over minute details for class presentations, create assignments, and grade papers until my eyes blur and yet I never feel that I have time to do all that I am suppose to do. How do Robert and Gregor do it? It is not by toking up and walking the beach, too simple. They are extremely joyful, enlightened men as passionate about their work as they are proud of their African heritage. But I am also passionate about my work, so why am I not at peace with myself? In my work culture I feel like I am driven by an external force, waiting for me to mess up, and always reminding me that more is never enough. And by no means am I alone in this perception.
The problem is that this perception has become the norm. Literally, everyone I work with, faculty, staff, students, and administrators continually uses the phrase, “I am burnt out.” To Gregor and Robert “burnt out” is when a “spliff be finish.” For us it means we are diving far past 100 feet and we never feel we have enough black coral.
We computer-dependent, smart phone fanatics in North America are not clever enough to see that we are literally killing ourselves with our work lives. Where is the passion, pride, and inner peace of Gregor and Robbie? Why don’t we emulate the internally driven work lives of these men? The mystery remains, except for this intuitive thought I have about pride in heritage leading to internal pride in “our works.” My hypothesis is simply that if more of us are consciously engaged in what we do well, and are honored for “letting our works be seen,” would that not assist in ending this madness of our present work model and allow each of us to see who we are at our core level? But self-reflection has been replaced with emails, calendar pop ups, f-booking and tweets.
There is a Spanish proverb that goes, “Those in a hurry, arrive first at the grave.” The proverb illuminates the sad reality that overloaded North American work lives impede a person’s creativity, induces physical and mental health problems, and steals our joy, which is a human entitlement.
Hangin’ with Gregor Hippolyte and Rasta Robbie made me think about one of my favorite books, The Tao of Pooh by Benjamin Hoff. While re-reading it I came across a most relevant passage, no doubt a wake up call.
There was a man who disliked seeing his own footprints and his shadow. He decided to escape from them, and he began to run. But as he ran along more footprints appeared, while his shadow easily kept up with him. Thinking that he was going too slowly, he ran faster and faster without stopping, until he finally collapsed from exhaustion and died.
Benjamin Hoff’s runner lived in a place, as do many people I know, where an unconscious life is driven by the perception of external forces. Gregor and Robert remind for me to wake up, to “Wahlk and Wuk,” and to let my “wuks” be seen. This is how I live my passion.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Construct Reality Then Howl at the Moon
“Mushroom tea at midnight. Mushroom tea, jus’ five minute lef’ evahbody,” Lennox, the lead vocalist shouts to the packed crowd just before his band, “Blue Haze” busted into a rough cover of the Jimmy Cliff iconic favorite, “You Can Get It If You Really Want.” I don’t miss the irony. Half of our mass of humanity is shifting, shuffling, bumping, and winin’ our rusty North American bums at the Bomba Shack this February full moon night have not had any “schrooms” for as long as we could remember, but that’s not surprising.
I know many people who believe that everyone in the Caribbean do nothing but party. This is extremely misleading. However, people of the Caribbean definitely know how to, and when to, Pah-teh. Tonight is one of those times.
A brief jaunt from unknown Carrot Bay, on the quiet north shore of Tortola, British Virgin Islands (BVI), is the very well known, anything-but-quiet, Bomba Shack. Bomba insists that besides hard drugs, anything goes at The Shack. Mostly what goes are tourists’ inhibitions and women’s undies.
The Bomba Shack is a product of the sea. Perched just above the water’s edge at Capoon Bay, what passes for walls are pieces of driftwood and old crates. Anything the sea throws up Bomba uses for construction. Inside, sea junk is either hung up or becomes a tabletop or bench. It is normal in the Caribbean to re-use items. What is not normal here are the discarded bras and panties that cover the interior walls, making the Shack look like a surreal Victoria’s Secret shop. One sign entices, “Free Bomba Tee Shirt for any lady who takes her top off.” By the look of The Shack, many ladies have Bomba Tee shirts. Any wall space not displaying frilly garb is plastered with “wise sayings.” Slogans range from the psychological to the anatomical. I am sure you have seen such “wisdom,” usually on public restroom walls.
As a special treat each full moon, the infamous host offers up, in addition to live music, gallons of booze, large plates of food, and a sand dance floor . . . hallucinogenic tea served at the stroke of midnight. This is Bomba’s Full Moon Party. Once a local eccentricity, now, thanks to the Internet, it is a world-class occasion.
The “Magic Tea” is brewed in a large cauldron across the road from the seaside shack and is tended to by Bomba’s cousin Leroy. Locally grown psilocybin mushrooms provide the magic, and Bomba provides the cups. In the BVI, it is not technically illegal to possess mushrooms, only to sell them, so Bomba sells $10 cups and offers the tea for free. Local police, always in attendance, do not object. No problem. A healthy dose of exhibitionism usually follows. This is the spot for the very straight to get a little not so straight, without legal consequences. Reckless abandon without the wreck. Why do you think people call the Caribbean paradise?
At exactly midnight, Lennox stops Blue Haze mid song and screams into the mic, “It be twelve, de tea be ready, time foh de tea.” Hundreds of us scramble, limp and hobble with our $10 plastic cups to Leroy’s boilng pot of our remembered reality of 1960’s freedom. We are not so much trying to relive our pasts, as recapture a few moments of “insightful” reality that we think we remember.
Our “abnormal” behavior takes place in what is called a “situational norm.” We psilocybin tea patrons are the same middle class, god-fearing, value-seeking, work-obsessed, materialistic, suburbanites from North America and Europe, who would be the first to condemn “drug use” back home. We are the first in line for Cousin Leroy to ladle out a few ounces of “magic tea” because this is a “perfect storm” for our situational norm breaking. We have created a constructed reality of bad as good, with no penalties. Can life get any better? Probably not, but I also know there is fault in the construction of this reality.
My guess is that all of us have rationalized participating in “abnormal activity” because it is a “special” situation. As a sociologist, I ask, “Why do we choose to be, or not to be involved?” As a First Wave Boomer, I can tell you exactly why I am first in line for several rounds of Leroy’s ladled liquid. I want to enjoy reckless abandonment without the wreck. I believe we humans know that bad is sometimes good, and once a month, that is possible at the Bomba Shack. However, this is only my mental construct (constructed reality) of a situational norm.
After 43 years of teaching and studying human behavior, I know that as we mature, engage in life, collect experiences and beliefs, we each construct of our own realities of how the world works. Constructed reality is like being fitted with a pair of pink contact lenses at birth and unknowingly going through life seeing everything in pink, while everyone else is seeing every other color in a rainbow.
Constructed Reality has everything to do with our perceptions of the world, and is expressed through the words we use, how we use those words and our interpretations of the words of others. Known as the Linguistic Relativity Hypothesis, the viewpoint states that every cultural group and each individual perceives a different construct of reality. What does that tell you? According to the Hypothesis, if there is no word for something, there is no something. Or to put it another way, we construct our reality by the words we use.
. . . . . . .
Several days ago, I am in my very “not private” private office in Joyce 200 as classes changed. Two young men, leaving a class from down the hall, were having a brief but highly revealing exchange. Student One: “So what the hell was he talking about?” Student Two: “I don’t have an effing clue, I was talking with my girl friend,” as he pocketed his smart phone.
I have not heard these mental constructs since last fall semester – around the same time, four weeks into the term. What am I to take from my perception of their perceptions? It certainly is not what we who teach, administer, and support Champlain students want students to perceive. This is not the constructed reality we are striving to attain.
Throughout my 43 years of college teaching I have been fascinated with the thinking and decisions that college students make. Many of my colleagues (at three different colleges or universities) are often baffled by why students think and behave in certain ways. I believe my colleagues fail to realize the situational norms that are constructed during a student’s college experience. Anyone at any age will “drink the mushroom tea,” if it is a Full Moon Party at the Bomba Shack. Creating a negative, difficult reality in which to live, is a trap that many of us fall into. I believe the two men walking down the hall have fallen into the trap of constructing a negative reality in which to spend the present. This is so unfortunate when you consider the potential of what a positive, engaging reality you can wring from this college, from your daily experience to your future goals. Champlain College is a collecting pool of dedicated professionals that offer vast resources of which each of you has unusual access. If you have attended other institutions you know I speak the truth. What I heard from the two gentlemen in the hallway is a wasteful mental construct.
I have picked up a few ideas in four decades of teaching that could be helpful. 1) You likely decided to like or dislike each of your classes on the first day. The longer you hold a negative and non-engaged reality, the more difficult it will be for you to learn anything in that class. As you work against your learning by cutting classes and not participating, the more negative your constructed reality of the course will be. By week four a feeling of never-ending repetition can set in. 2) The “parole” from parental oversight may open a world of “situational norms” that excite, feel great, and comply perfectly with certain hormones that are plentiful in your body at this point in your life journey. Situational norms easily become institutionalized, as several nights a week become Jello nights. This can easily become your constructed reality for college life. 3) By contrast, you can use your college career as a guide for choosing the situational norms you partake in-or not. And if so, when and where you partake in them. Easy? No. Doable? Yes.
How you handle situational norms and your constructed realities will determine your success or failure. Check out the number or percentage of students who enter college in the U.S. with the number or percentage that graduate. This is why mom, dad, grams, and grand pop can howl at the moon once a month but must contain those situational norms to “special occasions.”
A closing point, however you wish to play the situational norm game, and the reality you construct, remember that it is all in your head, and no one knows that better than Bomba.
I know many people who believe that everyone in the Caribbean do nothing but party. This is extremely misleading. However, people of the Caribbean definitely know how to, and when to, Pah-teh. Tonight is one of those times.
A brief jaunt from unknown Carrot Bay, on the quiet north shore of Tortola, British Virgin Islands (BVI), is the very well known, anything-but-quiet, Bomba Shack. Bomba insists that besides hard drugs, anything goes at The Shack. Mostly what goes are tourists’ inhibitions and women’s undies.
The Bomba Shack is a product of the sea. Perched just above the water’s edge at Capoon Bay, what passes for walls are pieces of driftwood and old crates. Anything the sea throws up Bomba uses for construction. Inside, sea junk is either hung up or becomes a tabletop or bench. It is normal in the Caribbean to re-use items. What is not normal here are the discarded bras and panties that cover the interior walls, making the Shack look like a surreal Victoria’s Secret shop. One sign entices, “Free Bomba Tee Shirt for any lady who takes her top off.” By the look of The Shack, many ladies have Bomba Tee shirts. Any wall space not displaying frilly garb is plastered with “wise sayings.” Slogans range from the psychological to the anatomical. I am sure you have seen such “wisdom,” usually on public restroom walls.
As a special treat each full moon, the infamous host offers up, in addition to live music, gallons of booze, large plates of food, and a sand dance floor . . . hallucinogenic tea served at the stroke of midnight. This is Bomba’s Full Moon Party. Once a local eccentricity, now, thanks to the Internet, it is a world-class occasion.
The “Magic Tea” is brewed in a large cauldron across the road from the seaside shack and is tended to by Bomba’s cousin Leroy. Locally grown psilocybin mushrooms provide the magic, and Bomba provides the cups. In the BVI, it is not technically illegal to possess mushrooms, only to sell them, so Bomba sells $10 cups and offers the tea for free. Local police, always in attendance, do not object. No problem. A healthy dose of exhibitionism usually follows. This is the spot for the very straight to get a little not so straight, without legal consequences. Reckless abandon without the wreck. Why do you think people call the Caribbean paradise?
At exactly midnight, Lennox stops Blue Haze mid song and screams into the mic, “It be twelve, de tea be ready, time foh de tea.” Hundreds of us scramble, limp and hobble with our $10 plastic cups to Leroy’s boilng pot of our remembered reality of 1960’s freedom. We are not so much trying to relive our pasts, as recapture a few moments of “insightful” reality that we think we remember.
Our “abnormal” behavior takes place in what is called a “situational norm.” We psilocybin tea patrons are the same middle class, god-fearing, value-seeking, work-obsessed, materialistic, suburbanites from North America and Europe, who would be the first to condemn “drug use” back home. We are the first in line for Cousin Leroy to ladle out a few ounces of “magic tea” because this is a “perfect storm” for our situational norm breaking. We have created a constructed reality of bad as good, with no penalties. Can life get any better? Probably not, but I also know there is fault in the construction of this reality.
My guess is that all of us have rationalized participating in “abnormal activity” because it is a “special” situation. As a sociologist, I ask, “Why do we choose to be, or not to be involved?” As a First Wave Boomer, I can tell you exactly why I am first in line for several rounds of Leroy’s ladled liquid. I want to enjoy reckless abandonment without the wreck. I believe we humans know that bad is sometimes good, and once a month, that is possible at the Bomba Shack. However, this is only my mental construct (constructed reality) of a situational norm.
After 43 years of teaching and studying human behavior, I know that as we mature, engage in life, collect experiences and beliefs, we each construct of our own realities of how the world works. Constructed reality is like being fitted with a pair of pink contact lenses at birth and unknowingly going through life seeing everything in pink, while everyone else is seeing every other color in a rainbow.
Constructed Reality has everything to do with our perceptions of the world, and is expressed through the words we use, how we use those words and our interpretations of the words of others. Known as the Linguistic Relativity Hypothesis, the viewpoint states that every cultural group and each individual perceives a different construct of reality. What does that tell you? According to the Hypothesis, if there is no word for something, there is no something. Or to put it another way, we construct our reality by the words we use.
. . . . . . .
Several days ago, I am in my very “not private” private office in Joyce 200 as classes changed. Two young men, leaving a class from down the hall, were having a brief but highly revealing exchange. Student One: “So what the hell was he talking about?” Student Two: “I don’t have an effing clue, I was talking with my girl friend,” as he pocketed his smart phone.
I have not heard these mental constructs since last fall semester – around the same time, four weeks into the term. What am I to take from my perception of their perceptions? It certainly is not what we who teach, administer, and support Champlain students want students to perceive. This is not the constructed reality we are striving to attain.
Throughout my 43 years of college teaching I have been fascinated with the thinking and decisions that college students make. Many of my colleagues (at three different colleges or universities) are often baffled by why students think and behave in certain ways. I believe my colleagues fail to realize the situational norms that are constructed during a student’s college experience. Anyone at any age will “drink the mushroom tea,” if it is a Full Moon Party at the Bomba Shack. Creating a negative, difficult reality in which to live, is a trap that many of us fall into. I believe the two men walking down the hall have fallen into the trap of constructing a negative reality in which to spend the present. This is so unfortunate when you consider the potential of what a positive, engaging reality you can wring from this college, from your daily experience to your future goals. Champlain College is a collecting pool of dedicated professionals that offer vast resources of which each of you has unusual access. If you have attended other institutions you know I speak the truth. What I heard from the two gentlemen in the hallway is a wasteful mental construct.
I have picked up a few ideas in four decades of teaching that could be helpful. 1) You likely decided to like or dislike each of your classes on the first day. The longer you hold a negative and non-engaged reality, the more difficult it will be for you to learn anything in that class. As you work against your learning by cutting classes and not participating, the more negative your constructed reality of the course will be. By week four a feeling of never-ending repetition can set in. 2) The “parole” from parental oversight may open a world of “situational norms” that excite, feel great, and comply perfectly with certain hormones that are plentiful in your body at this point in your life journey. Situational norms easily become institutionalized, as several nights a week become Jello nights. This can easily become your constructed reality for college life. 3) By contrast, you can use your college career as a guide for choosing the situational norms you partake in-or not. And if so, when and where you partake in them. Easy? No. Doable? Yes.
How you handle situational norms and your constructed realities will determine your success or failure. Check out the number or percentage of students who enter college in the U.S. with the number or percentage that graduate. This is why mom, dad, grams, and grand pop can howl at the moon once a month but must contain those situational norms to “special occasions.”
A closing point, however you wish to play the situational norm game, and the reality you construct, remember that it is all in your head, and no one knows that better than Bomba.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Many Me's
Schizophophrenia! Hell, that is just the trailer to my flick. I have a sizeable community of characters in my head, a posse of misfits and do-fits that seem to get along pretty well and pop out whenever they feel like doing so. Want to swap lies with a Caribbean pirate, “you slimy sea dog,” I’m your guy. Want to have tea with a Brit Twit and discuss the demise of the “Em-pire!” I have Sir Percy Dovetonsils at your convenience in Joyce 200, hoping some of you will drop by. Some people believe that enjoying the different mirrors of their mental disco ball of life is not healthy. Well, tell that to my Rick Ekcarts, Caribbean cultural explorer for 40 years.
Of course, Rick would be the first to admit that there are days when life can get a bit grainy, perplexing, and somewhat lonely. That is because we forget all of the “me’s” that reside inside of us. Back in 1997, I had been in the Caribbean for six months, the last five weeks of which were spent on a solo exploration of many fascinating cultures. The problem was that six weeks of being an outsider, isolated from my friends seemed like an eternity. In the uncertainty of my adventures, I had ignored all my “me’s.”
. . . . . . . .
Ladies and gentlemen, in preparation for our take-off would you please make sure that your seat belts are fastened securely, that all carry-on items are stowed in the luggage compartments above you or tucked under the seat in front of you. All seats must be in their full upright and locked position. Caribbean Island Airlines once again thanks you for choosing Caribbean for all your travel needs.
As I squeeze most of the blood from my lower body tightening my seat belt, I turn my head just far enough to the left to make eye contact with what the British might call a “Stunnah.” The professionally primped woman sitting just across the aisle in this tiny hot plane freezes my mind. I smile and give a slight eye roll, implying the multitude of times we have heard the flight attendant mantra. She smiles in response making my head spin. I am unable to speak. Suddenly she breaks the awkward pause, “So, who are you?”
“That depends, “ I reply. (What kind of a dorky reply was that? Am I in 8th grade?)
“On what?” she puzzles.
In my nervousness I blubber, “On who you ask, and when you ask them.”
She squints an eye that I interpret as curiosity. I launch my riff:
“To my neighbor, I am a funny guy,
To a bookstore owner, I am an author,
To a roadside observer, I am a motor scooter sidecar enthusiast,
To a short person, I am a tall guy,
To a macho man, I am a weenie.
To my wife, I am Ali,
To my sister, I am a big dog head,
To my brother-in-law, I’m Big Al,
To one sister-in-law, I am a ton of fun,
To another sister-in-law, I am a jerk.
To the payroll officer at Champlain College, I am a nine-digit number,
To wait staff, I am a good tipper,
To a chef, I am a vegetarian,
To a Burlington, Vermont bike path regular, I am a bicyclist,
To a cancer doctor, I am a miracle man.
To current students, I am Professor Stracke,
To 20,000 former students, I am a Sociologist who thinks 43 years is still a new career,
To a social observer, I am a tad flamboyant,
To a conservative, I am a socialist,
And to myself, I am a bit of an amnesiac.”
“What was the question again?” I ask.
She abruptly turns her head and looks out the window. She doesn’t say another word.
. . . . . . . . .
Upon reflection, two things are obvious; 1) I am a jerk, but I am old enough to enjoy my Jerkatudeness, and 2) All of us are many persons, given the situation. It is a fact that you will become many people as you gain experiences and understanding. Your college years are about many things, not the least of which is to discover your Concept of Self, who you are, what you are, who you are not and what you are not. This is the perfect time in your life to explore how you are going to intertwine in this wacked out world. There are no limits on you except your own. You are your only obstacle.
Reggae music icon, Jimmy Cliff put it straight 35 years ago, “You can get it if you really want it, . . . but you must try, you must try, you must try.” ‘Nuff said.
Of course, Rick would be the first to admit that there are days when life can get a bit grainy, perplexing, and somewhat lonely. That is because we forget all of the “me’s” that reside inside of us. Back in 1997, I had been in the Caribbean for six months, the last five weeks of which were spent on a solo exploration of many fascinating cultures. The problem was that six weeks of being an outsider, isolated from my friends seemed like an eternity. In the uncertainty of my adventures, I had ignored all my “me’s.”
. . . . . . . .
Ladies and gentlemen, in preparation for our take-off would you please make sure that your seat belts are fastened securely, that all carry-on items are stowed in the luggage compartments above you or tucked under the seat in front of you. All seats must be in their full upright and locked position. Caribbean Island Airlines once again thanks you for choosing Caribbean for all your travel needs.
As I squeeze most of the blood from my lower body tightening my seat belt, I turn my head just far enough to the left to make eye contact with what the British might call a “Stunnah.” The professionally primped woman sitting just across the aisle in this tiny hot plane freezes my mind. I smile and give a slight eye roll, implying the multitude of times we have heard the flight attendant mantra. She smiles in response making my head spin. I am unable to speak. Suddenly she breaks the awkward pause, “So, who are you?”
“That depends, “ I reply. (What kind of a dorky reply was that? Am I in 8th grade?)
“On what?” she puzzles.
In my nervousness I blubber, “On who you ask, and when you ask them.”
She squints an eye that I interpret as curiosity. I launch my riff:
“To my neighbor, I am a funny guy,
To a bookstore owner, I am an author,
To a roadside observer, I am a motor scooter sidecar enthusiast,
To a short person, I am a tall guy,
To a macho man, I am a weenie.
To my wife, I am Ali,
To my sister, I am a big dog head,
To my brother-in-law, I’m Big Al,
To one sister-in-law, I am a ton of fun,
To another sister-in-law, I am a jerk.
To the payroll officer at Champlain College, I am a nine-digit number,
To wait staff, I am a good tipper,
To a chef, I am a vegetarian,
To a Burlington, Vermont bike path regular, I am a bicyclist,
To a cancer doctor, I am a miracle man.
To current students, I am Professor Stracke,
To 20,000 former students, I am a Sociologist who thinks 43 years is still a new career,
To a social observer, I am a tad flamboyant,
To a conservative, I am a socialist,
And to myself, I am a bit of an amnesiac.”
“What was the question again?” I ask.
She abruptly turns her head and looks out the window. She doesn’t say another word.
. . . . . . . . .
Upon reflection, two things are obvious; 1) I am a jerk, but I am old enough to enjoy my Jerkatudeness, and 2) All of us are many persons, given the situation. It is a fact that you will become many people as you gain experiences and understanding. Your college years are about many things, not the least of which is to discover your Concept of Self, who you are, what you are, who you are not and what you are not. This is the perfect time in your life to explore how you are going to intertwine in this wacked out world. There are no limits on you except your own. You are your only obstacle.
Reggae music icon, Jimmy Cliff put it straight 35 years ago, “You can get it if you really want it, . . . but you must try, you must try, you must try.” ‘Nuff said.
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