Celtic Advent - Day V - November 19

 

Celtic Advent - Day V - November 19

"And the world cannot be discovered by a journey of miles, no matter how long, but only by a spiritual journey, a journey of one inch, very arduous and humble and joyful, by which we arrive at the ground at our own feet, and learn to be at home." 
The Unforeseen Wilderness: Kentucky's Red River Gorge by Wendell Berry

If you woke me up out of a sound sleep at 3 o'clock in the morning and demanded that I name the one thing about me that most identifies me in the world, I would say, "Immigrant". 

For many years of my young life, that caused me a great deal of emotional pain. I felt an outsider. A foreigner. More than that, I often felt an oddity. A freak.

My skin tone, which my mother and aunts described as "olive complexion" with no small amount of affirmation was different from most of the girls of Western European descent - a factor which those girls did not hesitate to point out, especially after gym class when sweat and oil poured out of every pore on my face. ("Ewww. . . get her a towel before she starts to stink.")

My hair was "jet black" as the women in my family described it, as they slowly brushed and braided it or, in the evening, after a bath when we washed our hair and body with the same bar of Castile soap that was used to hand wash laundry, twisted my hair into "Shirley Temple" curls and tied it with strips of white cloth. My grandmother described the texture of my hair as "kinky" - something that earned me hysterical laughter from the "colored girls" (as they were known at the time) I went to school with when I repeated it to them. 

One of those girls took pity on me, recognizing that I was desperately trying to find a way to name a similarity so we might find a connection, took me aside and said, "Girl, your hair is coarse. Not kinky. It's thick and coarse. And, girl," she said, fixing a stray curl here and there, "don't be ashamed. Don't never be ashamed of what God gave you. It's beautiful. You are, in your own way, beautiful." 

Don't even get me started on food. The fragrant dishes that always - still, to this day - immediately remind me of 'home' only served to make me feel even more of an outsider. That was especially so the day after an evening meal of bacalhau, dried and salted cod fish which has been baked with potatoes, onions and whole cloves of garlic, lots of root vegetables,  olive oil and amazing Portuguese spices of saffron, hot paprika, and crushed red peppers.

It's a special dish - so special that you can always count on it being on the table for any holiday or birthday celebration - which suddenly and rapidly became a point of humiliation when the girls with blonde or "auburn" hair and blue eyes came by me and sniffed and then held their noses as they walked away, falling into each other, laughing uproariously.  

And then, there were my clothes. Hand-me-downs. All of them. Mostly from Judy, the daughter of my Godmother, Bella. Judy was a single child and much adored. And, appropriately well dressed. The honest truth is that most of the "outfits" as we called them at the time, were perfectly fine. 

They just weren't mine. Not bought for me. Not chosen by me. 

Wearing some other girl's clothes just made me feel that I walked around with a sign on the front of my body that said, "Immigrant". And, just so there would be absolutely no doubt, the sign on the back of my body said, "Different". 

There was one person, however, who helped me through those difficult early years. Mrs. Kelliher was her name. She was the "Special Needs Teacher" - a new feature at Brayton Avenue Elementary School in Fall River, Massachusetts, where the kids with handicaps and learning disabilities were sent.

I had not done well on my first grade IQ exams, mostly because we spoke Portuguese at home and my English was not good. So, when I was shown a picture of a bottle of milk and asked to name the first letter of its contents, I said "L". 

Of course I did. I knew that what was in that bottle was "leite". And, I knew it was "milk" in English. But, in my head, I went first to my "mother tongue" and I said "L". 

That earned me the first quarter of my academic year in Mrs. Kelliher's class. I was humiliated. My parents were furious. After meeting with my teachers, they came home and decreed that we were only to speak English. Ever. No Portuguese. Ever. 

Mrs. Kelliher knew that the only "special need" I had was a language barrier. She took it upon herself to teach me English, not only during class time but  creating "story time" so that I could read books to the other children. By the time that first quarter was over, I was speaking English just like someone who had been to the language born. 

Even today, when I'm feeling "other than" and an "outsider," I think of Mrs. Kelliher. I can't repeat anything she actually said to me. I can just see her face, her smile of pleasure when I succeeded, the affirmation and encouragement reflected in her eyes. 

What others saw as "different" she told me was "special". Eventually, I came to know that God loved me and had made us all "different" each in our own unique way and that, in God's eyes, we were, to a person, "special". 

Mrs. Kelliher made me feel safe. I learned to trust her. Slowly, I learned to trust myself and feel safe in my own skin, different as it was from everyone else. 

Psychologist Rollo May wrote, "A man or woman becomes fully human by his or her own choices. People attain worth and dignity by the multitude of decisions they make from day to day. These decisions require courage."

Mrs. Kelliher helped me to make a decision, to choose to embrace my "otherness" as a well from which I could draw strength in exactly those times when I felt at my weakest. 

Now, I couldn't have told you at the age of six that I had made that decision, but looking back, I understand that this is precisely what I did. I have come to see that that was the first step on the journey, the  pilgrimage, that is my life. 

The Latin root of the word 'pilgrim' means 'foreigner'. I have learned to embrace that definition and that identity. I have learned to embrace the words of Muriel Rukeyser, "The journey is my home."  

Courage? I'm still learning what that is. Right now, courage means feeling very afraid and walking forward, anyway. It means finding a home and feeling safe in the midst of the foreign and unknown. 

I invite you to consider the ways in which you have felt an 'outsider' and a 'foreigner'. If you have never felt that way, I invite you to find the courage to wonder why. What is your earliest memory of an act of courage you made - especially if you didn't know it at the time, in the moment? Where is it that you feel most at 'home'? How do you feel when you are in a place that is away from that which makes you feel safe, secure, known and loved?

Here's tonight's meditation

Walking Meditation Thich Nhat Hanh in The Long Road Turns to Joy 

Take my hand. We will walk. We will 

only walk. We will enjoy our walk without 

thinking of arriving anywhere. Walk 

peacefully. Walk happily. Our walk is a 

peace walk. Our walk is a happiness walk. 

Then we learn that there is no peace walk; 

that peace is the walk; that there is no 

happiness walk; that happiness is the walk. 

We walk for ourselves. We walk for 

everyone always hand in hand. Walk and 

touch peace every moment. Walk and touch 

happiness every moment. Each step brings 

a fresh breeze. Each step makes a flower 

bloom under our feet. Kiss the Earth with 

your feet. Print on Earth your love 

and happiness. Earth will be safe when we feel 

in us enough safety.