Happiness vs. Goodness

I've been reading a lot about lately about the cultural focus on individual happiness rather then prioritizing being a good person. How the virtue of being good in our country has been over taken by our desire to be happy. Parents will say, as I have, I only want my kids to be happy, not thinking that their child's happiness might be at the cost of their learning restraint, to put others first, and thus sometimes not feeling happy.  People are so sure that it is important to be happy that'll they'll spend their last dime, or charge it, in order to purchase something they are sure will make them feel happier. Anti-social behavior can be rationalized by considering one's own benefiting rather then the good of the group. But there are times when doing the right thing can mean sacrificing and not being happy.  Does being good ultimately lead to being happy in the end anyway? Maybe one can fill fulfilled by being a good person, but not necessarily be happy. If we don't experience personal strife then how do we really know what true happiness is, we have nothing to compare it too? 

Beer and Cheer for Racial Profiling

I can't help but think that if a white man the same age etc. as Professor Gates was seen "breaking and entering" his own home and got questioned by the police as Gates did, he would have at least an equal amount of righteous indignation and semi-out-of control anger as Gates displayed.  It is hard to imagine for most white folks, and white men specifically, the continual burden of being looked at as a potential criminal or thought of as "questionable."

I am white but have adopted black children (and white children, I have 5 kids). I had a recent situation where my black son was surrounded by a small group of white girls at his camp and accused of stealing a pink Game Boy that went missing at LAST YEAR'S camp!! 52 weeks later they decide to accuse him of something he would never do.  How does this relate to Gates? My son experienced his first encounter with racial profiling.  Well, as his mother I felt true anger, not just in defense of him, although that was certainly there, but deep down social political rage. I felt betrayed for him.  

Out in the parking lot of the camp are lots of cars with Obama stickers on them.  That day I kept thinking what subtle messages of racism did these girls get from their parents or the media for example, that would encourage them to feel justified in questioning a black boy like that? How did they come to feel entitled enough to justify that kind of behavior? Were any of the girls parents Obama supporters, and if so where is the disconnect in what they believe and what their children do?  I know this sounds harsh, but racial profiling can be as blatant or as delicate as can be, nevertheless it is most certainly alive and well in the U.S.

Kisumu

Today I want to share a story, a memory of an experience I had teaching at a rural school in West Kenya as a young woman. I hope I can bring you there for a little as you read.

Ojolla Secondary School,
Darajambili, West Kenya

I can remember arriving at Ojolla with heavy bags and brimming enthusiasm. What did it matter that there were 50 students in a class and I was going to teach African Oral Literature? At 24 I could do anything I thought.

Really the teaching was relatively easy. It was the rats in my hut, the black mamba snakes, malaria and dysentery that provided the, “What the heck am I doing here?” factor.

But the students, the girls, their beautiful hues of brown, honey, cinnamon, ginger, mahogany and chocolate. Their kindness and humor. The evening voices, singing acapello – songs carried across the grassy hills. Watching them sit in small groups doing one another’s hair. The view of Lake Victoria shimmering in the distance, imagine this was the source of the Nile? Laughter and the respectful greeting of Mwalimo, teacher.

But who taught whom? Ruth Mbeyo died of cholera, fifteen years old. So sick she ran away from school to get home. She must have known she had more then the malaria the Headmistress had casually diagnosed her with. 

Her funeral was held at her family’s farm. Before we reached the rural home by foot you could hear the drums beating and the women wailing. I was sad, but honestly I was frightened: frightened of the site of Ruth’s dead body, the continual crying, the crowds of relatives and friends outside the simple cement house. Would the parents turn on my school’s leader and blame her for their daughter’s untimely death? Wouldn’t I have?

At night back in my own hut I couldn’t sleep. The final burial scene etched into my heart. As Ruth’s simple coffin was lowered into the red earthen hole dug in her family’s yard everyone sang a joyful song, throwing handfuls of dirt on top of her box in the ground. The song ended with the crowd waving one last goodbye.

July 29, 2009 1:05 PM 

Everyday Thoughts on Parenting, Politics and Life

Good Children, that is what Mototo Mazuri means translated from Swahili.  I want to share thoughts, questions, stories, ideas in this blog.  Everyday concerns from the international, local, home front and the heart.  I look forward to sharing with you.