Right Now, Honesty is My Best Policy

Ever since I applied to Mission Year in November, it has been looming in the back of my mind. I knew that if I did indeed get accepted, that soon that I would have to start talking about it.

What is it?

Well…

It = Fundraising.

The word fundraising has always made me cringe.

Fundraising implies that I cannot provide for myself. Fundraising implies that I need support from others. Fundraising implies a sort of dependence. Fundraising is not something I need, but they need.

(Who is they? I don’t know, but I think it.)

Just re-reading that fundraising paragraph makes my entire being wince…and doesn’t settle well with me.

*  *  *

I’ve been working through these thoughts for the last two months, trying to understand my avoidance of fundraising. I’ve talked to many people, from Mission Year and not, people who have fundraised and have support raised, and gleaned much wisdom from them.

As of now, I’m still in the beginning stages of working through these pride-filled revelations. Revelations that show that I associate fundraising with weakness and dependence.

Revelations that show that I associate asking for help (through fundraising) with shame.

Revelations that show that I believe frameworks that directly contradict the community development and community organizing work that I am going into.

But I digress.

*  *  *

I’m grateful for those who have begun to help me sort through the pride-filled, untrusting mess. And I’m grateful that I have a whole year to keep working through these frameworks as I’m fundraising. And I’m grateful that I know that Truth will shine through this pride mess.  

I look forward to the day when without shame I can share with you all how you can support me in this Mission Year journey through donating. I look forward to the upcoming day when I can share how I need support with strength and a deep understanding of interdependence and a posture of humility.

But until then,

Amber

 

Why I'm Excited to be a Mission Year Team Member: Reason One

1. Living in a city.

 *  *  *

You can tell me that you find God in the whisper of wind marinating in a meadow.

That the perfection of the pine and the lilies of lime move you to turn your face and acknowledge Him.

That the trees, breeze and sunsets melt on your face in a serenade of unrelenting pursuit.

And that would all be fine, all fine.

But I find God in the mess of the broken

(Which is all of us)

It remains unspoken

That the more people round me that gather and bleed point me to the seed that grows into Everlasting.

It can be the dealer who tells me of his past

And the Light he has found, but at long last

He keeps wheeling and dealing (and sometimes stealing)

But falls on his knees at night and weeps unworthy.

It is their stories—the stories of others.

The testimonies of love, of my sisters and brothers

Walking from sidewalk to street to alley to greet

Others in this place we call the city.

I find God in the “Greater things have yet to come.”

Of the reconciliation, restoration (new words to some)

The words that are too great to fully relate the overarching Restoration I so desperately yearn for.

For.

For.

I see God in their faces.

My fellow city dwellers, looking for grace it’s

A reflection of the power’s sovereignty when we equate failing with poverty and throw people under a bus for the sake of our lust for success and comfort.

So I find God in the mess of the city,

A city that some would label “pity”

But I see Hope.

And Hope has a name. 

For anyone interested in supporting me in my Mission Year journey through financial gifts:

https://missionyear.thankyou4caring.org/donate
Designation: Amber Cullen

The Day I Learned About “Being Ashy” (And Other Lessons in Intercultural Communication)

Note: This past summer I spent my days at South Street Ministries, an inner-city ministry in Akron, Ohio that is focused on the holistic community development and revitalization of the Summit Lake neighborhood. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

I remember the day that I was fed up with feeling as if I was being left in the dark.

The kids were frolicking around during free time at summer camp when that mysterious word was brought up again—ashy. I had heard it over and over this summer from the kids, but couldn’t understand what it meant even in its various contexts. “I’m ashy; do you have lotion?”  “But if we go swimming we’ll get all ashy!”

I had been sitting on the porch swing—next to the sassy 11-year-old and company—when it came up again. By this time, I had been at South Street an entire month and felt comfortable enough to express my sudden exasperation to the group.

“OKAY!” I literally screeched. “I GIVE UP. What do you mean when you say, ‘I’m ashy?’ I’ve been trying for figure it out for weeks now! Can you…tell me…please?” My voice nervously trailed off at I met the silent, sassy stares of the four young preteens (who seemed to be enjoying having knowledge that I didn’t.)

The 11-year-old’s eyebrows shot up as if to inquire if my question’s legitimacy.

“I really don’t know!” I quickly added. I started regretting admitting my ignorance to the girls.

“Being ashy,” the 11-year-old began, “is when your skin is dry. It’s just dry skin. And when your skin is dry, it looks like there’s ash on you.”

“So the lotion, then, gets rid of the ‘ashy-ness’?” I asked, attempting to connect the dots.

They started snickering. Clearly this was common knowledge. “Yes,” the 11-year-old answered, “lotion makes you not ashy.”

“Okay then.” I nodded my head, taking in the answer. “Thanks. I learned something new today!”

The four lovely gals still stared at me, as if knowing I wasn’t done with my questions.

Already they knew me all too well.

“But wait,” I interjected, having just one more question. “Why have I never heard of this term “ashy” before?”

The 11-year-old tilted her head to the side with attitude. CLEARLY I was missing something.

“You’re white,” she stated bluntly.

I looked at their skin colors, ranging from tan to chestnut to deep mahogany and then looked at my own apricot skin.

“Yes…And?” Clearly I WAS missing something.

“Your skin is too pasty. When your skin is dry it doesn’t show up like it does on us, so you don’t get ashy.” The rest of the girls nodded in agreement.

“OHHHHHH!” I exclaimed. The light bulb was shining and all the puzzle pieces was fitting together. I understood. I got it.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

This one brief interaction has stuck out to me as a highlight out of all of the experiences of this past summer. As I’ve reflected on it, I see now how this story serves as an example of lessons that I’ve been processing lately regarding intercultural communication.

                                                  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Three Things That I’m Kinda Starting to Learn about Intercultural Communication / Cross-Cultural Communication:

 1. My awareness and knowledge is primarily limited to my experience (unless pursued otherwise).

•    I can only relay to others what I myself have experienced. For example, if you asked me about what growing up dancing was like, I would be able to give you a pretty clear picture based on my dancing experiences for the entirely of my childhood and teen years. If you asked me what it was like participating in sports during childhood, however, I would have nothing to contribute based on my experiences. I could talk about what my assumptions are about growing up with sports, or even make general statements of my own, but these wouldn’t be as potent as the direct life experience I have with dancing during childhood. 

• Relating to the South Street Story: Because of my lighter skin, I haven’t experienced being ashy. Because I hadn’t/haven’t experienced it, it was a term that was unfamiliar to me (and was something that I wasn’t even aware of). This is an indicator to me that if something is not in my realm of experiences, I’m basically unaware of it, just as I was unaware of the meaning of “being ashy” until the girls educated me. As I’m beginning to understand how limited I am in my experiences, I’m beginning to understand the importance of learning from others instead of making assumptions about experiences that I don’t have (and I’m talking about large societal experiences here y’all, not just this small story example). 

 2. I will not know what I do not know unless I ask and then listen.

• Relating to the South Street Story: I wouldn’t know what “being ashy” meant to the gals at South Street unless I asked them. It’s simple, but yet it’s truth. I could have made assumptions, but who’s to say that these assumptions would have been anywhere close to what the girls interpreted “being ashy” to mean? Asking is something that I’m not particularly good at, but am striving to be better at as I deeply desire to understand and learn. Listening is equally as difficult, but even more important in my opinion. Listening shuts me up and opens the opportunity to empathize with my neighbor. This is the kind listening I am talking of here—the kind of listening that builds cross-cultural (and dare I say counter cultural?) bridges and friendships.

3.  I think that in order to love my neighbors well I must understand both numbers one and two on this list.

• As I’ve been reflecting, I’m beginning to feel as if communication and active listening are tools to actively love my neighbors. Knowing I am limited in my experiences leads me to one who has experiences I don’t, and asking questions leads me to truly listen as they relay their experiences. Listening leads me to empathize with their experience, and empathy is a gateway to action and service.

•  Relating to the South Street Story: All of these sentences can be related back to the story. I didn’t understand what “being ashy” meant, so I asked. I listened as the girls explained why it was not something in my experience and how it was having it in their experience. I was able to empathize from then on out when the phrase “I’m ashy” was brought up from then on out, as I understood. Even though this is such a small example, it was an example of intercultural communication.    

Do I have the slightest idea if any of what is written above is “correct” or “true”? No. But it is what I’ve been reflecting on ever since the summer, and it is something I want to share as I’m working through it. Cross-cultural communication (communication with someone who isn’t of my exact cultural background…which is practically everyone to be honest) is something that is really new to me.   

This is one of the reasons as to why I am excited for Mission Year and the opportunity to live in an intercultural environment. I’m excited to spend an entire year in a city that I don’t know, in a neighborhood that I don’t know, in a house with people that I don’t know. I’m excited to spend a year building relationships with those around me— from my teammates to literal neighbors to those in the organization I will be volunteering with. I’m excited to spend a year asking questions in a desire to understand experiences that are different from my own—and sharing my own experiences to others. I’m excited to spend a year actively listening to those around me and allowing this empathy to lead to action through service. As it relates to this post, I’m excited to learn more about intercultural communication, and how love can be shown through these means.

                                                                        I’m excited for Mission Year.

To learn more about South Street Ministries: www.southstreetministries.org

To learn more about Mission Year: http://missionyear.org/program/

The Sociology Experiments

Sociology: The science of the fundamental laws of social relations, institutions, etc.

Experiment: An act or operation for the purpose of discovering something unknown or of testing a principle. 

The Sociology Experiments:  A set of experiments conducted by myself in January-February 2013 to test societal norms that I had begun to question. These experiments helped me test what it would be like to live a life outside of the "norms." Even though the experiments themselves are on the micro level, they helped me process the cultures around me on a macro level. Most importantly, the Sociology Experiment helped me work through insecurities and gain confidence in my own voice during the process.

*  *  *

Sociology Experiment #1:

Yelled "TAA-DAAA!" as I flung open the Union door and exited.

Results: Tall man with an iPod in glances at me as he walks into the TAA-DAAA door.

Experiment #1 = Success.

TBC.

Sociology Experiment #2:

Stand in the hallway of Olscamp outside of my classroom and give high fives to the people walking by.

Goal: To foster connectedness within the student body, and to put some cheery smiles on some peers in the early morn.

Results: Many passed, and those that did high five (about 7) seemed to do so unwillingly.

Changed approach by saying "HAPPY FRIDAY!" and being inviting with a smile.

New Results: A few smiles, a few passerbys, a few "Ehhhh...not happy Friday"s, some dramatic high fives, and some mild confusion.

Experiment #2 = too early.

TBC.

Sociology Experiment #3: Creative tip leaving.

Results: Joy.

Sociology Experiment #4: Outspoken behavior.

Observation: A Starbucks employee frolicking about on the first floor handing out samples. She was kindly giving them to the workers, so I didn't want to go down and snatch one from her. However, after giving one to all the workers, she had a few cups remaining.

Hypothesis: If I lean dramatically over the railing of the second floor and wave my hands frantically, I may get her attention and be able to obtain a sample.

Test: Gathering courage, I decide to defy numerous social protocols. I leaned over the railing and said very loudly, "HI! CAN I HAVE A SAMPLE?!" She looked up and said yes, and I Cinderella frolicked down the numerous steps to meet her and get a free Pumpkin Spice sample. Leaning, yelling, frolicking with joy. There were stares from others. But...

Results = Free coffee.


Defy the norms.

Sociology Experiment #5: New environments

Tonight Phoebe and I went to the Chinese Spring Festival event in the Union which celebrated the Chinese New Year. There were performances, food, and people of all ages and cultures. It was a beautiful experience--one that definitely put me out of my comfort zone. I am not familiar with the Chinese culture in the slightest. Being put into an environment where the dominant language wasn't English and everything was unfamiliar really gave me a better perspective on what it might be like to be an international student in another country.

It felt disorienting. Unstable. Yet somehow, adventurous.

Intriguing...processing this experience and how it will change my interactions with those of other cultures and countries.

Sociology Experiment #6: Taking action.

After the Chinese Spring Festival, workers began to clean up in the ballroom. I had grabbed 5 pop cans and a water bottle, and was clutching them to my chest like it was life or death, knowing that I was going to recycle those cans if it was the last thing I did. After looking around the Union, I realized they were most likely going to throw all the cans away, as it wasn't efficient, nor did it make logical sense, to separate them from the rest of the trash.

Upon deliberating with Phoebe and gathering courage at the norm defying that was about to happen, I approached those cleaning and ask--

"Are you all going to recycle these cans? If not, can I have a trash bag so I can pick them up from the tables?"

Soon after, a nice man approached me and gave Phoebe and I two trash bags.

Results: More than 100 cans recycled, random strangers joining into help in the gathering of the cans (of all cultures and languages), Diet Coke on my shoe (totally worth it), and a sense of empowerment at the knowledge that speaking out has the potential to lead to positive results and community building.

Sociology Experiment #7: Trying things differently

1. Used a Styrofoam plate at Life Group on Monday and ate dirt (pudding) on it. Wanted to get some popcorn but didn't want to use another plate. Solution? Wash it off in the bathroom.

Results: Odd stare as I stuck my pudding filled plate under the faucet and dried it off with dignity. But other result = 50% less trash.

2. Began saying "Thank you" and truly meaning it when people hold the door for me on my escapades to class. I look them in the eye, and thank them sincerely, instead of rushing and mumbling "thankyou" because it's part of the social protocol.

Results: An increase in not only gratitude, but knowing that I am being served by whoever is holding the door for me. I feel loved, and a greater sense of community on campus. This love is then extended to others as I hold doors and smile at them, and a sense of greater belonging and hospitality emerges. I find that I am being challenged to actually look people in the eyes (something I don't do very often, apparently. It's difficult!)

3. A stranger turned to talk to me with these huge blue eyes and I impulsively blurted out in awe, "WOW! YOUR EYES ARE BEAUTIFUL." The reply? An extremely awkward "Thank you." (This same situation happened twice this week, with two entirely different people in different situations).

Results: It's official. The world is not ready for Compliment Amber to be on full blast. Meh...counterculture. It'll shock people.

Sociology Experiment #8: The Valentine's Day Edition

When people have courage and break norms in some way, I'm amazed at the effect it has on me. These are all from today.

1. Early morning. BGSU Parking lot. Man is checking meters.

"Good morning," he says cheerfully.

Instantly out of my thoughtful introversion, I flash an extremely excited smile his way and yell (practically), "GOOD MORNING!!!"

"Thank you for smiling, I appreciate that," he says.

"RAHHH...GLLEICKDK...THANK YOU!!" I finally spurt out.

IT WAS SO COOL.

2. I was driving this morning and suddenly heard a CLANKSCREEEEEECH!!!!! Pulled into the UHaul parking lot to discover that my muffler had fallen off and needed to be reattached with a wire (that I didn't have). I wasn't panicking (yet), but after talking to my parents about my options, I was about to call a friend who knows more about cars and access to these car parts that I.

Before I could dial the number, a man who had pulled in a UHaul truck right before I had bumbled into the parking lot came out of the back door, wielding a large, copper wire.

"NOWAY." I screeched, phone dangling in my hands.

He proceeded to lay on the dirty asphalt and reattach the muffler so that I could safely get my car to the shop. His boss talked to me as he was doing so.

"He's doing this off-duty. Yupp. You can tell people that it was an employee at the local UHaul...that copper wire? From Beat the Bookstore. Good place to buy and sell your books," he proudly plugged, smiling. He proceeded to then tell me the local muffler shops and how to get there, aiding me even more then they already had.

I could do nothing but say over and over, "THANK YOU. Wow...thank you. This...THANK YOU!"

And as the nice, Valiant Valentine's Day Magical Mechanic stood, I once again said, "RAHHH...WKDHIRLSKDLSIE...CAN I GIVE YOU A HUG?!"

I gave him a hug right then and there. That man is getting a colored picture and a thank you note!

Ps...because that man went out of his way to help, my car got fixed in less than 2.5 hours (total with shop time).
Pss...UHaul is pretty rad. Shameless plug.

Amazed.

3. Sitting at work in the library. Someone approaches.

"Hi!," he said, "HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!"

He hands me a card from Your Fellow Falcon, with candy attached.

I can only giggle, feeling so loved not only by the hand written card and candy from a stranger, but from the remembering of two strangers who earlier that day had decided to extend love and hospitality through greetings and service.

The Sociology Experiment is rebounding back towards me as I see courage and love extended radically through others.

So beautiful. So great.

Sociology Experiment #9: The Art of Friendliness

The Learning Commons. Work. 4pm.

I am sitting at my table, waiting for my next appointment to show up. While I'm waiting, I pull out a snack--banana chips.

I look over and see my coworker (whom I have never talked to). Spontaneously, I decide to walk over and offer her a banana chip.

"Hey...do you want one?" I ask, extending my Ziploc container. She takes a chip and smiles, and I walk away.

Suddenly I hear, "OH MY...GOSH. What IS this?!"

I frolic back and whisper, "They're banana chips. Aren't they delicious?!"

"Where did you get them?!" she whispers back.

"Kroger. 2 dollars. Near the fruits and vegetables," I whisper, as if giving an important secret.

"...going on my grocery list," she replies.

I skip away, excited to have been able to share the joy of the banana chips, as well as gaining a connection with a fellow writing tutor.

Sociology Experiment 10: Defying norm wake up times.

Grounds for Thought. 7am. All is peaceful. The place is filled with wonderful morning people, social coffee drinkers, chess players. Men talk about their jobs as salespeople when they were young, going door to door early on Sunday morn.

The barista says hi to a man that walks in. The chat about the newspaper and his day. Another man walks behind me, humming jovially. I love this.

Accidental Sociology Experiment #11: Calling your professor the wrong name.

Last Friday, I turned in my Philosophy paper about Environmental Ethics. My professor's first name is Eli and his last name begins with W.

Yesterday, a sinking feeling crept upon me. I quickly opened my laptop and retrieved the Word document. To my avail, my sinking feeling was confirmed--I had written the wrong name for my professor.

My paper heading read like this:

Amber Cullen
Elijah Wood
PHIL 2320
22 February 2013

Yes, friends...I accidentally called my professor a Hobbit. I'm still trying to decide whether or not this will raise my grade, as it is pretty awesome, or if it will be taken as an insult; I did get his name completely wrong after all (and it's week 8...eek!)

...I'm hoping for the first.

TBC.

*  *  *

To all who were wondering how this "accidentally calling my professor Elijah Wood instead of Elijah Weber" situation turned out:

I got my paper back today in class. Needless to say, he did indeed notice my mistake.

Dream (12-22-13)

They brought guns to the birthday celebration, giving the gift of trigger-happy protection as “affection.”

We cannot go anywhere without being followed by fear. Even the grocery greeter holds a butcher knife, eyes darting quickly to the left and right. (I’ve forgotten how to not live in a constant state of anxiety. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to greet another first by looking at them in the eyes rather than checking out the weapon inventory around their waist.)

Our law enforcement tried to teach us to not use guns by using guns.

We’ve been desensitized to their power.

(They gave up and stopped coming by.)

We use guns to protect ourselves rather than what others use as protection—well-thought-out words and fake facades--

Both block out vulnerability and authenticity.

Both are a product of “I’m not enough.”

*  *  *

We cannot go anywhere without being followed by fear.

Dreaming in Gray (the 16th)

You have serenaded me with the pain of the masses.

Dreams of despair, of weddings in Chicago on gray days.

Of drug dealers walking down the aisle at each one.

Of a mother with a young baby boy whose father forced tattoos onto his arms,

Leading the baby to addiction and the father to being out of his life forever.

There is no hope here, as she says she has sex all the time

And I say I color all the time

And he declares both of those statements to be untrue.

In this dark, gray city, where is Christ?

Where is the Hope that lifts people from despair?

Do I truly believe that this Hope can change circumstances?

Like her not having a job?

Like drug dealers desiring other forms of income rather than selling drugs?

Like the rich man stuck in the poverty of heartlessness?

(Is it all the same gray?)