These were the words Fr. Francis spoke after we spent an hour in front of my laptop, journeying through the jams of Marley, Tosh, and UB40. I introduced him to O.A.R., Matisyahu, and some of the funkier songs of Dave Matthews. Other similarities I have found between us: he used to play bass guitar in a band; he has the bass setting in his truck noticeably higher than the treble; he hangs a rosary from his rearview mirror (it’s a Catholic thing and it’s apparently consistent around the globe); and he’s not a “talker.” We spent last Sunday making the rounds to the villages and there was a stretch of two hours of driving where neither of us said a word, lest we disrupt the delicate flow of the reggae.
The irony is also not lost on me that I am having my immersion into poverty with a priest named after the saint of radical poverty, St. Francis. I feel like St. Francis intercedes to offer me daily challenges in my comfort level with the poor, and it’s not easy. The other day a beggar suddenly reached through the passenger window of the truck and held my face, speaking in a language unknown. Acting on instinct, I slapped the man’s arm away with my left hand, and the parishioners in our backseat immediately reprimanded the man for physically invading the truck. We drove on, but it shook me up. I slapped the arm of a beggar. I know that it was a self-defense mechanism; it happened very quickly, and you never fully know the intentions of the other person. But I slapped the arm of beggar. Coming from a seminarian trying to follow Christ and see Christ in the poor, I didn’t feel too great about myself. That’s just one challenging moment I’ve experienced.
Also factoring into the scope of poverty, I’ve noticed that it’s the “little things” that simultaneously test me and lift me up. My brother recently infected me with an addiction to the television series House, and I brought the second season with me to Africa to watch on my laptop. While the show has helped me through many tedious afternoons, it’s the little things like watching House pour a cup of coffee, or cook something in a microwave, or even just walking into an air-conditioned hospital, that make me remember the comforts I’m living without. Somewhere between the fire department and seminary my taste buds mutated to enjoy coffee—now every time I watch the show and see someone sip a cup, I shudder and itch my arm.
However, the little things also lift me up. There is a song called “Stereo Love” by Edward Maya and some Eastern European lady. Find it on Youtube. It has an all-too catchy accordion rift laid over club beats with some unintelligible lyrics. It was overplayed in Miami, but especially so at the gym where Dan and I worked out at to escape the seminary several times a week. We began associating this song with the gym and it eventually brought us joy whenever we heard it elsewhere. Well, the other night I heard this song blasting at full volume from one of the local houses having a party. And it instantly brought back memories of Miami, that gym, and my brother. I couldn’t believe that this song made it to Africa. I think it caused the biggest smile I had that day.
This post is a bit nonsensical—reggae, poverty, coffee, dance songs. Maybe I’m at the point of my trip where I’m becoming nonsensical. Well…more than usual.
-Bob
written 07/10/11
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