Jim Mayzik SJ Blog

POEM SHARE:

my daughter, who turns twenty tomorrow,
has become truly independent.
she doesn’t need her father to help her
deal with the bureaucracies of schools,
hmo’s, insurance, the dmv...

Can you bring me, I asked, to the small villages outside of the city?  I was talking to my tuk tuk driver.  Tuk tuks are small carriages pulled by a motorscooter. The driver nodded, smiled, held his hands together and bowed, like Cambodians do. Half his face was scarred. I wanted to know what happened, how did he get that scar, but I was too polite. My name is Baoom. he said.   Baoom?  Baoom. Baoom?  Baoom. I knew I wasn’t getting it quite right, and I felt bad. He got Jim on the first try.

PHOTO ESSAY:

“Blessed are the poor in spirit,
    for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

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In one of the most powerful scenes of The Killing Fields, a film about the Khmer Rouge dictatorship of Cambodia in the late 1970’s, the main character Dith Pran falls into a hidden pit as he is attempting to escape his captors.  In the pit are thousands of decaying bodies of Cambodians who have been executed by the murderous regime, one of the hundreds of ‘killing field’ pits where over two million Cambodian bodies were discarded.

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Hanoi stayed on my visit list despite a shortage of time left on my trip.  Two nights would work, so I flew on the same Viet Jet Airline—a bit of a cattle car—into the capital of Vietnam.  My rash had returned, and so I was a bit uncomfortable, which is probably why I freaked out at the woman sitting next to me who had decided it was OK to stretch her arms, legs and head into my preciously tiny sitting space.  It reminded me of my experience in the New York Film Festival years ago when I engaged in a silent war of leg pressure with the overweight guy encroaching into my seat space during the movie.  It was only at the end of the film that I discovered I had been battling Michael Moore, the filmmaker whose very first movie was premiering. But that’s another story. I wasn’t subtle with the lady in the plane.  I just pushed her back into her territory and made ridiculous-looking gestures to indicate that this was MY space, and THAT was hers.  She eventually got it.  But I really didn’t want to be unpleasant to her, or anyone.  Damned rash.

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It might have been something in the oppressively stale air of the tunnels, but it was probably the special “treat” of local food at the end of our ordeal—fresh (tasteless) tapioca plant.  Whatever it was, I began to break out with hives, starting  in my armpits, which then worked their way forward on the underside of my arms.  Eventually my feet and ankles were drawn into the attack as well.  Just what I needed as I approached the chaos of Tan Son Nhut Airport in a cab, soon to be stressed over getting my ticket for my flight to Hanoi.

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What a contrast to China!  Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon) is crazy noisy, chaotic, independent, and full of life. It is dirtier, shabbier, and less wealthy that the three cities I visited in China.  And in my first day here, I definitely liked it better than China.  Maybe because it reminds me a bit of New York, my benchmark city. 

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In May of 1989, a 3 story-high statue created out of foam and papier-mache was erected on Tianemen Square by thousands of student protesters from all over China.  Its creators issued a statement that said

“Today, here in the People’s Square, the people’s Goddess stands tall and announces to the whole world: A consciousness of democracy has awakened among the Chinese people! The new era has begun! ... Chinese people, arise! Erect the statue of the Goddess of Democracy in your millions of hearts! Long live the people! Long live freedom! Long live democracy!"

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It is strange to be standing in front of it: the huge painting of Chairman Mao that dominates one end of the famous Tianemen Square in the center of Bejiing.  I have seen that image so many times in the news, as China parades its military hardware and missiles in front of it, or when new leaders ascend to power and are seated in a place of honor right below it, or most famously when students mounted a rebellion against the government and a one brave young man refused to give way to a column of tanks as Mao looked on benignly from his portrait. 

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Walls. 

In a building, walls shape our space, define areas that function for work, or sleep, or play, or food, or elimination. Some walls prevent things from happening (noise and light for sleep); other walls promote things to happen (entrance hallways and passage corridors).  Where you put a wall, and where you leave one out can significantly affect how we relate to one another.  In the new Jesuit Community building at Fairfield, the architects worked closely with community members in determining how best to shape the space to promote genuine community and daily interaction with one another as brothers in the Lord.

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There is kindness in the big city of Bejiing. 

Some years ago there was an episode of the radio show This American Life, which related the stories of four visitors to New York, a city that most people consider the least kind city in America. In one segment of the show, Brett Leveridge was standing at a subway station.. A guy comes walking down the platform, stopping in front of each passenger and delivering a quiet verdict: "You're in. You're out. You, you can stay. You — gotta go." Most people ignored the guy. But Brett found himself, against his will, hoping the guy would give him the thumbs up, and when the guy does, it's thrilling in a very small way: a tiny kindness from a stranger.

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It’s one of those traveling nightmares that you try your very best to prevent from coming true in the real world.  I tried my best, but the nightmare turned into reality.

I was all set to go on a day of exploration of Macau, which promised to be very interesting. Macau is a former Portuguese colony that was returned to the People’s Republic of China in 1999.  It is among the world's richest regions, and the world's largest and most lucrative gambling center—much more successful than Donald Trump!  And Macau has the fourth highest life expectancy in the world, probably because so many people share in the profits of the gambling industry.

But alas, that trip was not meant to be.  My first significant misadventure of the trip, my nightmare come true: I lost my passport.

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I woke up in China this morning.  New China, actually.  The one that you know from your trips to Walmart and other stores that sell stuff you buy. It’s a city called Shenzhen, and it’s actually a very old town—going back to its role in the third century BC as a salt port on the Pearl River.  But it was nowheresville until 1979, when Deng Xiaoping, successor to Chairman Mao Zedong as leader of China declared that Shenzhen would represent the new China he envisioned. In 30 years it has grown from a city of 30,000 people to 12 MILLION. And it’s all because of that stuff you buy in Walmart and Best Buy. Deng made Shenzhen a special economic zone and now there are thousands of factories here, and millions of workers.  And it is craaazzzzy.

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I was told that the heavens could open up at a moment’s notice, a deluge of water upon your head.  It’s tropical, close to the equator, and it rains in Singapore most every day.  Like the world of a little boy of one month or twenty four months, you can never predict when the waterworks will suddenly burst.  A meltdown for lack of sleep, an unseen irritant under the diaper—parents become detectives to find the source of the wet and stormy fury. I witnessed both in the skies over this island nation and in the household of a young family, and both reminded me of the vital and communicative role of water for life as we know it.

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I took a lion to school today.  Actually, I was just a tag-along, but he was a lion, alright.  What does a lion say? “ROOOAAARRRRR”, he said.  It was a good impression. At the advanced age of two, this little boy has lots of animal language down—gorillas, cats, goldfish.  He’s the son of my good friends who have invited me into their home in Singapore.  His mama has a new bundle to handle—August’s new little brother Arthur---and I’m grateful for the welcome that she and the rest of the family have extended to me in the midst of this growing family unit. It’s yet another gift from my former student and his amazing partner—following the honor of being asked to marry them and then to baptize their newborn lion.

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Just as I was boarding my flight at Newark, heading for Hong Kong, my phone got one last message: La La Land had won the best picture Oscar at the Academy Awards show.  Nice, I thought.  It was my favorite movie, and they had my vote.  I turned off my phone, and began the first part of my Southeast Asia journey, settling into my economy seat for the 16 hour flight to Hong Kong. 

In some ways, I thought, this trip has a La La Land quality to it.  In the movie, both characters are setting out on a risky journey to seek the answer to important questions in their lives:

Who am I, really? 

To whom or to what do I belong? 

What should I be doing with my life to realize the potential I have been given? 

“I think it’s a panic attack,” said the text message on my phone. 

I was trying to write a scene for a screenplay, but I was stuck, a mini-writer’s block. When the text came across my phone screen, I was sitting in front of the computer, and this bugcame walking across a magazine article I had on the desk. The article was about the division within the country since the election—Trumpers vs Anti-Trumpers. The bug wasn’t reading the article, at least I don’t think he was.  He just seemed determined to go over there, somewhere, on the other side of my desk, which meant he had to cross over this field of black letters. 

Short documentary film.  In the village of Yeli, China, two men have formed an unlikely team to improve their community. Sixteen years ago, Jia Haixia lost his eyesight. His best friend, Jia Wenqi, lost his arms as a child. Together, the two have planted 10,000 trees around their village and have become an inseparable duo.

POEM SHARE:

During Lent, season of discipline,
I drag myself early out of bed, ride
to Mass with Mom and Mrs. Crivello,
warm in the front seat between their
woolen coats, soothed by familiar perfume...

For the past month I’ve been haunted by the conclusion of a very troubling and infamous court case—the trial of Dylann Roof, the 22 year old murderer of nine parishioners of an historic African-American church in Charleston, South Carolina. Roof, you may recall, walked into a bible study class on a Wednesday night, and was welcomed by the pastor and other members of the church. He sat down next to the minister, listened to the conversation about the love of Jesus, and when everyone began to pray, he stood up, pulled a gun from a fanny pack and aimed it at 87-year-old Susie Jackson. Jackson's nephew, 26-year-old Tywanza Sanders, tried to talk him down and asked him why he was attacking churchgoers. The shooter responded, "I have to do it. You rape our women and you're taking over our country. And you have to go." Sanders dove in front of his elderly aunt and was shot first.  Shouting racial slurs and saying: "Y'all want something to pray about? I'll give you something to pray about," Roof went on to shoot eight other people.