My first week going to church in Laie, I was surprised as I walked in the doors of the church to see open sky up above. The church was open to whatever the sky passed down, from wind to rain. How did the carpet survive bordering such exposure to nature? When we walked into the chapel, the sameness hit. Just like any other LDS chapel I'd ever sat in, there were choir seats in the front, a wooden pulpit, a high, pitched roof. The people were coming in as close to starting time as possible, finding their set pews. We were in trouble. We didn't know whose bench we were probably comandeering. The men in front all had white shirts. But their skin was brown, a deep, rich, brown in varying tones of light and dark. The backs of the heads in the congregation around us were mostly black. Mostly.
In contrast, we sat on the bench with our three red-headed children and our pale skin, waiting for the meeting to begin. Testimony Sunday would be a good thermoter for what type of ward this was. Granted, you never knew what you would get, and talks could be random, political, incoherent, or, in the best of wards, instensely spiritual and uplifting.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Sunday, October 11, 2009
My dear Sam would give his soccer cleats to be "Super Citizen." This prestigious award goes to one or two elementary kids from each class each month. The honored child gets to walk in front of the whole school at an outdoor assembly when his or her name is called, and then has the added glory of posing for pictures while the whole student body waits for parents to rush forward with candy and cameras, leis and gifts. No balloons. I have never seen anything capitalized so vehemently as the request that parents not bring balloons.
On the other hand, the plebeians who go unpicked sit in the sun with no relief, brown skin darkening and white skin pinkening, listening to the microphone throw undecipherable words against the buildings. These kids clap for each grade and act as though it doesn't matter to them that they weren't the ones up front. They think, "maybe next month," but with each passing month, the honor is somewhat degraded. The certificates from the first month of Supercitizens have a shinier laminate than certificates in May, for example, when the student council might as well hand out small bones to the poor dogs who get the award at the end of the year. These are the "most improved," which is silently read "worst begun" or "17th place." Who cares about getting the ribbon for 17th place? Well, maybe the fifth of the class that are too "junk" to make the top 17. These students hear this message year after year from a slew of corroborating teachers and administrators. They don't call them junk. They just don't call them Super Citizen.
Sam told me two weeks earlier that he thought he'd been selected. However, his perfect record of "Thank you, Mrs. ____," and "Goodbye, Mrs. ______" was over-turned by his failure to turn in one coloring assignment (on my request, because I thought sleep was more important than coloring that day). The day after he was sure he had it, he came home to tell me someone else got it, and he had lost it because he didn't hand in his homework. I assured him that was not the case, but I talked to his teacher the next day, only to find out that there was a star with Sam's name on it in the trash can. Thankfully, she hadn't ripped it up in front of Sam, but he felt a change in the air. His teacher said that she had seen him as a "Bishop," a leader in the class. She couldn't believe that he would have difficulty getting his homework done.
If she only knew. Mr. Hyde arrives home at 2:30, ready to dig in his heels and refuse to do homework. After a full morning of polite exchanges and friendly interchanges, he glares at me, trying to muster laser beams with his eyes. I tread through dangerous waters, trying to keep him floating, keep him from sinking into a sullenness. Too tired to play with friends, he falls asleep on the couch NOT watching TV (because his homework isn't done). Exhausted by the level of citizenship to which he rises at school, he has reached new depths in his "at home" behavior. Yet, here and there he rallies, clearing his plate without being asked, allowing Jane take "his" seat, or letting Charlie tickle him. For the most part, he acts as if someone has handed him a bowling ball to hold, and I see the tension between his eyebrows. And yet, in the morning, he pulls himself together enough to start the walk to school. Once his feet are started in the right direction, he heads willingly to another day of measured citizenship.
I don't even know what you have to do to be a Super Citizen. There is a strict criterion NOT written down somewhere. But there is a binary grading system. Kids either pass or fail. And for the one time the child may pass, there are 8 months where he will sit in the sunshine and melt into the conglomerate community. And after waiting and waiting for their day to come, besides the leis and treats, what these kids really earn up there on the stage, is a sigh of relief that at least they don't have to wonder if they'll ever be Super Citizen.
I looked at Sam as his sister Jane got her award. First month of the year. He clapped so hard, he told me, for Jane and for EVERYONE, that he had to stop because his hands hurt too much. He smiled and waved at me as I returned to the sidelines, probably still wondering when he'd get a chance to be Super Citizen.
On the other hand, the plebeians who go unpicked sit in the sun with no relief, brown skin darkening and white skin pinkening, listening to the microphone throw undecipherable words against the buildings. These kids clap for each grade and act as though it doesn't matter to them that they weren't the ones up front. They think, "maybe next month," but with each passing month, the honor is somewhat degraded. The certificates from the first month of Supercitizens have a shinier laminate than certificates in May, for example, when the student council might as well hand out small bones to the poor dogs who get the award at the end of the year. These are the "most improved," which is silently read "worst begun" or "17th place." Who cares about getting the ribbon for 17th place? Well, maybe the fifth of the class that are too "junk" to make the top 17. These students hear this message year after year from a slew of corroborating teachers and administrators. They don't call them junk. They just don't call them Super Citizen.
Sam told me two weeks earlier that he thought he'd been selected. However, his perfect record of "Thank you, Mrs. ____," and "Goodbye, Mrs. ______" was over-turned by his failure to turn in one coloring assignment (on my request, because I thought sleep was more important than coloring that day). The day after he was sure he had it, he came home to tell me someone else got it, and he had lost it because he didn't hand in his homework. I assured him that was not the case, but I talked to his teacher the next day, only to find out that there was a star with Sam's name on it in the trash can. Thankfully, she hadn't ripped it up in front of Sam, but he felt a change in the air. His teacher said that she had seen him as a "Bishop," a leader in the class. She couldn't believe that he would have difficulty getting his homework done.
If she only knew. Mr. Hyde arrives home at 2:30, ready to dig in his heels and refuse to do homework. After a full morning of polite exchanges and friendly interchanges, he glares at me, trying to muster laser beams with his eyes. I tread through dangerous waters, trying to keep him floating, keep him from sinking into a sullenness. Too tired to play with friends, he falls asleep on the couch NOT watching TV (because his homework isn't done). Exhausted by the level of citizenship to which he rises at school, he has reached new depths in his "at home" behavior. Yet, here and there he rallies, clearing his plate without being asked, allowing Jane take "his" seat, or letting Charlie tickle him. For the most part, he acts as if someone has handed him a bowling ball to hold, and I see the tension between his eyebrows. And yet, in the morning, he pulls himself together enough to start the walk to school. Once his feet are started in the right direction, he heads willingly to another day of measured citizenship.
I don't even know what you have to do to be a Super Citizen. There is a strict criterion NOT written down somewhere. But there is a binary grading system. Kids either pass or fail. And for the one time the child may pass, there are 8 months where he will sit in the sunshine and melt into the conglomerate community. And after waiting and waiting for their day to come, besides the leis and treats, what these kids really earn up there on the stage, is a sigh of relief that at least they don't have to wonder if they'll ever be Super Citizen.
I looked at Sam as his sister Jane got her award. First month of the year. He clapped so hard, he told me, for Jane and for EVERYONE, that he had to stop because his hands hurt too much. He smiled and waved at me as I returned to the sidelines, probably still wondering when he'd get a chance to be Super Citizen.
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