Cedar

Right now, right this very minute, I miss the smell of cedar. Not that dead crap used to keep moths away, no.

The sweet smell of living cedar, tall tree trunks arcing overhead with sleepy, drooping branches, dry brown needles underfoot, smelling a bit like dust, warmed by patches of sun.

And also--on identity

The other day I wrote a somewhat lengthy, verbose entry about identity, but I was interrupted by a student and accidentally lost the entire thing to cyberspace. The subject is worth revisiting, so here goes.

First, let me go back to an observation I made at the Pow Wow. The announcer in charge of the dancing referred to all of the young children who were dancing with their fancy shawls and bangle dresses and bird outfits as "our grandchildren." As in, "Let's all give our grandchildren a round of applause for that dance." If this had been a dance put on by a group of white people (i.e. people of Western European cultural descent), these children probably would have been called "the kids."

How quickly our everyday language reveals our cultural inclinations.

Many native cultures across this continent place a greater (or at least more overt) emphasis on family and community than white people do; one's identity is more intimately tied to one's family (and to place). That's not to say that this aspect of identity is completely missing from white families. Although my connection to my family and community is not always overtly obvious, it's still present and important (for example, my parents and other family members read my blog, as do many of my close childhood friends and their families--hi, guys!). But here, clearly, is a difference.

I was also reminded of the subject of identity by a recent post by glowingwhispers, in which she wrote about being mistaken for an artist by another artist, which is not at all what she does for a living. That made me wonder--why DOESN'T she consider herself to be an artist? If another person sees me only as a biologist (or only as the Ex-Dictator-In-Chief of the Monty Python Society, which, technically, I am), they would have only grabbed a small corner of a much larger puzzle. I think we generally recognize this, but occasionally we forget.

Finally, all of this brings me back to a story from the seventh and eighth grade, told by my religion teacher, Mr. L (this is one of my friend J's all-time favorite stories). Mr. L is one of the most influential teachers I have ever had (I wrote him a thank-you note about 4 years ago telling him so; it's never too late to say "thank you"). In his classroom, he had a white stuffed animal bear with a red nose that he named Much More. One day, he told us the story of how Much More got his name. Much More was named in honor of Mr. L's friend Jonathan, who had AIDS. Mr. L volunteered with a program for AIDS ministry that Jonathan also worked for. In particular, Jonathan was a leader of an AIDS support group. Whenever someone new joined the support group, the group would go through a round of introductions. But instead of having new members introduce themselves by saying, "I'm so-and-so, and I do such-and-such work," Jonathan would have everybody introduce him or herself by saying, "My name is ____, but I'm much more than that." Jonathan eventually died from AIDS, which of course was hard for Mr. L, and yet Much More is such an amazing way to remember him.

It's such a simple practice, but so easily overlooked. And it makes me wonder--if I become more conscientious about remembering the "much more," how will that affect my relationship with the world around me?