Down memory lane

Well, since I referenced my trip across the Atlantic on the QE2 and since the album of photos I took happens to be out, I snagged some shots. They are not high quality partially because the originals are not and partly because I took them with my iPhone. But they will give an idea of what it was to sail across the sea in 1977.

Comme j'étais jeune... this was the telegram that announced I had been booked passage on the ship for the student fare.

Blurry shot of the QE2, looking miniscule compared to the recent shipwrecked liner.

View of the QE2 before embarking (somewhere between 34-45th Streets, NYC).

The former WTC as we left NY harbor on 1 September 1977.

Looking toward Hoboken.

Our cabin somewhere way below. It was on the outside of the ship so we did have a porthole.

This photo makes the cabin look bigger than it was... but it was perfectly adequate for two people.

Above deck on the one sunny day.

Hoowhee, look at that exhaust.

Looking at the stern.

Somewhere inside...!

Our dinner table (we were assigned a table and ate with the same people every night). As you can see, this trip catered to the 20-something crowd.

Meanwhile, outside... this had to have been our safety drill. I do remember the watertight doors shutting behind us as we went to our muster station.

One of the better moments at sea when it was not pouring rain or going sideways.

I would go out just for the sake of going out, even though it was wet. I felt like some Hollywood movie star in this film of crossing the ocean to new adventures... and that is where the James Taylor song would come into play.

Tugboats greeted us as we approached Cherbourg, France.

All of a sudden, after five days at sea, we had disembarked and now were standing in France. My sea-legs stuck with me for several days; I was more dizzy on land than at sea.

Looking back at the good ship that had safely carried us across the Atlantic.

Last view of the QE2 before descending into la gare, and chaos.

+

Surely it is because of this trip that I so appreciated working at the Seamen's Church Institute and visiting seafarers. They are the unsung heros in all this; cruise lines tend to treat seafarers as indentured slaves — I did not know that at the time but came to learn of it when I worked at SCI. I have far greater appreciation and respect for the stewards and cabin attendants than I did at the time.

So prayers for those who lost their lives while at work on the Costa Concordia.

Au sujet des naufrages

I have been trying to figure out why the Costa Concordia shipwreck has grabbed my attention so. It has to be more than disaster porn... finally, tonight I got it (I think).

In September 1977 two college classmates and I crossed the Atlantic on the QE2. Cunard wisely had a sale on fares for college-age students and so the ship was packed with 20-somethings, many of whom, myself included, were going to 'spend a year abroad'. What better way to get my grandmother's trunk from her cruises across the ocean for $400 than to take the QE2. Since my mother's mother had travelled the seas, I figured I could, too. Likewise, my French teacher's father had worked on the United States and she talked about crossing the sea many times, so seeing the seas intrigued me.

We left on 1 September 1977 at about 6.00 PM. Back in those days, it was saying goodbye to one's family for a year and so I left my parents, said grandmother and college friend at the quai. I had chosen the QE2 because my cousins crossed the Atlantic on one of its early trips in August 1970 when they were moving to the Netherlands. As we steamed out of New York, with the sun setting, we passed the newly-finished Twin Towers.

Our first night at sea was gentle; it was probably about four hours into the voyage that we no longer could see the shore. And, like the folks on the Costa Concordia, we had a late dinner and then went above deck to take it all in. Bedtime had us waaaay down; I don't remember what deck it was but a far way from the fancy parts of the ship.

The rest of the crossing was rough, very rough. It was September, after all, when there are many storms on the Atlantic. On top of it all, something was awry with the stabilisers so the ship yawed ever more than it should have.

We had our lifeboat drill the morning after we got on board when it was still sunny out. [Maybe my memory is faulty here and we had it as soon as we got on board but, in that case, I would not have been able to photograph the WTC and Hoboken and I know we had the drill in daylight so I honestly think it was the next morning.]

My sound track for the crossing was James Taylor's Terra Nova (lyrics below)*. Most fitting.

So I look at the QE2 in comparison with the Costa Concordia and think, 'How quaint... how puny!' But the ship was plenty big, I assure you. I cannot imagine being on such a gigantic ship as the Concordia. Yikes.

I remember how hard it was to go down the long, long, long hallways to get to the stairs (it was not wise to take the elevators when it was really rough). I can't imagine trying to do it in a badly-listing ship and in the dark.

So, having been on an ocean liner, I have a sense of what it is like to walk around inside, get above deck. What I cannot imagine is the chaos. And so my heart goes out to the people who were affected by this. (And, yes, I realise they had to have had money to be on this thing, but nonetheless, their lives have been changed by this event.)

* Oh end this day show me the ocean
When shall I see the sea

May this day set me in emotion
I ought to be on my way

We were there
We were sailing on the terra nova
Sailing for the setting sun
Sailing for the new horizon

May this day show me an ocean
I ought to be on my way

Ought to be on my way right now
Stepping on the boat
With a lump in my throat
On my way right now

I got a letter from a dear friend of mine
The story of a spiritual awakening
She spoke of her love
Returning in kind
She let me know that
She'd be waiting

And I should be on my way by now
Walking across the floor
Reaching for the door
On my way by now

But here I sit country fool that I am
My elbow on my knee
And my chin in my hand

And my eye on the street
Holed up in a cave of concrete

And I ought to be on my way right now
Packing my things
While the telephone rings
On my way right now

I miss my lovely mother
And I love my lonely father
I know I owe my brothers
One thing and another
I hear my sister singing

And I ought to be on my way right now
Moving across the land
With my heart in my hand
On my way by now
Ought to be on my way by now

Oh end this day set me in motion
Ought to be on my way

Out of the west of lambert's cove
There's a sail out in the sun
And I'm on board though very small
I've come home to stop yearning

Burn off the haze around the shore
Turn off the crazy way I feel
I'll stay away from you no more
I've come home to stop yearning

Here we go again

Just as I was beginning to let myself settle in here, I have to pull up stakes and do a six-month stint in a rented house with the hope that I actually will have a job before then. It all is unreal.

Living room bookshelves are empty. It was nice having the built-in shelves. Without them I am in trouble.

Three of the four cats supervise the downstairs packing. They are not amused.

Her face says it all.

Quid es tu?

In these desert days of not being a priest in community, I actually said out loud yesterday something about my being a lay woman. There is nothing inherently wrong in that; I have no intention of disparaging the faithful laity who have to endure clericalism in all its oppressive forms; after all, it is a different expression of saying that I am baptised like everyone else and baptism is the degré zéro from whence all ministry flows, but nonetheless, as one who was called to serve the people of God as a priest, it was an odd moment.

O Sacerdos, quid es tu?
Non est a te, quia e nihilo,
Non es ad te, quia mediator ad Deum,
Non es tibi, quia sponsus ecclesiæ,
Non es tui, quia servus omnium,
Non es tu, quia Dei minister,
Quid es ergo? Nihil et omnia,
O Sacerdos.

Haiti, mon amour

Ayiti, kenbe nan li. Haiti, keep at it.
Ou pa gen te bliye. You will not be forgotten.
Ou va leve vivan ankò.
Ayiti, kouraj.

Requiat, the Rev'd John Crocker, Jr.

Johnny Crocker, rector at Trinity, Princeton, while I attended, died on 30 December. His full obit is here.

Johnny had a profound influence on my understanding of how the church engages with the world. He was a civil rights activist, an anti-nuclear proliferation advocate and an advocate for the church addressing the wrongs of society rather than holing up inside the building in prayer.

May he rest in peace and rise in glory.

Catedral Metropolitana

La Catedral Metropolitana de San Salvador as I first saw it in 1994. It was not finished, nor was it open to the public. We were amazed to see the banner of San Romero de las Américas hanging between the two bell towers, as well as people up in the towers. We gathered for a FMLN rally before the first free elections to be held after the 1992 peace accords (16 January 1992).

When I returned to El Salvador in 1996, the façade still had not been finished and the cathedral was still closed.

It was not until 2002 that I finally got to see the entire cathedral, inside and out.

And ever since that trip, I have always returned to the cathedral to take in the environment: the bustle of the city outside, the people coming and going and the peacefulness that comes from spending time by Romero's tomb.

These surely are the most comfortable pews/benches anywhere. The cathedral is cool inside, an oasis on a hot afternoon.

The old tomb still speaks to me far more than the present one (2005), which is triumphalistic.

The people will always prevail... 26 March 2011, the people had covered the tomb with flowers.

People still pray at the former tomb. So do I.

Thus, I also am horrified by the stupidity of what has transpired: 26 December behind a huge white shroud, workers chipped away the façade tiles of Harmony of My People (Armonia de mi pueblo) by Dom Fernando Llort, the artisan behind the revival of the folk art that is commonly known as La Palma, from the town where he makes it, and from his workshop, Semilla de Dios, Seed of God. He spent a year of his life creating this work; it was paid for by donations from the people of El Salvador.

This is why so many people are up in arms that the Roman hierarchy decided to take down the mural with the feeble excuse that the tiles had faded, some of them had come unglued (why then did it take people with chisels to hack them away?) and might fall down on people. The apology consisted of the archbishop saying that he was sorry, he regretted not having consulted with the family and if they wanted, they could have a miniature of the façade in the cathedral.

In an article written by Episcopal communicator, Susana Barrera of the Iglesia Episcopal Anglicana de El Salvador, Bishop Martín Barahona of the same church comments on the recent artistic tragedy:

“Alabo la actitud de Monseñor José Luis Escobar Alas (Arzobispo Católico) de pedir perdón, pero le pido se repare el daño que se ha hecho a la cultura y religiosidad del pueblo salvadoreño”, demandó el Obispo Martin Barahona de la Iglesia Anglicana, quien ha dado seguimiento a los hechos.

"I commend the attitude of Archbishop José Luis Escobar Alas (Catholic Archbishop) for apologizing, but I ask that the damage that has been made to culture and religion of the Salvadoran people be repaired," said Bishop Martin Barahona of the Episcopal Anglican Church of El Salvador, who has followed the events.And more from the same article: “Lamento la situación que se ha dado, no comprendo a mi hermana mayor la Iglesia Católica, con tanta sabiduría y no consultar, no meditar, y cometer una prepotencia de esa naturaleza… definitivamente es una falta de respeto a los seres humanos”, reflexionó Barahona.

“I regret the current situation. I do not understand how my older sister, the Catholic Church — with so much wisdom — it could not have consulted or mediated [this situation] and [instead] committed an arrogant act of this nature. Decidedly, it is a lack of respect for human beings," Barahona reflected.

How long would it take to restore what has been taken down, especially since the hierarchy destroyed the work so that some image of El Salvador, Our Saviour, can be painted there instead?

Instead of this work of art that some lovingly, others less so called, 'The Towel,' because many towels sold are of the same style, this is what remains.

This gringa de corazón salvadoreño joins with the Salvadoran people in lamenting the senseless, arrogant and stupid destruction of a national patrimony that belonged to all the people... of El Salvador in particular and the world in general.

Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.