I
got this idea to write a blog post a week this summer, riffing off a photograph
from a show that the youth in our summer program did last summer. The show was called “Under Construction” (and
can be seen at St. Paul’s Lutheran Church, 2742 15th Ave S. in
Minneapolis, by appointment. I’ll let you know when it appears elsewhere!)
because there were no less than five construction projects going on in our
neighborhood last summer. This summer’s
projects have started up already.
The
youth also were able to look at the idea of construction in two other ways:
nature, and human community. How are we
under construction? How is the world? There really are some beautiful photos, which
I hope to share with you over the summer.
I
started writing this post thinking about the words that were captured in some
of the photographs, and how many of them were negative: “Sidewalk Closed” “Bridge Closed” “Stop” “Condemned” “Danger
Construction Area Keep Out” “No Trespassing”.
It made me think how many times our young people hear and see
those words directed at them: stay out, stay in your place, don’t come in, this
is NOT FOR YOU. Many of our youth are
undocumented, or the children of undocumented parents. That status comes with a kind of roving sign:
“You are welcome to work here” (in fact we need your labor) but “You are not
welcome to feel welcomed here” (we fear your culture, your language, the way
you look, what you may represent about us).
I’ve been teaching poetry to some of these youth, and one
theme rises from them over and over: you don’t really see me. You don’t see me as I am, you don’t want to
get to know me, you assume my life is “just like yours” or “totally different
than yours” without ever really asking me what my life is like.
You would think that would lead them to bitterness, but I don’t
see that in them. I see hope, a
willingness to explore, and a determination to change things. They all have incredible stories, and I have
been honored to hear them.
Their photo that I chose for this writing is one of a worker
holding a hard hat. At least that’s what I thought it was, until I really
LOOKED at it. I think it’s two
workers holding a hard hat—the one on the left a woman (I assume, from the nail
polish), the one on the left a man (assuming again). The worker who has worn the hat has seen some
work, it seems to me: look at how the “l” and the “a” are scraped off the words
“laborers” on the cross. “Laborers” has
become “borers”: boring down into the heart of things, as construction
does. Boring at times, as all labor is.
It’s interesting to me that Local 563 is proclaimed in both
church and state: the cross and the flag.
It just begs me to write something about the connection and
disconnection between the two this Memorial Day weekend. But I’m not going to do it. I am going to ask you to pay attention to how
many places of worship will have memorial day messages or celebrations, and how
often we’ll be asked to remember and thank veterans. Then compare that to Labor Day weekend, and
see how well the labor movement fares.
But I digress, as is my wont.
What else do you see in the photo?
Why is the orange scraped? What
IS that drawing above “Maverick”. What
are those hands doing today? Why did the youth ask them to hold the hat the way
they did?
I hope that we all see some very interesting things this
summer, and it leads us to ask some very interesting questions.
Be justice. Be beauty.
Patrick
