Glory Ho

Sometimes I’m so overwhelmed by this county and I feel like I must blog about everything, about the strange death memorials they have stuck to every blank surface on the street—white A4 sheets of paper with a black frame and a vintage shot of the deceased, always looking like a yearbook photo from 1952, their eyes dead or dreamy but never animated and never happy. . .about the cherries and the wood crates that frame them this time of the year, making it seem like there’s an artist’s fruit still life set-up on every pit-littered corner. . . about the their “real” wild cherry flavor, how we’re convinced that this is what all artificial flavors (like Koolaid packets) base their recipe on, but never get it quite right, how Michael said they taste like “cartoon cherries”, (the snozberries taste like snozberries). . .about the way Bulgarian women dress in the summer, with the milkiest part of their breast showing with every shirt, and about one fifteen-year-old in particular, whose shirt said, in silver, “Will Fuck For Coke” and how we wondered, with disturbed glances, if her Mom knew what that meant. . . .and about the honking here, God the honking, and how were now convinced that the horn company, whomever they are, must be making a fortune off Bulgarian replacements. . .how we ride our bikes to the top of Vitosha mountain and see babas plowing their fields and tending their goats by hand. . .about the random fireworks displays we might catch from our balcony on any given night, interrupted from dinner and hoping that no one’s being blown away on the sidewalk below, we open the door to see a Fourth of July festival above our heads. . . .about the tiny, cave-sized 14th century church that’s hidden beneath the street because during Turkish rule, no church was allowed to be above street level. . . and about the service we stumbled upon, standing awkwardly to receive the incense toss, our reversed sign of the cross giving us away and what’s left of the broken frescoes creating islands, peninsulas and other strange shapes above our heads. . . as scattered and confusing as a map of Indonesia when you’re lost in Chicago. . ..learning about how Bulgaria saved thousands of Jews from persecution during World War II. . . .about the groups of 14-year olds who gather in the park with a Becks and a bottle of rum and how there is simply no risk of them being arrested because there is no one around to arrest them. . .about how WE can take a bottle of beer with us on the way to a restaurant and its really okay. . .about the outdoor concert we attended last night and how the lack of rules and police and lines and confiscations made everything more enjoyable, how the fire-twirlers mesmerized us with their chains of flames, ash-stained sundresses, daring to dance and choosing to chance the burn. . ..about the stage in front of the Russian war memorial obelisk and the protest party in the woods and how the rain and lightning looked from under the evergreen’s protective and furry folds. . .about soccer and America being the underdog in this bizarre world of no time-outs, fake injuries and complete lack of commercials. . .about the movie I was in. . . . .about working with a has-been Dukes of Hazzard star, my own trailer, deciding what to do with my “twenty bucks” and me wondering if this means I will get a page on IMDB.com. . . .how Michael taught me to play chess with spices, wine corks, lemon squeezers, salt and pepper shakers, pennies, candles and paper because we didn’t have a set. . ..about the poor old smiling lady, Lilliana, who lifts her crutches and those swollen, purple, rock-studded-looking ankles as she goes up and down four flights of stairs every day. . .about the tear in her eye when she asked to use our phone. . . and about how Michael went to fix her fuse. . . . . about painting the wall-papered walls of a single-mother’s home for Habitat and how physical work makes you feel good and how happy she’ll be to have a freshly painted room. . .. . . .about everything.

You know those people who, upon finding a spider inside the house, feel it best to transfer that spider to a nearby napkin and carry it to outdoor safety? I’ve always thought this was a bit silly, to be honest. What’s one spider, really? I mean, I’m not going to alter the space time continuum by saving this fly-eating, web-spinning, face-biting-in-the-middle-of-the-night bug. But I think I just got it.

We have cockroaches, as I just might have mentioned. They’re not out of control, but they are consistent. We see at least one every day, often more than a few. It’s actually gotten so bad that I am paranoid of any dark spots against a white background. Often, my eyes, while focused on the computer or a book, will imagine a moving dark spot off to the left or right and I’ll jump my stare there only to discover a piece of fuzz . But I digress. So, a few hours ago, I saw one come from under the couch, making it’s way across the floor. Right in front of me. I mean, the stupid thing didn’t even run when I got up to get my napkin from the drawer. It was when my shadow came down that it freaked. But it was too late then. I got it. And to make sure they die, since as some of you may know (though hopefully you don’t) they don’t die all that easily, I smashed and twisted the napkin good and hard. And I’m not kidding. Right then, killing that cockroach, I felt like the energy of killing and twisting and smashing the body of that stupid bug just wasn’t so good. And I would kill it again in a minute. No problem. It was, after all, in my territory. But it got my thinking that the act of me actually killing or torturing any living thing, assuming that deer/squirrel/pigeon was doing me no harm (cockroaches do not apply here as there is nowhere to let them go where they won’t crawl right back in the house), just isn’t good energy. I mean, shouldn’t we treat living things how we would like to be treated?

Where I grew up on the driftwood and shell-boasting beaches of the Mississippi, catching frogs, lizards, turtles and snakes was a favorite pastime. Often, my brothers and I would find one in the nearby creek. Other times, our Dad would discover a frog in some old drain pipe at the farm or come upon a turtle crossing the pavement near Meradocia road. We would then place this creature into captivity. Either an old white pesticide bucket or this delightful Tom-Sawyer-reminiscent-like wood and wire crafted cage. It even had a homemade rope handle. Then, we would watch the frogs hop around in the grass, catch glimpses of the snakes fork tongue, examine the turtle’s kaleidoscope underbelly or feel the skin of the salamander. After a few days, my Dad, sympathetic to the earth under all that calloused skin of his, would announce between bites of corn on the cob that we needed to “let that thing go.” A few times, we left the poor frog out in the sun to bake only to discover it frozen, a Jurassic-park like look about its specimen-stiff body. Sad, but mostly fascinated and confused, we would then dispose of our no-longer-slimy friend.

But I wonder how those animals were faring in our handy cages and buckets (provided they were kept in the shade). I guess I have a little more sympathy now, that’s all. I’ve read that animals (nevermind bugs) can, in fact, feel some emotions. Fear and pain for certain. Think about your dog and I imagine you’ll tell me they experience even more. Most importantly, just because we’re the superior species doesn’t give us the right to be a bully. What if there were another species 25 times our size and when they saw us, put us in a bucket and kept us in captivity for a few days. Then, when they let us go, did so a few miles from where they found us. All just because they were, perhaps, further evolved.

But I know, I know, we are the superior species. What my brothers and I did as children wasn’t atrocious. I’ve no regrets. We were only curious about reptiles and amphibians. And if my children are lucky enough to live by a creek, I promise to catch frogs with my bare hands and pick up snappers with a stick. But I will, just as my father did, keep the captivity short-lived. I will ensure my children respect the species. And I’ll be certain to let them go where I found them.

Like I said, I’m still killing cockroaches. But maybe if there’s a suitable outlet for other unwelcome pests in the future, I will use it.

In Istanbul, there is a “call to prayer.” This is part of the Islam religion. I know it happens five times a day, but I’m not really familiar with the exact time. I’ve seen Turks rush off to kneel toward Mecca as it sounds, but I can’t tell you if there’s a proper position. And while there seems to be a call and answer sequence, I don’t know if all the mosques work together or if they cry out independently. Certainly, women and men do not pray together, but again, I don’t know the rules. Though I have my suspicions, I have no idea if the voice is recorded or if an imam is physically perched in one of their many mosque’s turrets. But these logistics are not important to me. The sound, a continuous crying out with waves of intensity and urgency, is what matters. Wherever we were—in the ancient Hagia Sofia with awed tourists, on a ferry in the Bosphorous Strait or inhaling mint tobacco from a nargile—when the call to prayer began, my skin felt. My thoughts slowed. My awareness increased. If even for half a second. It’s a state of being I long to experience. One I occasionally attempt with meditation, prayer and church but one I more often attempt with mere pauses on the sidewalk. It is one I rarely achieve. Undoubtedly, there resides great meaning and symbolism behind this ritual. But even in my most primordial understanding, it its simplest form, the call to prayer, to me, seemed an effective method for sensing God’s presence and awaking to the present moment. As I became an adult, I remember that my Mom was thankfully unconcerned about which religion I practiced or where I went to church, but that I believed in something, that I knew how to pray, and that I could take comfort if needed, in the idea that God was there. This call to prayer, to me, is about that.

I am working on a Small Project Assistance (SPA) grant for Traditzia. SPA grants are worth $5,000 and they are funded by Peace Corps, which receives its money from United States Agency for International Development (USAID). For many reasons, SPA serves as a terrific training ground for learning to write grant proposals. 1) There is a comprehensive handbook full of details, frequently asked questions, guidelines, checklists, forms and schedules to help you work out the details. It’s a kind of grant-writing starter kit. 2) SPA is very picky. Details such as “all documents must be in twelve point Times New Roman font” and “budget for outside labor must not exceed $500” and “25 % of all funds must be contributed by the applying organizations (15% in-kind and 10% cash)” are perfect to prepare for the more complicated grant apps in our future. 3) We can submit our proposal early to a SPA committee made up of volunteers who will coach us to fill in blanks we’ve forgotten and clarify confusing statements, therefore enhancing our shot at winning the grant.

Most ideally, a SPA project should include a transfer of skills, fulfillment of a community need and sustainability, so the project can live beyond our service. It is a grass-roots grant, created specifically for Peace Corps projects. Past SPA-funded projects have included a leadership skills camp for adolescent girls, a customer service training program for NGO employees, English classes for employment seekers and a solar water heater for an elderly social home.

For those not living or working in the public sector, a grant application, as those of you in the private sector can only imagine, since you’re basically asking for free money!!! goes like this: Through a series of questions, forms, statements and ideas, (most of which all ask you to say the same thing in a slightly different way) you prove to the donor that you are a legitimate organization that is suited to tackle this project, that you will handle their money responsibly, that you will spend it reasonably and that your project will fulfill a justifiable community need.

I am writing a SPA grant for Traditzia to launch an educational campaign on Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR) and Corporate Giving for private firms in Sofia. What exactly does this mean? Traditzia, in partnership with the Bulgarian Donor’s Forum, will provide classes to employees from 5-10 Sofia businesses once a month for six months, then host an event at our gallery for the launch of these participant’s programs.

So what, exactly, does Corporate Social Responsibility mean? In the vaguest sense, CSR is about how companies manage business processes to produce an overall positive impact on their internal and external society. The original model includes a balance of social, economic and environmental factors. The trick, it seems, is to capitalize on your firm’s expertise and resources and then create programs to enhance your employee’s and your community’s quality of life, while also contributing to the “global good”. For example, in Costa Rica, a pharmaceutical company donated over one million doses of measles, mumps and rubella vaccines to the Pan American Health Organization, demonstrating a commitment to health and strong support for their regions vulnerable groups. In Brazil, where in certain areas, many people don’t finish basic education, a construction company offers employees a chance to complete the program. This firm discovered what their workers had missed and helped them get it back, improving morale, increasing skills and enhancing employee loyalty. Here in Sofia, First Investment, who used to throw money at orphanages during Easter and Christmas, now distributes funds to offer teenage orphans to provide the professional training and job opportunities for a successful societal integration once old enough to live on their own.

The concept of CSR and corporate giving is widespread across the globe. And in recent years, due to non-profit scandals, dubious internet giving Web sites and hopefully, evolving humanity, corporate giving (arguably the sexiest part of CSR) has changed. No longer satisfied with large sum donations to once-trusted charities, companies and well-off individuals want to know exactly where their money is going, who the beneficiaries are and how they can build a philanthropic program to ensure results. They are making distinctions between “charity” and “philanthropy”. As author Claire Gaudiani recently said “charity is about easing symptoms of distress while philanthropy is about investing in solutions to the underlying problems.” Hence, the latter is actually less about pity and more about practicality.
Bulgarian businesses, however, aren’t quite there. While some are afraid of additional tax burdens once they flaunt their ability to give, others retreat because there’s no standard. How much should we give? To whom? How will it reflect our reputation? Too, the idea of broadcasting one’s generous donations, from a Christian perspective, is sometimes thought to demean the act itself.

Why should Traditzia take this on? Because as an NGO in a country that will soon join the EU and watch their aid organizations take off into the sunset toward a less developed nation, we, along with scores of others, are in need of funding. The more we educate companies about long-term, sustainable corporate giving programs and encourage public-private partnerships, the more likely we are to receive support. And that means our own beneficiaries–socially disadvantaged individuals from all across Bulgaria–can improve their quality of life.

So, we’re writing this project. We must work out exactly how $5,000 will be spent, convince the SPA committee and the eventual decision makers that we deserve such a grant and then cross our fingers to wait for the call. My job here may not be hands-on with fast, tangilbe results, but I am trying to change a mindset–to help evolve the foundation on which Bulgaria rests. I just have to chip away and hope that I’m making a difference.

A spa in a barrio. . . where did I think it would be?

Black birkas stuffed with women, trapped in sunlight splotches,
asleep on the davenports
wooden stalls that creaked when I crossed the floor
What was I supposed to do?
A scarf-tied, brown-toothed baba would become my red-pantied bather
getting down to skin,
Yes, its okay to leave your purse. And your watch.
it will be okay, I promise.
this way, said her eyes, the arches will guide you
a Turkish toilet with a water bucket for sprinkling, gravity-defying, up into my folds
Then the bath room. Two words.
only me and my body and the marble.
not the smiling red pan but a green frisbee for scooping.
she demonstrated.
I mimicked.
she disappeared.
Soft warm water came from the walls, dripped and splashed and spoke in streams
I tried to listen. All I heard was. . .stay.
on the square stage, edges soft from the bathers before, I waited
Sunlight slid through the ceiling holes to warm my soul.
I felt.
I was hand-washed like linen on a legen, fists, loofah and fingers in a fast tarantella
It was her job.
a kind of pragmatic intimacy in a land of Islam,
they danced together, stepping on each other’s feet the whole song
It hurt. It helped to cry. I was shedding. . .
my dead skin in small little scrolls across my flesh
Lids closed. Lids open. . .
I remember. . . . thinking about nothing.
It helps me to begin again.
Cleansed with water, soap and submission.
I rose to rinse.