Matching Tracksuits

Month: February 1997

Cultural Adventures

Wednesday 19 February 1997

I went to Jabłonka this morning to the targ. I wanted to buy a zoom lens. I had talked to the camera guy there a few weeks ago, and he said that he’d have one for me. Well, he couldn’t find one. So I started back to the bus stop empty handed. It was a little before nine. I was thinking there was a bus at nine — no, the next one wasn’t until ten. I was irritated because like an ass I had forgotten to bring anything to read. (Rule of thumb when traveling in Poland: Always have something to read, for you’ll do a lot of waiting.) I was so irritated at the prospect of losing a whole hour that I paid 12 z to take a taxi back home. That’s exactly ten times what it would have cost by bus. Well, ten times, and an hour less. I’m coming to realize that time is much more valuable than money. The fool who said “Time is money,” got it backwards.

I had him stop just before getting to my apartment because I didn’t want anyone to see me getting out of a taxi. Someone in the gmina saw me with my computer and made a comment, “Jesteś bogaty,” (“You’re rich!” of course), so I didn’t want anyone seeing me pay ten times what I could have paid if I’d simply waiting for the bus. I guess it’s a bit silly to go around worrying what other people think, but I don’t want them to resent me for waltzing into the village and making more money than the average person here (which I do, though not by much).

4:36 p.m.

I finished checking the journals today. There are still a few who have not turned them in, though. I was both relieved and disturbed to find that Iwona also copied some stuff out of a book for journal entries. It relieves me because now I don’t have to face Tom alone. He can be belligerent and I was expecting to take hell from him for “reading” the journal. Now I can address the whole class about the problem (without mentioning names, of course). The down side of this is that I would not have expected Iwona, of all people, to have done such a thing. I’m sure she only did it because she felt she couldn’t write that much on her own; I don’t think it was pure laziness as much as a lack of self-confidence. The funny thing is, Iwona copied her stuff straight out of the book (including the bit about Paul Newman).

What will I do about it? I will talk to the class and present my idea (although it will not be up for vote, like that made it sound): I hereby reserve the right to read any suspicious looking journal entry to determine whether or not the student in question actually wrote the entry him/herself. I will not read the journals for pleasure, but I feel that it is necessary to make this small adjustment. I think I might say that if I determine that anything has been copied from a book without proper acknowledgement (in other words, plagarized), that person will get a zero for that particular journal grade. It’s harsh, and it’s demanding, but I don’t want any slacking on this. Plagiarism is a serious issue, even in a seemingly minor case like this.

More Thoughts about Students

Tuesday 18 February 1997

Classes went acceptably well, but IIB wasn’t as good as I would like. I guess it could have been worse, but they were a little more disruptive than in the past, despite the fact that I went with my hard-line disciplinarian method. I guess I can’t always have them quiet. I began “going to” with them, and I think it caused them some trouble initially. I had to explain that sometimes it’s present continuous (I’m going to the store.) but sometimes it is simply the future tense. “The key,” I told them, “Is whether there is a verb following ‘to.’” I guess we’ll see soon enough whether they get it or not. IB had a little bit of difficulty with today’s lesson. It was admittedly hard, for I plunged headlong into irregular simple past tense forms and I think it was a bit much. I knew it was a tough topic and so I followed the book exactly, for sometimes I change things (or don’t even refer to the book until the end) and it occasionally makes things more difficult. However, the book did a sufficient job of confusing them anyway. The activity was a listening activity with a guy speaking in first person about the 80’s and they had to fill in a little blurb written in third person. While the forms for the simple past are the same for all persons, it was still a bit tricky for them. In IA we reviewed for the test which is coming up Monday. It was a boring lesson, but I found out (fortunately) that they are still having trouble with when to use a/an, the, or nothing. Danuta’s going to go over it tomorrow.

I just saw Bożena from IB walking along with Bogusia and someone else (I didn’t see who, but I think it was Kaszka). I waved with a big smile; she waved back, smiling too. I think most of the kids like me. I am glad, for it makes my job easier. I believe they think I’m a little crazy. Today, for instance, as I was explaining the irregular simple past to IB, I was walking around picking up stuff and dropping it, saying, “What is this?” (I was of course wanting them to say, “drop.” I’m not sure they’d had that verb before, though.) I walked up to Ela (little Ela in group B) and “kissed” her: I made a smooching sound in her direction. I didn’t need to ask, “What’s that?” for everyone answered immediately, “Kiss!”

It’s strange to be able to sit here and watch all my students leave school. The miracle of familiarity always makes me smile. Before I knew their names or anything about their personalities, I would only watch with a fleeting interest. But now I sit and think, “Oh, there’s Grzegorz. He is rather outgoing now. That’s strange because he’s often so quiet in class.” They’re not just faces. I guess it’s simply that they are a part of my life now, and it is more that than “the miracle of familiarity.”

Teaching Thoughts

Monday 17 February 1997

I checked IIA’s journals tonight. I told them I wouldn’t read them, and I didn’t. But as I counted entries, I did make sure that every entry had at least a little something in English. And that’s when the trouble hit. As I was reading through Tom’s I noticed a word that didn’t seem like something that would be in his vocabulary: constitute. I skimmed some more. I noticed more words that seem out of his vocabulary. So finally I broke down and just read a passage. It seems that he copied this out of something, though I’m not quite sure what. It is simply not his writing. So I must decide what to do. If I say something, he will say, “You read it and you said you wouldn’t! You lied!” And no matter how I explain things, I will lose trust with some people. But I certainly cannot let him get by with it. I’ll talk to him tomorrow and see what he has to say about it.

I’ve been thinking about the whole journal issue. Following Mr. Watson’s example, I read the journals I had my seniors keep while student teaching. I told them that if there was something they didn’t want me to read, just note it in the margin and I said I wouldn’t read it. But knowing that someone else is going to be reading what you write will drastically change what you write. Immediately you have an audience, whereas before you’re writing only for yourself. What are the advantages of reading them? I’ll get to know my students better, and it often leads to a more personal relationship with the students. Many of the kids in Mr. DePriest’s class wrote things in their journals (without asking me not to read) that they would not say to me in person.

I decided to look at my journal and see what I wrote about the journals while I was student teaching. I didn’t find anything, but ended up reading the most of the entries for October, November, and December. […] I was also surprised that at that time I was still considering myself a Christian. Or at least I was thinking that I wanted to be a Christian. I was still trying to work out some of the difficulties which have now grown.

Anyway, back to the journal topic: I don’t know what to do about Tom. But I must admit that the little I caught as I counted the entries whetted my appetite and I would really like to read some of their entries. It is not even a temptation, though. I am trying so hard to earn their trust and I will not do anything which could risk that. Which is why I am so worried about what to do about Tom. I’ll just have to talk to him, I guess.

I am in a strangely peaceful mood. I read about all the anguish I was going through trying to figure out what happened between Hannah and me, and I didn’t fall into depression. I smoked my pipe and read on, surprised at some of the things I had written, but not longing to return. I had a great dinner. I improvised a chicken curry which was a little too sweet, but wonderful. I feel much better about my teaching. I will admit that I noticed in one student’s journal (I think Agnieszka A’s) that English is one of her favorite subjects. She does seem rather interested during class. I appreciate that — it makes my life so much easier.

All these things combine, and I am so happy to be here. I feel complete, as if I am doing something useful. I have grown so much in the past year, and it is paying its dividends now. I am at peace with the past. I am happy with my present. I am optimistic about my future. The thread of my life seems to be a wonderfully curved line that makes a beautiful pattern. It’s not straight, by any stretch of the imagination, but I no longer feel that I must take both ends (the past and the future) and try to straighten it out so that my present seems a little more comfortable.

Bar Adventures

Saturday 15 February 1997

Last night I was in Nowy Targ (w Nowym Targu) for a blues concert at Dudek, the club that Charles always goes to. The music was outstanding — a guitar, bass, and drums, and they all knew what they were doing. It was great. I danced like a maniac. I didn’t realize how much of a catharsis dancing until you’re drenched in sweat could be. The feeling and emotion in the music was contagious: They were having a blast playing and it made it impossible for me not to have a blast dancing. Things got rather intense at the end, and we were almost moshing. I think it could have gotten “out of control” in that sense if things continued.

I sat in on a couple of numbers and played harmonica, but I don’t think I played well at all. I’m a little ashamed of it, in fact. I couldn’t hear myself at all, and I was just playing by feel. Such is life, I guess. We all have to make asses of ourselves on occasion.

The highlight of the evening came when the bouncer came up to me and said, “Don’t look on [sic] my girl again or I’ll kick your ass. Do you understand?” I had noticed “his” girl from the moment she walked in the room — she was really attractive with a lovely body and something about her that reminded me of Krissy Cooper (I’ve always thought she was elegantly beautiful.). I don’t know if she noticed me glancing up at her every now and then and told “her” boy to say something or whether he was just completely insecure about his relationship and felt the need to threaten everything that in his eyes threatens his relationship. Whatever the case, it was a little surprising and disturbing. I was tempted to correct his English: “Okay, well first of all, it’s ‘Don’t look at,’ not ‘Don’t look on.’ You can never use ‘look on’ as a transitive verb.” I didn’t think it was wise to antagonize the Neanderthal.

It’s moments like that that I always wish I was the master of some martial art. Visions of glory dance in my head as I see myself refusing to back down: “Look, I just happened to notice that she’s a very attractive woman. I’m not going to make a move on her. But don’t tell me to do this or not to do that.” He loses control and makes a move — tries to hit me. I swat his fist away like it’s an insect. “Come on now, just let it alone. I don’t want any trouble.” He, being the asshole he is, makes another move, though, and before he realizes it, I’ve got him in some incredibly painful and completely disabling position . . . We wimps have such vivid daydreams.

Ultimate Concerns

Friday 14 February 1997

I also got a letter from C. B had showed her an early draft (the second draft) of “To Be Anointed” and she asked, “[Do] you still feel that way? Very thought provoking. I do like the way you think, the way you write. Very very much.” I reread it and I had forgotten about the final stanza. I like it, but I’m not sure about the rest of the poem. It reflects my previous flirtations with theism, and so now I think the only thing “Tugging / and pushing” was myself. I wonder how much of that was written out of an attempt to believe, an attempt to hear the things I wanted to hear myself say. We’re so often saying what we think others want to hear; how often do we do that with ourselves?

Do I still feel that way? I don’t think so. I think what I just wrote pretty much answers that question. I think theism is a dead end. I wonder what she meant by “thought provoking?” How exactly is it thought provoking? It assumes a certain theistic stance which I no longer hold, and I think if I read it not knowing who wrote it, I would find it a bit silly.

She wrote about a question on a test for her world religion class: “What aspect of your religion would you go-to-the-mat for, die for, stand up for? Why?” After defining religion, she said that she answered, “the respect Hinduism accords to believe. I told him I was brought up in a Hindu country and it teaches its adherents to live and let live. It’s a lesson I’m still learning and I hope some day to perfect. This [is] in response to your writing about evangelism.” I can’t say that there’s much of anything I would die for. I would give my life for certain people, I think, but I’m not sure there’s anything I believe so strongly that I would die for it. But what if someone held a gun to my head and say, “Profess a belief in Christ or I’ll kill you?” That’s such a silly hypothesis that I won’t even deal with it.

She talked of two theologian’s definition of religion. The first was Paul Tillich’s (I just read one of his essays a couple of weeks ago). He defined religion as ultimate concern. My text on the philosophy of religion says,

Religious faith, for Tillich, grows out of those experiences with which we invest ultimate value and to which we give our ultimate allegiance. Behind Tillich’s assertion that religious faith is ultimate concern lie two assumptions. The first assumption is that ultimate concern is common to all religions. . . . The second assumption is that no one is without some kind of faith in the sense of an ultimate concern.’

I am rather uneasy with that definition of religion. At the same time, it does encompass things like materialism which takes on a certain religious fanaticism with some people. I guess I’m uneasy with it because it implies that, despite my claims to the contrary, I am a religious person. It opens a dangerous door, for that means that all people are religious. It reminds me of D’s claim that all people have to believe in something. Am I falling into the other ditch? Some people are so theistic that it’s sickening; am I growing so anti-theistic that it’s sickening?

In that case, my ultimate concern – my religion, so to speak – must be people. I would be defined as a “secular humanist” in that my primary concern has to do with people’s lives on earth, right now. It shows its fruit in the joy I have in teaching, for I believe in some way I am indeed making a difference. Tillich holds that “faith provides unity and focus to the human personality” (Stewart 152) and this is a good description of how I feel about teaching. It gives me a focus, and it provides some hope for me. “An ecstatic experience is one that leads beyond the immediacy of the moment or, to use a parallel term, an experience that transcends the selfish tendencies of our nature” (Stewart 153). I know that sometimes while teaching I’ve had moments that seem to transcend the moment. Usually it has come at those moments when someone finally catches hold of the principle I’m trying to teach him/her and it sets their whole face aglow.

I look forward to teaching back in the States. I really enjoy what I’m doing here, but I’m working with these kids on such an elementary level that it can be a little empty at times. Of course there’s not much which is deeper than language, but I’m just teaching the very basics of English. I want to encourage students to think, to analyze and question, and teaching English to liceum kids doesn’t provide this. Of course I keep trying to convince myself that I’m not here for myself, but for the kids. Maybe I’m only fooling myself.

Response

Monday 10 February 1997

Thoughts about economics — an initial draft for a response to Dr. Mark Ahlseen:

Is child labor the only way to achieve economic growth? Dr. Ahlseen certainly seems to think so. Dr. Ahlseen makes the remark that our forefathers and mothers made the sacrifices of child labor in the nineteenth century and implied that since America is now prosperous, such a route is necessary for any developing country’s economic growth. I wonder if Dr. Ahlseen also thinks that every time a new medical clinic opens up, the doctors should have to rediscover penicillin? Or every time a country develops a new industry, it should have to do all the research and development that led to the invention of that industry? Dr. Ahlseen is looking to the past for a model proper economic growth. Should we also look to the past for a model of other forms of growth? Should we allow people to die of tuberculosis because so many people died of it one hundred years ago? Just as medical technology has developed to a point that such a thing is unthinkable, moral and economic theory have evolved to a point that child labor is unthinkable. Or at least it should be.

As for his comment that all companies “run their places to increase their profits for their owners,” I would like to point out that I never denied this. My point is simple: Companies use the lax child labor laws in developing countries in order to save money on the production end. They don’t have to pay as much for labor as they do in the United States. However, once economic growth does begin and wages do increase, these companies often close down their operations and move to another country where they can get the same labor for less money.

“We live in a world of scarce resources,” and we have worked hard for the economic advantages our country enjoys. Our ancestors made the sacrifices necessary for us to enjoy our current economic status. Such is the line of thought in Dr. Ahlseen’s letter. Unfortunately, he fails to acknowledge what that status is: The United States is the single largest consumer of natural resources even though it has only a small portion of the world population. The resources of the earth are being distributed in a grossly unequal manner. In order for all countries at the very least to rise above the label “The Third World,” the resources must be redistributed. Before someone labels me a communist, bear in mind that I am not making any suggestions as to how this redistribution should occur. I am simply pointing out that the United States consumes such a great majority of the natural resources that it renders it physically impossible for nations to achieve the things that America has. The earth can only give so much, and it’s being pushed to the limit as it is.

Ahlseen seems to be saying that given the extreme and dire situation in third world countries it is unfair to them to eliminate child labor as a possible source of economic development. If that is the case, why limit it to sweat shops? Why not allow — even promote — child prostitution and pornography? The “sex tours” offered in southeast Asia clearly show that there is a market demand? Perhaps that’s going too far and it crosses an ethical boundary. Yet, according to Friedman, corporations have only one ethical obligation: make money for their shareholders. So Ahlseen would mix and match ethics and economics when his Christian sensibilities are injured.

Another question: Why shouldn’t child labor be an alternative here in America? When does a country reach a point of economic status at which it becomes an undesirable alternative? If it does indeed promote economic growth, why not repeal child labor laws here in America?

The problem is simple: Ahlseen is implying that there is a dichotomy between ethics and economics, yet he is failing to realize the full implications of this. And here I can make my argument that corporations do indeed have a moral responsibility other than making money.

Long Trip Home

Sunday 9 February 1997

It has been a very long journey to this moment: I am finally home, and I finally have my computer. I am no longer cut off from the technology that I became so dependent on in the past. Perhaps it was a good thing that I was without it for so long, but I am certainly not going to give it up just to make this good thing better.

The trip from Sopot to Lipnica was hellish. Saturday morning I left with Julie N. and Grace on an 8:50 train to Warszawa to pick up my computer. I got to Warszawa around one and decided it would be best to get a little more money, so I headed to the poczta in Centralna and waited in line for half an hour for my money. Then I went to pick up a ticket to Kraków, waiting in line for another half hour. “Prosze jeden bilet do Kraków, druga klasa, na ‘Express’ pociag,” I said. “Nie ma druga klasa,” said the lady behind the glass. “Pierwrza bedzie dobra,” I said. After a moment, she said it: “Nie ma.”

“Crap!” I yelled so loud that I’m sure the whole station heard me. I stormed out of the station and the tension continued to build. I asked a taxi driver how much it would cost to get to Bukowinska. The answer: about thirty zloty. I knew that Julie was supposed to be at the Marriot for a while, so I headed over there and we chatted, allowing me time to calm down. She loaned me 50 zl as a precaution and off I went. I bought a tram ticket, road out to Bukowinska and picked up my computer. Then I went back to Centralna to try to decide what to do. I decided to go to Zabrze and stay with Mike D. I knew it would take a little bit more money, but not as much as getting a hotel room in Warszawa. First I went to Katowice. The train was thirty minutes late, leaving at 8:10, so I ended up waiting about two hours for that train. The actual trip took three hours, then I hopped another train for the final half-hour to Zabrze. I found Druker’s place; I knocked on the door; no one answered. I finally got a hotel room for 23 zl and just crashed. Then today I took the 10:53 to Kraków and from there the 1:00 bus to Chyzne. Mike M. was on it, so we chatted for most of the way. Just outside of Spytkowice we ran into traffic problems – an auto accident due to all the heavy vacation traffic. We spent an hour there, then I had about a forty-minute wait in Jabłonka for the bus to Lipnica. All told, it took me ten and a half hours to get to Sopot and thirty-two and a half to get back. That’s forty-three hours of traveling.

More Thoughts from Sopot

Friday 7 February 1997

I’m in the church again. I didn’t know it, but they’re having a mass now. There are about twenty people here, including a man in the confession booth behind me. There’s no altar boy, but an old man is wearing the little white outfit and ringing all the bells. The church is much more well-light; the light is bouncing off the white walls, but it’s still not very bright. I am the only one sitting right now, and I feel a bit conspicuous, but not too much. They sing in unison, but not everyone joins in. Some are standing right behind me — a weird feeling. The priest initiates a song then steps away from the mic, still singing. The priest holds the host, hand under to catch crumbs (?), says a prayer, then a thin, cheap sounding bell is rung. He goes to the gold box, gets out a cup, then passes out the host. About three people go for the host. He puts the cup back, the bell is rung. He wipes the crumbs into the goblet, mixes in some wine, drinks it, wipes the goblet out with a white cloth. He folds the cloth lengthwise, lays it over the goblet, places a lid-like thing over it and the altar man takes it away. Then he sings a prayer — a chant in two tones. Everyone stands to sing. I can’t see what happens. When they sit, the priest is gone. After a few moments, the lights are dimmed. A few remain, but most file out quietly. A man in jeans is now taking the sound system down. It’s like a concert in reverse: The lights go down at the end and the roadies waste no time breaking down everything.

The ritual and hierarchy [are] amazing. I can’t see why people subject themselves to it. Out of love? Fear? K wants her beliefs to be based on love, but I don’t know if it’s possible.

So now a little about the past couple of days. Wednesday night the Volunteers (And then There Were Three . . . ) played at a local bar. I missed most of it. I was looking for a bite to eat. When I got there I began talking to Julie L. She said the following: “I felt like you were completely overshadowed.”

Skipping Class

Wednesday 5 February 1997

I’m in the main church here in Sopot, skipping the first language lesson of the day. I needed some time alone, I decided. Who knows what PC administration might say.

This church is really quite small and relative modern. The walls are white with bricks along the edges serving as a border. It makes the whole thing look a bit like Lego blocks. The church yesterday in Gda sk was enormous. With its thin pillars and high, arched ceiling, it was the epitome of Gothic architecture. The entire interior was white, a creamy, Liquid Paper kind of dirty white. There was an enormous organ which J. S. Bach supposedly loved, an altar made in the fifteenth century that was at least twenty feet tall, and a huge crucifix with Mary and Peter (?) Standing at the base of the cross, with a skull at the bottom (Golgotha, I guess). There was another crucifix with a strikingly lifelike face which had an intriguing legend attached: The unknown artist hung a man on a cross and watched as he died to obtain an accurate likeness.

Around the walls of this church in Sopot are representations of the stations of the cross. I don’t know what they are, but they are all very similar: Christ on the way to Golgotha carrying the cross through a dark and empty landscape encountering several people along the way. Christ is always painted with a tired and somewhat painfully confused visage, almost childlike in some pictures.

People filter into the church to pray. Some even carry bags with the fruits of their morning shopping. It’s as if they are just dropping in on their way home. It’s rather strange. Are they offering their own prayers, or the Bisquick prayers they’re taught as children? I cannot understand the prewritten, memorized prayer. How can that mean anything? I remember the woman in Wraclaw who glanced at her watched as she muttered her prayer. It’s just another part of the ritual and repetition meant to keep people from thinking on their own.

At the top of the phallic arch over the alter is the eagle/chicken national symbol of Poland. A nice combination of religion and nationalism.

As I look around, I notice the arches on the side of the church have a particularly noticeable penile shape, complete with a tapered tip. I wonder why that is. The WCG of old could explain it, but I’m not sure it’s attributable to Satan’s evil influence . . .

Language School

Monday 3 February 1997

We had our first language classes today and it’s good for a couple of reasons. It was good to learn a little more Polish. But more importantly, it taught me a lot about what it’s like to be a student. As I struggled to think of something to say to Sue, I thought of how all my students must feel. It’s not an effective teaching method. Even simple things that I say so often came with great difficulty. I must find more effective teaching methods which are also more comfortable for students.

I’m finding that I’m falling into that strange apathy I felt in K. Dolny. I am alone at times, and I don’t want to be with anyone. Still, I don’t want to do anything that might assure me of being alone.

It seems that I am always taking the initiative to talk to people. Few people have sought me out of the group to talk. As we walked through Sopot today I didn’t really talk to much of anyone. And after the reception I wandered around, not really feeling like I’m part of the group. I don’t mind in a way.

Waiting in Krakow

Sunday 2 February 1997

Location: Krakow Glowny Train Station Waiting Room

I’ve about an hour until I leave for Sopot on a horrific six hour train ride. I’m in the waiting area, sitting beside the first woman I’ve ever heard say kurwa. She turned toward me as she laughed – many teeth were missing and the few that remained were any and all colors except white. Two police officers are winding through the crowd – no, three – asking questions I don’t understand. They’ve said nothing to me, and I am a little grateful. Two tired bums sit with blank expressions. They probably haven’t shaved or bathed in weeks. A drunk just bumped into me and he apologized with glazed eyes. An old man sits across from me, his hands folding in his lap and gazing quietly with almost childlike eyes. A group of gypsies sit together, looking at photographs. Some people read, some eat, and we all wait.

Waiting is not something I will miss when I return to America.

EKG Forest

Saturday 1 February 1997

I am now sitting at my desk which is now in front of the bedroom okno looking occasionally at the school. I borrowed a chair from Roy so that now I am reasonably comfortable as I write. It was snowing heavily until a few moments ago, but now it’s not falling at all.

I can see the hay fields to the left of the school, the fields from which I’ve taken so many pictures. The hay triangles/pyramids are slightly visible, and the forest is a hazy band of darkness on the hill-top horizon. The doubled glass in the window makes everything sway and bend as in an amusement park mirror. The half-built house beside the school shrinks and grows as I move my head just a slight amount. The tips of the trees form a jagged border resembling an EKG chart. What it’s graphing, I’ve no idea. The clouds are whizzing by, and I can hear the wind that carries them whistling around the corners of the apartment building. There is a small patch of clear; I can see the baby blue sky through it as if it’s a floating window. The clouds around it, illuminated, form a white border in the grey. And I hear an unseen jet above the grey ceiling.

I like being in this room. I spend so much time in the big room that it becomes a bit stifling, I think. I guess now I’ll be spending much more time in here. I think any change can be good, and this one is very much so.

Crucifix

Saturday 1 February 1997

There are crucifixes in each and every classroom at my school.  Separation of church and state is not a goal of the Polish democracy.  So every day I teach with a little statue of a man nailed to a tree hanging right above my head.  “It gives some people comfort,” says Danuta, my counterpart English teacher.  I suppose that’s possible.

Early in the first semester the director told me to come down to the new English classroom to tell him where I wanted the bulletin boards.  (The boards were actually sheets of styrofoam attached to the wall.  Economical.)  He drilled the holes, put up the styrofoam, then drilled the hole for the crucifix.  I wondered how he would respond if I said, “I don’t want that in my classroom.”  No doubt he would be confused, and maybe (probably?) a bit upset with my irreverence.  Of course I said nothing.  “When in Poland . . . ”

It’s got me to thinking about the whole religious symbolism in Christianity.  The cross is a sacred symbol because it represents Christ’s death to millions of Christians around the world.  It is a simple character, almost reminiscent of minimalism in its barest form.  Most people wear crosses because it is an outward expression of their inner convictions.  Yet I wonder: If Jesus had slipped in the shower and bonked his head, would we be wearing Soap-On-A-Rope?  Would giant bath-size Dial bars replace steeples at churches?  Would we make bathing motions every time we enter a church?  It would shed new light on what Pilate said: “Okay, I wash my hands of the whole issue!”

Anyone seen Monty Python’s Life of Brian?  Remember the scene where they’re trying to decide what symbol they’ll use to indicate that they are followers of Brian?  “The shoe!  The shoe!”  I suppose that scene prefigures my own speculations.  Yet both point out how virtually arbitrary religious symbols are.  If Christ were to be put to death today, I suppose twenty-first century Christians would use the electric chair or a hangman’s noose as the primary symbol.

The crucifixes are just one indication of how strong Catholicism is in Poland.  For many, to be Polish is to be Catholic.  They are virtually synonymous.  In fact, next to every crucifix is a relief in plastic of the national symbol of Poland.  Religion and nationalism, hand in hand, as they so often are.