Today is Sunday, November 25, 2018, which is about one year, eleven months, and fourteen days since the last time I posted on Dizzy Development. I started this blog a little more than a year before my last post as a way to tell my story post-mission, and I don’t think I’ve abandoned doing that. Rather, I think I’ve simply found that my preferred outlet for publicly telling my story is Instagram. Instagram allows me to post photos with short, sweet captions that are filled with meaning. It also lets me tell my story in shorter segments by posting what I’m listening to on Spotify, posting pictures of things like my beard growth, and reposting things from accounts that are, for lack of a more eloquent phrase, "doing it for me."
But, Instagram has not (yet) mastered a way for people to tell their stories through longer pieces of writing, and, for that reason, I’m reverting back to my blog. For a moment, at least.
Today’s topic: music.
I post about music constantly, and I’ve definitely written on music before. I’m deeply inspired by live music and things like this: a thousand musicians in Italy playing “Learn to Fly” by Foo Fighters as a way to ask Dave Grohl to play a show there. I believe in the power of music and in its ability to speak to people, unite people, and create shared experiences. I am writing today on something a little more personal, though: music’s ability to narrate our lives and serve as a backdrop to our growth and experiences-- mine, in particular.
Music, more so than books, movies, and television shows, has a way of transporting me back to moments. The beginning lines to “Little Saint Nick” by the Beach Boys takes me back to decorating the Christmas tree with Mom, Blake, Kiley, and Biz. Our copy of the Beach Boys’ Christmas Album sits in storage most of the year with the rest of our Christmas decorations, but as soon as we start decorating, we throw it on repeat for the rest of December.
The first couple Lower Lights albums take me back to my mission days in Newcastle, South Africa with Elder Marumo. The days I remember most vividly are Sundays-- the car rides during the cold mornings on the way to church and the car rides that would follow on the way to some of our favorite members and investigators, backdropped by A Hymn Revival, Volumes I & II.
The Lower Lights Christmas albums, on the other hand, take me back to Umlazi with Elder Okeng. The two of us had fun. It would be sweltering outside and investigators would bunk the actual hell out of our appointments all day long, but we’d make the most of it, usually by gauging how high people on the streets were, or fighting over who would get to marry the girl singing on “Bring a Torch, Jeanette, Isabella” and “The Holly and the Ivy.”
311’s Stereolithic album takes me back to the mission days as well. It was released while I was serving in Newcastle, I believe, and I may or may not have had it loaded on an iPod I kept in my pillowcase. Stereolithic and Jack Johnson’s From Here to Now to You album gave me some much-needed musical release during particularly rough days.
Some albums take me back to places deeper than moments, though. I was biking home from work a few weeks ago, blasting the Foo Fighters’ Sonic Highways album for the who-knows-how-many-th time, and I started thinking back on the last year or so of my life and the albums that have served as its backdrops.
Summer 2017 was the Hamilton soundtrack. I was living in Washington, DC at the time, interning in the United States Senate. A large part of our jobs as interns was to give Capitol tours to constituents. So, to be the best tour guide I could possibly be, I took a swan dive into American history. The stories behind the Hamilton songs, in particular. I listened to the soundtrack on the commute to work, at work, and on the way home from work. I used my free time to read about things like the Compromise of 1790 and Alexander Hamilton’s other legislative victories. Lin-Manuel Miranda paints Hamilton as an impassioned character with ambitious idealism in his relationships and in his hope of creating something that would outlive him, and that resonated with me. That summer was filled with new friends and new experiences, and it was capped with a trip to New York see the musical at the Richard Rodgers Theatre. I laughed, I cried, I waited five hours in the cancellation line to get tickets, and I had the time of my life.
Fall 2017 and Spring 2018 were both backdropped by Nahko’s My Name Is Bear album. By this point, Nahko had become one of my favorite musicians and penned lyrics that had deeply impacted me. Some of my favorite words he’s written are these, from “Manifesto”:
Don’t waste your hate
Rather, gather and create
Be of service
Be a sensible person
Use your words and don’t be nervous
You can do this
You’ve got purpose
Find your medicine and use it
Some words that have carried me through tough times are these, from “Wash It Away”:
We danced a ghost dance in two separate countries
To this old song
So familiar to memory
The road will teach you how to love and let go
It can be lonely but it’s the only thing that we’ve ever known
It can be lonely but it’s the only thing that we’ve ever known
Our mamas told us, “Let go of jealousy”
But for vagabonds and vagrants that won’t come so easy
We’ve come from nothing, nothing
We have come from nothing, nothing
Teach me to love you in a different way
Same cuts, same guts, same crazy
Same cuts, same guts, same crazy
I traveled halfway across the country and back only to find love undefined
And I’m ok with that
Because I’m gonna be a guardian
Be a man among men
Be a guardian
Be a man among men
Or be a woman among women
Be a guardian
Be my friend
Nahko has a special reverence for life and the meaning we ascribe to it that is missing from a lot of music these days. His words, his voice, and his music are beautiful.
My Name Is Bear was released that September and is a collection of songs Nahko wrote about a decade earlier when he was in his late teens/early twenties. Between relationships, road trips to Alaska, mushroom trips, the passing of his adopted father, and his dreams, Nahko writes about some deeply personal experiences. These stories of self-discovery are something I connected with, especially after reading his accompanying biography with more detailed stories. For two solid semesters, My Name Is Bear became the soundtrack to my life.
As April rolled around, a new album caught my attention. Green Day’s American Idiot is the album that got me into music when I was in fifth grade. I remember watching the music videos for “American Idiot,” “Boulevard of Broken Dreams,” and “Wake Me Up When September Ends” on the computers at Bolton Elementary before class and falling in love with rock ‘n’ roll. I kept up with Green Day over the years, and Billie Joe Armstrong has consistently been one of my favorite musicians. His passion and energy on stage are inspiring.
In April 2018, Billie Joe started posting on Instagram about a side project he was working on with a couple members of Prima Donna called The Longshot. Once the lead single, “Love is for Losers,” was released, I knew this was going to be something good. The entire album, Love is for Losers, was some of the most raw, exciting material Billie Joe had written in years. It was thrown together quickly and without the constraints of a major label. It was pure, unadulterated rock ‘n’ roll. And the best part? The Longshot were heading on a small venue tour that summer, with one of their first shows to be in Washington, DC a couple weeks after I would be moving there.
I had seen Green Day in stadiums from nosebleed seats before, and those shows were incredible. But being second row at their show at the Black Cat in DC, right in front of the tiny stage they played on? Unreal. I was dancing two feet away from the man that introduced me to music. To borrow some lyrics from the man himself, I “had the time of my life.’
I listened to Love is for Losers more than perhaps any other album the rest of the summer. It was, simply, fun. Billie Joe’s posts about how fun it was to play the Longshot shows reminded me why I love rock ‘n’ roll. It’s raw. It’s energizing. It makes me want to grab life by the balls and live it to its fullest.
I still listen to Love is for Losers pretty regularly (I actually just finished it again writing this post), but another album soon took over as my backdrop: Sonic Highways by Foo Fighters.
I am convinced that Dave Grohl, founding member and lead singer for the Foo Fighters, is God. Similar to Billie Joe, he loves rock ‘n’ roll, believes mightily in the power of music, and puts on an incredible live show. The Foo Fighters don’t stop playing for three hours straight at their concerts. Two to three songs in to the show, Dave owns the crowd. The entire Vivint Smart Home Arena would have done quite literally anything Dave asked us to do when I saw the Foo Fighters in Salt Lake last December. He’s good, he knows he’s good, and we all knew he’s good.
I had listened to 2014’s Sonic Highways album before this fall, obviously, but I hadn’t watched the Sonic Highways mini documentary series until then.
Sonic Highways is eight songs long, and each song was recorded in a different city: “Something from Nothing” in Chicago; “The Feast and The Famine” in Washington, DC; “Congregations” in Nashville; “What Did I Do?/God As My Witness” in Austin; “Outside” in Los Angeles; “In The Clear” in New Orleans; “Subterranean” in Seattle; and “I Am A River” in New York City. Dave and the band filmed hour-long episodes of the mini series in each city, documenting the history of their music scenes.
Once I started my new job at Namati and found that I had a lot more leisure time, and I used a lot of it to listen to music simply for the sake of listening to music. I dove deep into the Foo Fighters. I watched all of Sonic Highways. I watched a couple other documentaries about the band. I started listening to their other music. I started noticing guitar parts I hadn’t noticed before. I got a little restless just listening to their music, though, and wanted to play more of it (pun intended--Dave released a 20-minute solo rock performance called “Play” in September where he encourages young people to do just that-- pick up an instrument and play some damn music).
I started spending a lot of time at Guitar Center. I realized that with a salaried income, I might be able to afford one of those nicer electric guitars I could never justify buying in high school or college. Between playing Gibsons, Fenders, and Gretsches, I spent hours at the Guitar Center in Alexandria (pretty close to Arlandria-- a neighborhood between Arlington and Alexandria that Dave Grohl actually wrote a song about on Foo Fighters' Wasting Light album). I eventually caved and splurged on a Chris Shiflett Signature Fender Telecaster Deluxe.
For the last month or so, I’ve played my new toy almost everyday. I've played a lot of Foo Fighters songs, a lot of AC/DC, a lot of Zeppelin, some Hendrix, and some Stevie Ray Vaughan. I'm elated. I love listening to music, I love playing other people’s music, but I think my next beast to conquer is writing my own music. I’ve written a few riffs I like, but I’ve never actually completed a song. Maybe I should, though. Start ascribing meaning to my life through my own music rather than someone else's. Seems like an exciting new adventure, eh?
Anyway, all of this to say that my life is narrated by music. I connect moments to songs and periods of my life to albums. Lyrics impact me deeply and passion in musicians inspires me. Life is more meaningful with a soundtrack, and I am eternally grateful for all of the beautiful minds and musicians that have made my life a little more colorful and a little more exciting with their music.
Keep up with me on the ‘gram. I’ll certainly keep posting more there than I write here, but it’s nice to write some things out in long-form every once in a while.
In the words of Mr. Nahko Bear,
Our adventure's only begun
Our spirits are soaring
But mine, it's racing
Where will we go next?
Sunday, November 25, 2018
Sunday, December 11, 2016
Craig
In a nutshell, the Huntsman Scholars semester has been incredible. It's something I've looked forward to since I first interviewed to be a candidate in high school. Being a candidate in the program was different than being a scholar, although I think Candidate Dallin had a difficult time answering a question Scholar Dallin still struggles with: What is Huntsman Scholars? All Candidate Dallin knew was that he attended weekly meetings, read a book every semester, helped with service projects, and got a stipend because of it. He didn't feel super involved, but he was grateful for the extra money to help get him through school. Scholar Dallin struggles with the same question because he knows that words simply cannot do justice to what the Huntsman Scholars semester is. (What is justice, anyway?) It's hard to describe just how tough it was to read ten books and write nine essays over the summer only to have them be torn apart by graders that are only a year ahead of you in school. It's hard to describe how our classroom discussions went, how much John and Shannon truly love and care for each of us, or how the pushback we received from our professors and group members helped us to open our minds and shape us into even better people. Most people won't appreciate the depth of the relationships we built or how vulnerable we were with each other. Most of all, I think it's hard to describe just how much we've learned about ourselves and our fellow classmates. I think most of our family members and colleagues will probably say that we're essentially the same people we were at the beginning of the semester. We're not any different physically and we all have basically the same personalities, but I think our growth has come in how we understand and approach the world. That's something that will take in-depth conversations with us to understand.
And so, I have a difficult time describing what Huntsman Scholars is. Most people assume that it's just a fun trip to Europe, but it's so much more than that. The easy answer is that it's the honors program for the business school, but that hardly captures it. You could say that it's an intense international business experience, and I think that's closer, but it still doesn't quite hit the mark. I think it truly is something you have to experience to be able to fully appreciate. I've become less comfortable with absolutes and more comfortable with abstracts in my life, and I think the Huntsman Scholars program is more abstract than absolute. So much of what it is is determined by the people in it, and I'm just grateful that the 24 people I shared this experience with were able to make it something incredible.
I think one of the most bittersweet thoughts I had Friday evening was that our end of semester banquet would probably be the last time our Huntsman Scholars class would all be together. There will be mentor retreats and Thursday meetings next semester, but a couple of us won't be there because of internships and study abroad experiences. And once we start getting into next year, more of us will start graduating and moving on to the next chapters of our lives. No one else mentioned this, and I'm not sure if that was because it never crossed anyone else's mind, or that more of us realized it, but we didn't want to spoil our last night together by thinking too much about the future. I have a feeling the latter is the case, and I think that was appropriate. The semester ended on a high note, and my heart is full with gratitude for the time I got to spend with Shannon Peterson, John Ferguson, Edward Borenstein, Quinton Cannon, Josh Feigleson, Emilee Fielding, Dallin Green, Landon Guss, Cole Hammond, Annika Hancock, Shae Hansen, Emi Howe, Shiloah Kline, Hannah Nielson, Jameson Osmond, Michael Scott Peters, Morgan Pieper, Alissa Rosado, Scott Saunders, Brad Siler, Tyler Simmons, Jackie Sullivan, Michael Swink, and Ben Wilhelm.
I should probably end here. I could go on for pages and hours about this semester, but I'd rather chat about it with you in person. I think I owe that to a lot of you, anyway. I've felt bad about the friendships that I've neglected to give my everything to the program this semester. I'm sad it's coming to an end, I'm incredibly glad that it happened, and I'm looking forward to everything that lies ahead.
Stay positive and love your life, my friends.
Much love,
Dizzy
Monday, October 17, 2016
War is Ugly
On the train ride from Munich to Clermont-Ferrand, I typed up my thoughts about our visit to Dachau. That's what the second part of this post is. Before I had time to edit a final draft, though, we also visited Normandy. I think it's appropriate to include a few thoughts on that experience, too. Both of these places tell the same story from a different vantage point: war is ugly. It's ugly for the innocent civilians who get caught in the crossfire of waring nations, and it's ugly for the soldiers who are enlisted to fight for their country's interests.
Part I: Normandy
The train ride from Paris to Normandy was about two and a half hours. It was enough time for Jackie and I to watch the better part of Saving Private Ryan. War seemed a little less glamorous after that. The opening scene shows a boat full of soldiers preparing to storm Omaha Beach. They’re shaking. They look absolutely panicked. As soon as the door to the boat opens, they’re sprayed with ammunition. They all die. Their hopes and dreams are cut short… Just like that. For them, there will be no glorious homecoming at the end of the war. No returning to their loved ones. That's it. It's horrible to think about, and it made our visit to the American Cemetery and Omaha Beach later that day a little more meaningful.
Walking around the cemetery was somber. It was emotional. When you think about each one of the crosses representing a human life lost in the war, it moves you. Quinton had a little moment. He told me he started thinking about his wife and how so many soldiers left behind spouses, too. I can’t even imagine. We talked about how grateful we are that we don’t live in a time when there’s a draft. And how war has never been a reality for us. We’re so far removed from it. But at the same time, that’s not true everywhere in the world. In places like Aleppo, the horrors of war are real. It still happens. The Western world is relatively stable, but war is a reality in so many places.
On one of the memorials at Omaha Beach, there was a quote from General Dwight D. Eisenhower just a few days after D-Day:
I hate war as only a soldier who has lived it can... Yet there is one thing to be said on the credit side. Victory required a mighty manifestation of the most ennobling virtues of man—faith, courage, fortitude, sacrifice.A world without war would be wonderful, but I don't think that's going to happen anytime soon, unfortunately. And I don't know how to make peace with that. What I do know is that the brave men and women who are willing to make that sacrifice are deserving of the highest honor and respect. In my mind, there is not a more selfless sacrifice than giving up your own life so that others can be free.
Part II: Dachau
Dachau. What an emotional experience. I’m glad I went, but it wasn’t pleasant. There’s nothing nice about seeing a place where thousands of innocent people were stripped of their humanity, slaughtered, and disposed of like useless animals. I think there’s a reason the holocaust is remembered as a particularly dark moment in human history. Adolf Hitler’s Nazi Germany was a unique brand of evil. It was systematic and sophisticated—more so than any operation we’ve seen since. Donald Trump’s campaign is often compared to Hitler’s, but I don’t think that’s the best comparison. I actually think that gives too much credit to Trump.
Trump is running for president in a country that is pretty well off. The United States is the most powerful economy in the world and has had a stable democracy for more than 200 years. Racism still exists and globalization hasn’t benefited everyone, but overall, things are not that bad. Trump has written a few books about how to make deals and money, but he has never contemplated politics much deeper than that. He’s a celebrity and a businessman. He talks big, but he does not have the conviction or discipline for politics that Hitler had.
When Hitler rose to power, Germany was in trouble. The country had been embarrassed on the international stage by the Treaty of Versailles. Post-WWI reconstruction benefited a few but harmed the majority, and the stock market crash certainly didn’t help. Germans were rightfully frustrated with their nation’s seemingly unsuccessful transition to democracy, and Hitler capitalized on that. Hitler had been a political prisoner and authored his own biography, Mein Kampf, by the time he became Chancellor of Germany in 1933. He was elected in March, and Dachau opened in April. Within a couple years, Hitler had successfully codified anti-semitic laws. Moral character aside, he was a brilliant organizer and strategist.
One of the most disturbing parts of Dachau was actually how well it was organized, packaged, and sold to the public. People in Munich weren’t aware of what was going on in the camp. I think the best comparison is the crazy old man with conspiracy theories about how the government is performing secret tests on human subjects. Nobody believes him, and he usually is just a crazy old man. But in the case of Nazi Germany, the crazy old man was right. Dachau was organized so that no one on the outside knew what was going on and no one on the inside could escape and tell the truth. The fence around the border consisted of a no-entry zone, a ditch, barbed wire, and a four-meter-tall electric fence. Prisoners were shot if they entered the no-entry zone, but if that didn’t stop them, the ditch, barbed wire, or electric fence did the trick. Conditions were so bad that prisoners often threw themselves at the electric fence because death seemed like a better option than trying to survive. That wasn’t the description that was sold to the public, though.
The words “arbeit macht frei” are still written on the gate into Dachau. In English, that means “work makes you free.” As far as the public was concerned, concentration camps were good things for the prisoners. But that was far from the truth. Jews, homosexuals, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Poles, Soviets, and political prisoners were treated like scum. They were starved, ordered around, beaten, or shot, depending on the guard’s mood. Living conditions were rough to begin with, but by the time Dachau was liberated in 1945, more than 30,000 people were crammed into barracks meant for 6,000. Thousands died, and their remains were simply burned in one of the camp’s two crematoriums. No funerals. Just death.
When I was younger, I figured war was something you eventually became comfortable with, but the more I think about the individual lives affected, the less comforting it is. I doubt any of the Jews thrown in concentration camps wanted to be involved with WWII. They were civilians. They had families. Jobs. Hopes. Dreams. But all of those were cut short. It was unsettling to walk around a place that was the end for so many people. For me, Dachau was a memorial. It was a place to visit and pay tribute to those who lost their lives. At the end of the day, I knew I’d be back in a nice, warm bed. But for others—so many others—that wasn’t the case. Dachau was it.
It’s hard to comprehend how the Nazis could have done something so terrible. I think part of it was that they actually didn’t regard the prisoners as members of the same human family. When Dachau was liberated, Nazi leaders were forced to look at the piles of bodies waiting to be cremated. That must have been hard to stomach. It’s easier to be terrible when you can separate yourself emotionally and physically from the situation. That’s exactly what Hitler’s Nazi regime was designed to do.
I think it would be naive to write off the holocaust as something that will never happen again. I certainly don’t think we’re on the verge of something similar happening anytime soon, but we shouldn’t be complacent. We may be more technologically advanced than we were 80 years ago, but the human condition is the same. Every new generation is subject to the same cognitive biases and racist tendencies as previous generations. We need to be cognizant of that. When people say they’re being oppressed, I think we owe it to them to listen. It’s when we stop listening that things get bad. We start blaming others for our misfortunes. We dismiss pleas for help. We become hostile. But when we listen, we remember that everyone else in the world, no matter their ethnicity, is trying to find happiness just like we are. That’s beautiful. And I think that’s the direction we’re moving.
I’m optimistic that it is, anyway.
Sunday, October 2, 2016
An RM's Take on the Book of Mormon Musical
My dad, brother, and I were in Chicago about three years ago as a last hurrah before I left on my mission to South Africa. We went to see 311 on their summer tour (since they weren’t going to make it to Utah before I left), but the Book of Mormon musical happened to be in town at the same time. We ended up buying tickets and laughing ourselves silly. It was the bits and pieces of Mormon culture the South Park guys got right that did it for me. We were on the other side of the country, yet the mural of Salt Lake City in the opening scenes had Crown Burger and Zions Bank painted into it. Elder Price dreamt he was in hell, and his idea of hell included dancing cups of Starbucks coffee. Brilliant!
I remember my dad saying it was the aspects of missionary life they got right that did it for him. I thought he was referring to the one-piece garments the elders wore to bed, but after seeing the show again in London as a returned missionary, I think he was actually getting at something deeper. The South Park guys didn’t just check off a bucket list of cultural particularities, they nailed attitudes, emotions, and desires that will resonate with members, returned missionaries, and non-members alike. They covered faith, doubt, and the human experience, and Elder Price offered some wisdom that could really help expand the tent of Mormonism.
Returned missionaries should be able to identify with Elder Price because all of us were Elder Prices at some point on our missions. Some were Elder Prices for longer than others, but none of us were completely immune to the “You and Me (But Mostly Me)” attitude. Parts of us secretly hoped we would personally “do something incredible that [blew] God’s freakin’ mind.” Part of the whole experience, though, was figuring out if we were there for ourselves or for the people we were serving and finding balance between the two.
In the beginning, Elder Price was there for himself. “I’ve always had the hope that on the day I go to heaven,” he sang, “Heavenly Father will shake my hand and say, ‘You’ve done an awesome job, Kevin!’” He saw his mission as a means of earning his celestial reward. It was evident that he didn’t care for his companion or the Ugandans as much as he cared about his own salvation when he knocked on his first door. He asked the woman if she felt there was something missing in her life, and she simply motioned to her run-down shack without saying a word. Rather than offering her something useful, Elder Price followed the “approved dialogue” and was shocked that she and the rest of the villagers were so unresponsive to his message. If he had listened to her, he would have learned that Christian missionaries had visited her village before but had failed to do anything meaningful about their AIDS, poverty, or warlord. I’m not sure there was anything Elder Price could have done, but he could have at least been more empathetic.
The more people I meet and interact with, the more I’m convinced that everyone in the world, regardless of their background, gender, race, or orientation, is searching for the same thing: happiness. We may define it differently, but we all want it. Elder Price understood happiness to be his reward in heaven. His companion, Elder Cunningham, understood it to be friendship and acceptance. The one person that listened to them, Nobalungi, understood it to be an escape from her dreadful village. In one of the most sincere, heartfelt songs in the musical, she sang about a paradise called Sal Tlay Ka Siti (Salt Lake City) and how wonderful it must be:
I can’t imagine what it must be like,
This perfect, happy place.
I’ll bet the goat meat there is plentiful,
And they have vitamin injections by the case.
The warlords there are friendly—
They help you cross the street.
And there’s a Red Cross on every corner,
With all the flour you can eat.
Sal Tlay Ka Siti,
The most perfect place on earth.
Where flies don’t bite your eyeballs,
And human life has worth.
It isn’t a place of fairy tales—
It’s as real as it can be.
A land where evil doesn’t exist.
Sal Tlay Ka Siti.
She felt that if she could only make it to Sal Tlay Ka Siti, she’d find her paradise, similar to Elder Price’s hope that redeeming Uganda would would lead him to his. It’s something we all want, but something we’re not entirely sure how to find.
Toward the end, things were not going as Elder Price had planned. He hadn’t done “something incredible.” The Church wasn't growing in Uganda. He wasn’t serving in his “favorite place, Orlando.” All of this led him to question the faith he grew up with. Things were rough for the villagers, too—especially Nobalungi. When Elder Price left him alone, Elder Cunningham found that more people listened to him when he bent the truth about Mormonism. The villagers ended up learning and adhering to a bastardized version of the faith. When they presented it in musical form to the mission president, he was quick to tell them they were far, far from being Latter-day Saints. This was disheartening. Almost everyone hit rock bottom, but Elder Price learned something important:
We are still Latter-day Saints—all of us.
Even if we change some things,
Or we break the rules,
Or we have complete doubt that God exists.
We can still all work together and make this our paradise planet.
He learned that inclusion trumps exclusion and that helping others to be genuinely happy is often more important than sticking to dogma. That’s something we often forget.
Members who are comfortable with f-bombs and irreverence will appreciate the Book of Mormon. Returned missionaries will relive the excitement of opening their mission calls. They’ll resonate with how demotivating it can be to get called somewhere they don’t want to go or to show up to an area and see straight zeroes as the key indicators. They won’t be surprised to learn that Elder Cunningham never actually read the Book of Mormon before serving his mission, and they will most certainly recognize the assistants to the mission president. Members will appreciate how much attention the South Park guys paid to detail—from using real copies of the Book of Mormon to nailing the year the Priesthood was extended to all worthy male members to referencing Kolob. The only doctrinal inaccuracy I noticed was the timing of Christ’s visit to the Nephites, but that was a minor detail. Everything else was spot-on, and the overarching message was positive:
I am a Latter-day Saint,
Along with all my town.
We always sit together,
Come what may.
We love to dance and shout,
And let all the feelings out,
And work to make a better Latter-day.
We'll be here for each other every step of the way,
And make a Latter-day tomorrow.
I like to think it’s healthy to laugh at yourself every once in a while, and I think that includes laughing at the things you believe in and hold most dear. Life should be taken seriously, but not so seriously that you miss out on something as beautifully hilarious, touching, and insightful as the Book of Mormon. I may be wrong and I may be destined for the Telestial Kingdom for going to such a crass musical, but if I am, feel free to have dinner with me.
Christ dined with sinners, after all.
Friday, June 17, 2016
What a beautiful life!
One of my assignments for the study abroad program I've done this summer has been to keep a daily journal of what we've been up to. This last week has been, to quote Chris Martin, the "adventure of a lifetime." I took snippets from a few entries and posted them below. The video I posted is "I Mua" by Nahko and Medicine for the People. Beautiful song, and the line that keeps repeating over and over in my head goes "What a beautiful life!"
Enjoy!
9-10 June
I’ve heard it said that jumping into a pool will teach a person more about how to swim in just a few seconds than years of reading about the mechanics of swimming ever will, and I think the same applies to most things in life. If you want to learn to play the guitar, you have to get a guitar and play it. If you want to learn a language, you have to speak it. And if you want to learn about people, humanity, the world, and how they all work, you have to visit the world with other human people, preferably good ones. Fortunately, that’s exactly what this last weekend in Rome was.
11 June
I’m not sure if it was a stroke of good fortune because we attended Mass at St. Peter’s Basilica earlier that day or if we just happened to meet all the right people by chance, but whatever it was, I was continually amazed at the generosity of the people we met in Rome.
We had already been to Trevi Fountain the day before, but we wanted to see it again at night. Even in the evening, it was crowded with tons and tons of tourists. You had to be proactive about pushing your way to the front if you wanted to throw your coin in, make a wish, and, of course, get a picture. My selfie stick had died, so we were struggling a little bit with the last part, but a nice Asian tourist saw us and offered to take our picture on her DSLR camera. We looked at each other, unsure what to say, but ultimately accepted, all the while laughing at how random a situation we had found ourselves in.
After the nice lady took our picture, her daughter asked one of us for an email address she could send it to once they were home. Anna gave her hers, and none of us were too sure we were ever gonna see the picture. But, sure enough, a few days later, it ended up in Anna's inbox, just as she had promised!
I still can’t get over it… For no reason other than to be a good person, this lady went out of her way to make sure a group of strange American tourists got a nice picture in front of the Trevi Fountain. What a saint!
By the time we finished up at the Trevi Fountain, it was getting pretty late, so we started making our way back to the Colosseum to catch the metro. On our way, we ended up passing a McDonald’s that sold gelato and a huge pride party happening in the streets just opposite the Colosseum. What a place.
Our good fortune that evening kept up when we realized that our metro tickets from earlier in the day still worked. Awesome! We caught the metro, got to the next station, and realized that we had missed our last train back to the hotel by twenty minutes or so. Not awesome! It seemed our good fortune was running out.
We left the station and tried to find a bus stop. The language barrier was a little bit of a challenge, but after pointing out where we needed to get to on a map, a bus driver pointed us in the direction of another bus that would take us pretty close. After one change, we found ourselves on the right bus (our metro tickets still working, by the way). The bus’s normal route wouldn’t have taken us exactly where we needed to go, but it took us close enough that our bus driver finished his shift for the night and offered to take us off-route to exactly where we needed to be for nothing in return. What a saint!
As soon as he dropped us off, we were amazed as we reflected on the events that had unfolded that evening. The lady taking our picture… Our metro tickets still working when they definitely shouldn't have… Finding a bus at 11 o’clock at night with a driver kind enough to go out of his way to make sure we made it home safely… People are good. I’m convinced.
We crashed pretty hard once we got back and slept well that night. Well, for the couple hours we did get to sleep before waking up at 4 to catch our 7 a.m. flight back to Barcelona. For the adventure we had that weekend, the lack of sleep was worth it. I’ve yet to find anything in this life that beats good times spent with the best of people.
16 June
I’m kind of at a loss of words now that it’s over… But I don’t think there’s anything better I could have done with the first month and a half of my summer this year. No amount of studying French in Utah could have given me the kickstart to learning a language like living with a host family in France could. No amount of reading about other cultures could have taught me about other people like living for a month in a foreign country could. And doing it all with this incredible group of people? All the better. Quelle belle vie.
Enjoy!
9-10 June
I’ve heard it said that jumping into a pool will teach a person more about how to swim in just a few seconds than years of reading about the mechanics of swimming ever will, and I think the same applies to most things in life. If you want to learn to play the guitar, you have to get a guitar and play it. If you want to learn a language, you have to speak it. And if you want to learn about people, humanity, the world, and how they all work, you have to visit the world with other human people, preferably good ones. Fortunately, that’s exactly what this last weekend in Rome was.
11 June
I’m not sure if it was a stroke of good fortune because we attended Mass at St. Peter’s Basilica earlier that day or if we just happened to meet all the right people by chance, but whatever it was, I was continually amazed at the generosity of the people we met in Rome.
We had already been to Trevi Fountain the day before, but we wanted to see it again at night. Even in the evening, it was crowded with tons and tons of tourists. You had to be proactive about pushing your way to the front if you wanted to throw your coin in, make a wish, and, of course, get a picture. My selfie stick had died, so we were struggling a little bit with the last part, but a nice Asian tourist saw us and offered to take our picture on her DSLR camera. We looked at each other, unsure what to say, but ultimately accepted, all the while laughing at how random a situation we had found ourselves in.
After the nice lady took our picture, her daughter asked one of us for an email address she could send it to once they were home. Anna gave her hers, and none of us were too sure we were ever gonna see the picture. But, sure enough, a few days later, it ended up in Anna's inbox, just as she had promised!
I still can’t get over it… For no reason other than to be a good person, this lady went out of her way to make sure a group of strange American tourists got a nice picture in front of the Trevi Fountain. What a saint!
By the time we finished up at the Trevi Fountain, it was getting pretty late, so we started making our way back to the Colosseum to catch the metro. On our way, we ended up passing a McDonald’s that sold gelato and a huge pride party happening in the streets just opposite the Colosseum. What a place.
Our good fortune that evening kept up when we realized that our metro tickets from earlier in the day still worked. Awesome! We caught the metro, got to the next station, and realized that we had missed our last train back to the hotel by twenty minutes or so. Not awesome! It seemed our good fortune was running out.
We left the station and tried to find a bus stop. The language barrier was a little bit of a challenge, but after pointing out where we needed to get to on a map, a bus driver pointed us in the direction of another bus that would take us pretty close. After one change, we found ourselves on the right bus (our metro tickets still working, by the way). The bus’s normal route wouldn’t have taken us exactly where we needed to go, but it took us close enough that our bus driver finished his shift for the night and offered to take us off-route to exactly where we needed to be for nothing in return. What a saint!
As soon as he dropped us off, we were amazed as we reflected on the events that had unfolded that evening. The lady taking our picture… Our metro tickets still working when they definitely shouldn't have… Finding a bus at 11 o’clock at night with a driver kind enough to go out of his way to make sure we made it home safely… People are good. I’m convinced.
We crashed pretty hard once we got back and slept well that night. Well, for the couple hours we did get to sleep before waking up at 4 to catch our 7 a.m. flight back to Barcelona. For the adventure we had that weekend, the lack of sleep was worth it. I’ve yet to find anything in this life that beats good times spent with the best of people.
16 June
I’m kind of at a loss of words now that it’s over… But I don’t think there’s anything better I could have done with the first month and a half of my summer this year. No amount of studying French in Utah could have given me the kickstart to learning a language like living with a host family in France could. No amount of reading about other cultures could have taught me about other people like living for a month in a foreign country could. And doing it all with this incredible group of people? All the better. Quelle belle vie.
Sunday, May 29, 2016
"Sometimes it's hard to be my brother's keeper"
It's been a while since I've done a blog post, but one of the requirements for my study abroad trip is to keep a travel journal logging our cultural experience in France. Most of my entries are just a couple paragraphs, but I wrote one earlier this week that I felt was worth sharing.
Enjoy!
24 May 2016
I had a really interesting experience walking home from class today. Anna and I had just stopped by the grocery store and finished planning our trip to Rome in a couple weekends. When we parted ways, I stuck my headphones in and turned on the song that had been stuck in my head all day -- “Love Letters to God” by Nahko and Medicine for the People:
Give, always give what you can,
Even if your allies draw lines in the sand.
And dig, always dig a little deeper.
Sometimes it’s hard to be my brother’s keeper.
Love, so you let love in.
Baby, I am home in the wake of your skin.
And it’s crazy, how we wear our ceremonies.
Always be open to your path and your journey.
I’m not sure exactly what Nahko was driving at, but the lyrics moved me. I think that’s kinda the point of music. Anyway, I walked past a couple of guys that looked homeless, and I caught a glimpse of the t-shirt one was wearing. It didn’t look much different than t-shirts I would wear, and that got me thinking: how different are he and I, really?
Let’s say, hypothetically, he and I are actually very similar. He’s into the same music as me, has the same career aspirations, similar talents, but perhaps because we grew up under different circumstances, he’s ended up in much worse living conditions than me. Instead of traveling to the other side of the world to study a foreign language and experience a new culture, he’s walking down the street of his hometown, begging for money just so he can eat. Had I grown up under under harsher circumstances, could that be me out on the streets? Had he grown up in more generous circumstances, could he be living a better life? Why did I grow up in my circumstances and he in his?
As I kept walking, Nahko’s words kept me thinking. I looked at each of the people I passed, especially those that looked stressed, anxious, and sorrowful, and wondered what challenges they were going through. When I thought about the things that were stressing me (finding a train to England at the end of my trip, for example), they almost seemed gluttonous in comparison. There are people in this world (and perhaps there were people on that street) that aren’t sure whether they’re going to eat on a given day, and there I was worrying about how I was going to spend my leisure time on the other side of the world. How is that even fair?
I imagine this is a quandary that’s plagued scholars and philosophers for millennia, so I doubt my thoughts after wandering down a street in Perpignan will do much to bring humanity closer to a solution. I’m certainly not capable of giving people the life I'm privileged to live, but maybe there are small things I can do to nudge people in the right direction.
Give, always give what you can.
It's hard to give. It's so much easier to tell a little white lie to someone and hurry on your way. "Eish, I don't have anything on me." But perhaps I can be a little more understanding and willing to give next time I see a beggar on the street. Perhaps I can actually carry with me something I can give. It may be unlikely that any single act of goodness turns a life around, but even easing one person's suffering however minutely... That’s still something in the right direction. And who knows, maybe those small acts will set me on the right path to do more later in life.
And dig, always dig a little deeper.
Sometimes it's hard to be my brother's keeper.
I’ve been extremely blessed the last three years to live in some of the most diverse places this world has to offer. Despite cultural differences between the people in Utah, in South Africa, in Hawaii, in California, in Louisiana, in France, or anywhere, really, the human condition is very much the same. We feel the same emotions, go through the same struggles, and are all essentially looking for the same things -- happiness, joy, and fulfillment. As we live abroad, but perhaps more especially as we live at home, it’s important to keep this in mind. When we’re able to understand that we’re more similar to people than we realize, our capacity to be a positive influence wherever we live increases dramatically.
24 May 2016
I had a really interesting experience walking home from class today. Anna and I had just stopped by the grocery store and finished planning our trip to Rome in a couple weekends. When we parted ways, I stuck my headphones in and turned on the song that had been stuck in my head all day -- “Love Letters to God” by Nahko and Medicine for the People:
Give, always give what you can,
Even if your allies draw lines in the sand.
And dig, always dig a little deeper.
Sometimes it’s hard to be my brother’s keeper.
Love, so you let love in.
Baby, I am home in the wake of your skin.
And it’s crazy, how we wear our ceremonies.
Always be open to your path and your journey.
I’m not sure exactly what Nahko was driving at, but the lyrics moved me. I think that’s kinda the point of music. Anyway, I walked past a couple of guys that looked homeless, and I caught a glimpse of the t-shirt one was wearing. It didn’t look much different than t-shirts I would wear, and that got me thinking: how different are he and I, really?
Let’s say, hypothetically, he and I are actually very similar. He’s into the same music as me, has the same career aspirations, similar talents, but perhaps because we grew up under different circumstances, he’s ended up in much worse living conditions than me. Instead of traveling to the other side of the world to study a foreign language and experience a new culture, he’s walking down the street of his hometown, begging for money just so he can eat. Had I grown up under under harsher circumstances, could that be me out on the streets? Had he grown up in more generous circumstances, could he be living a better life? Why did I grow up in my circumstances and he in his?
As I kept walking, Nahko’s words kept me thinking. I looked at each of the people I passed, especially those that looked stressed, anxious, and sorrowful, and wondered what challenges they were going through. When I thought about the things that were stressing me (finding a train to England at the end of my trip, for example), they almost seemed gluttonous in comparison. There are people in this world (and perhaps there were people on that street) that aren’t sure whether they’re going to eat on a given day, and there I was worrying about how I was going to spend my leisure time on the other side of the world. How is that even fair?
I imagine this is a quandary that’s plagued scholars and philosophers for millennia, so I doubt my thoughts after wandering down a street in Perpignan will do much to bring humanity closer to a solution. I’m certainly not capable of giving people the life I'm privileged to live, but maybe there are small things I can do to nudge people in the right direction.
Give, always give what you can.
It's hard to give. It's so much easier to tell a little white lie to someone and hurry on your way. "Eish, I don't have anything on me." But perhaps I can be a little more understanding and willing to give next time I see a beggar on the street. Perhaps I can actually carry with me something I can give. It may be unlikely that any single act of goodness turns a life around, but even easing one person's suffering however minutely... That’s still something in the right direction. And who knows, maybe those small acts will set me on the right path to do more later in life.
And dig, always dig a little deeper.
Sometimes it's hard to be my brother's keeper.
I’ve been extremely blessed the last three years to live in some of the most diverse places this world has to offer. Despite cultural differences between the people in Utah, in South Africa, in Hawaii, in California, in Louisiana, in France, or anywhere, really, the human condition is very much the same. We feel the same emotions, go through the same struggles, and are all essentially looking for the same things -- happiness, joy, and fulfillment. As we live abroad, but perhaps more especially as we live at home, it’s important to keep this in mind. When we’re able to understand that we’re more similar to people than we realize, our capacity to be a positive influence wherever we live increases dramatically.
Sunday, March 13, 2016
"Come as you are. Leave different."
Alooooha!
Holy... So many good things happening lately. Life is so good right now. And as I sit here in the Louis Armstrong International Airport, waiting for my flight to Denver (which will be followed by an eleven hour layover...ugh), I finally have some down-time to write all about it.
Let's just dive into this last week. Yoh! So about a month or so ago, going to 311 Day in New Orleans seemed like just a distant dream. I mean, I planned on doing it eventually, but there would be no way I could afford a plane ticket there this year... Even though 311 Day just happened to be over spring break... And I've always kinda wanted to go experience New Orleans... And Airbnb would make staying there super cheap... And... Oh geez, it couldn't hurt to just check out plane tickets, could it? Well, curiosity got the best of me and a couple days later I found myself with a round-trip ticket to New Orleans and tickets to 311 Day 2016! I may have to be fiscally conservative for a few weeks after this, but man... What an experience it ended up being.
First off, I've never traveled alone before. I was a little nervous, but I think that's natural when you're trying something new. I figured if I could survive a two-year trip to the other side of the world in a country as dangerous as they come, though, how bad could five days in my motherland be? And I mean, physically I was traveling alone, but technology's so cool these days that between FaceTime, Snapchat, and whatever other platforms, it was almost like I was with the people I love most the whole week, even though they were anywhere from 1,400 to 4,200 miles away. And then there's all the new people I got to meet...
I stayed at an Airbnb along with a few other people who trickled in and out over the week. Between all of us we represented Utah, California, Illinois, Canada, New York, and New Zealand. Ryan was such a stud of a host, especially considering we were only paying $25 a night to stay at his place. Tuesday night when I got there, he welcomed me in, showed me around the place, pointed out the "good shower," gave me a detailed explanation of how to use public transit to get around the city, and made me feel right at home with some snacks. There was a dude named Russ that was sharing the room with me at first. He had been there a day or so and was on a cross-country road trip. I think he was going East Coast to West Coast... Can't remember. He left the next morning. Most of the people that stayed there were traveling solo like me. I wasn't the only first-timer, either. Kinda cool to get to know some people in my same boat. I'm spacing on their names though, dang it. There was a nice couple in another one of the rooms too! Andrew and Fey. I ended up eating at Cafe Du Monde with them... Friday, I think? Something like that. They recommended the WWII Museum and I had a great time there the next day.
New Orleans itself was a unique experience. A lot of people were calling me crazy for going there with the intention of staying sober, but it turns out the city offers lots more than just booze! The food was absolutely incredible. Holy. Southern cuisine is divine. From shrimp and grits, to po-boys, to beignets, to red beans and rice, to baked ham, goodness... Even to tacos! It's all so good. All of it. Before I left Bracken told me I should allow myself one solid meal a day. That was sound advice that kept me satisfied and smiling all week. Other than the food, though, there was lots to see. St. Louis Cathedral, the French Quarter, the Mississippi River, street cars, the music... Oh my days, the MUSIC. Literally anywhere you go, whether you're at the airport, in the CBD, in the French Quarter, or in a neighborhood, you'll hear music! The French Quarter was especially cool because there's LIVE music all over the place. You'll hear blues bands playing in the bars and makeshift brass bands and folk ensembles on the streets. Tips weren't obligatory, but I didn't mind throwing these guys a few dollars to support their passions.
I took a swamp tour on... Thursday I believe. That was an experience. The swamp we toured was in a town called Slidell, which was about a 45 minute drive from NOLA. Since I had no other means of transportation, I paid a little extra to take the tour bus over. That was a good decision. The driver gave us commentary the whole way, and we traveled through a few neighborhoods that were still in bad shape from Hurricane Katrina nearly 11 years earlier. Crazy... Katrina may have disappeared from the news a few months after it happened, but NOLA never really fully recovered. The driver pointed out whole apartment complexes that had been vacant for a decade, slabs of cement that used to be houses that didn't get rebuilt... After Katrina, NOLA's population shrunk by a couple hundred thousand. While we were on the actual swamp tour, Captain Bishop pointed out newer looking houses that were on stilts much higher than the older looking ones. Katrina set the standard for how high to build houses after that, because water levels were like... 6-8 feet into some houses that were already on stilts. It's mind-blowing. But hey... In one way or another, life goes on. The swamp tour was cool too. Kinda felt like I was back on a game drive in South Africa. Saw a few gators, some wild boars, and a few snakes. Captain Bishop fed the boars marshmallows. Apparently that's the trick to making sweet pork.
Oh boy... And the reason for coming to NOLA in the first place. 311 Day!!! Two nights of it! What an incredible experience. The morning of the first show, I road the street car into town with a dude named Jason who was going to camp out all day to be the first in line to get in. There are different types of 311 fans... Some love the whole rock-n-roll lifestyle that you get to live at their shows, and others like me and him just absolutely love their music. We talked music most of the twenty minute drive. Unity through music... Such a beautiful thing.
The shows were incredible. More than 80 songs were played over the course of the two nights. At their typical touring shows, they have to cater to a little more general crowd, but 311 Day is for the die-hard fans. You get to hear rarities, b-sides, songs from their upcoming album... You get to hear them sing with a gospel choir... You get to see Mark McGrath of Sugar Ray come take the stage and do a few songs with them... You get to see P-Nut loop a mind-blowing bass solo into a rendition of Get Lucky by Daft Punk... You get to see freaking Chad tear it up on the drums and lead the crowd in singing Hey Jude... My goodness. It was incredible. Two of the greatest 311 shows I've been to. And somehow, they're gonna step it up the next time.
Sigh... All good things must come to an end though. After Saturday night's show I set an alarm to be able to attend the New Orleans First Ward the next. Wherever you go in the world (unless you go to like China or the Middle East or whatever), you always have family in the Church. It's cool, really, to see a message so beautiful resonate with people the whole world wide. Riley Reeves and I were talking about this a few weeks ago... The last part of the 13th Article of Faith. "If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things." There is truth to be found everywhere in the world. Truth to be learned from the people you meet, from the places you go... I picked up a couple really neat things from the mission president's wife who spoke today. She spoke of diversity and withholding judgments. I think if we're too quick to judge people, we may just miss something "virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy" that they may be able to teach us. I think learning's lifelong... A lifelong pursuit, in a way. Each of us always striving to be better people. Learning that individually we may not know it all, but together... We've got something special.
I think I learned a couple things about myself this week as well. Louisiana used to have this tourism slogan: "Come as you are. Leave different." I learned that it's really fun to get out and travel and see the world, but at the end of the week, it's wonderful to know I'll be right back with the people I love most. For me, I've realized it's more about the people than the places. The people that are gonna stick around for years to come. I don't really care where I end up living, just as long as I'm surrounded by my favorite people. I'm excited to get back to them in Utah and Hawaii (although sadly, that second one won't be soon enough...sigh).
I did leave one thing on my bucket list. I've been in the South almost a week and I haven't eaten at Waffle House once. Guess that means I'll need to come back, eh?
One more thing then I've got to board. While I was on the bus on the way to the airport today, a couple caught sight of my South African luggage tag. She asked me if I was from there, BECAUSE SHE WAS! We got talking and I asked her what language she spoke. ZULU!!! "Ngikhuluma isiZulu kancane," I told her. Her face lit up! She told me "Hamba kahle" as we parted ways. Man... It felt good speaking Zulu to another Zulu. Haven't done that in months.
That's it for me today. Stay positive and love your life my friends.
Much love,
Diz
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