Thursday, January 25, 2007
Sex, Drugs, and Facilitators
Sobering as the reality was, though, the overall experience was positive. The work we did in the reconstructed Buras YMCA was productive and rewarding, and the trip had more than its share of memorable moments. Many of those moments could be attributed to the fact that we lived in a hippie commune. A certifiable hippie commune.
If nothing else, my stay at the Y taught me the creative possibilities of a life without shampoo. Beth fashioned her hair as a thick, tight, multi-stranded piece of shrubbery. Rory designed his as a free-floating swirl of red. (It resembled cotton candy, but typically cotton candy does not contain dust, lint, and the faint aroma of wood chips). The most significant cosmetic achievement went to Liza, whose creation could be classified as "Caucasian dredlocks," but would more accurately be described as a "profusion of pipe cleaners" -- fuzzy black, white, and brown strands that held tightly together when moistened by bong water.
Another enjoyable hippie quirk was the use of the term "facilitator." Every morning, me, Evan, Tom, Pierre, Kyle, Texas, and the other members of the Tent City commune met for Morning Meeting. (That is, if the spirit moved us; if it did not, there was still peace and love). At the meeting, one of the facilitators (one of the people who had been in Emergency Communities the longest and could most ably lead the group) would ask who wanted to do what task that day. In theory, this description fits that of a "leader." The free thinkers at Emergency Communities recognized, however, that a leader can be described as a person who makes sure the most things get done in the most efficient, productive manner possible. And no reasonable person would endorse that kind of Fascism.
One day at morning meeting, Mauve, on of the "co"-facilitators, mentioned that she was upset that the previous day, Maria, an insensitive culinary facilitator, referred to the cooking area as "my" kitchen. Mauve reminded her that the area which was used almost exclusively by Maria every meal of the day was "our" kitchen, as community-owned as any other part of the facility. Maria reluctantly agreed to be more careful in the future, but I would imagine that there was a fairly lengthy session of Circle before bed -- Circle being the nightly meeting in which facilitators gather around and discuss the feelings evoked over the course of the day.
Two final memorable hippies were Lindsay and Patrick. Lindsay dropped out of school not because it was populated by dangerously productive "breeders," but because she did not agree with the idea that "anyone can define knowledge, that you can be told what and how to learn." Patrick's bold stance involved the auto industry. For three years he did not get his drivers license because cars use oil. This past year, Patrick sold out and got the license. I hold out some hope that he contacted Serbian nationals and his car is now running on first-rate plutonium, but most likely, Patrick did in fact sell out.
And finally, there was the sign next to the shower, the most amusing emblem of hippiedom in the whole place. "Be fair," the sign read, "please clean your hair." 'Cause people usually need the reminder . . .
Over the break, I spent a few days working in Buras, Louisiana, a community located about an hour outside of New Orleans. It was frustrating to see how little had changed in two years. Blown-out buildings appeared on both sides of the main road, debris covered numerous lawns, and "do not demolish" signs were spray painted on the front of every third house.
Sobering as the reality was, though, the overall experience was positive. The work we did in the reconstructed Buras YMCA was productive and rewarding, and the trip had more than its share of memorable moments. Many of those moments could be attributed to the fact that we lived in a hippie commune. A certifiable hippie commune.
The first certifiable hippie I met there was Beth. Beth's first question to me was whether or not I was in "the Jewish fraternity." Because, evidently, they always have "the best pot." Beth then explained that she dropped out of Miami University because the people there were all "selective breeders," the irredeemable sort of folk who set goals, raise children, and, well, wash their hair.
If nothing else, my stay at the Y taught me the creative possibilities of a life without shampoo. Beth fashioned her hair as a thick, tight, multi-stranded piece of shrubbery. Rory designed his as a free-floating swirl of red. (It resembled cotton candy, but typically cotton candy does not contain dust, lint, and the faint aroma of wood chips). The most significant cosmetic achievement went to Liza, whose creation could be classified as "Caucasian dredlocks," but would more accurately be described as a "profusion of pipe cleaners" -- fuzzy black, white, and brown strands that held tightly together when moistened by bong water.
Another enjoyable hippie quirk was the use of the term "facilitator." Every morning, me, Evan, Tom, Pierre, Kyle, Texas, and the other members of the Tent City commune met for Morning Meeting. (That is, if the spirit moved us; if it did not, there was still peace and love). At the meeting, one of the facilitators (one of the people who had been in Emergency Communities the longest and could most ably lead the group) would ask who wanted to do what task that day. In theory, this description fits that of a "leader." The free thinkers at Emergency Communities recognized, however, that a leader can be described as a person who makes sure the most things get done in the most efficient, productive manner possible. And no reasonable person would endorse that kind of Fascism.
One day at morning meeting, Mauve, on of the "co"-facilitators, mentioned that she was upset that the previous day, Maria, an insensitive culinary facilitator, referred to the cooking area as "my" kitchen. Mauve reminded her that the area which was used almost exclusively by Maria every meal of the day was "our" kitchen, as community-owned as any other part of the facility. Maria reluctantly agreed to be more careful in the future, but I would imagine that there was a fairly lengthy session of Circle before bed -- Circle being the nightly meeting in which facilitators gather around and discuss the feelings evoked over the course of the day.
Two final memorable hippies were Lindsay and Patrick. Lindsay dropped out of school not because it was populated by dangerously productive "breeders," but because she did not agree with the idea that "anyone can define knowledge, that you can be told what and how to learn." Patrick's bold stance involved the auto industry. For three years he did not get his drivers license because cars use oil. This past year, Patrick sold out and got the license. I hold out some hope that he contacted Serbian nationals and his car is now running on first-rate plutonium, but most likely, Patrick did in fact sell out.
And finally, there was the sign next to the shower, the most amusing emblem of hippiedom in the whole place. "Be fair," the sign read, "please clean your hair." 'Cause people usually need the reminder . . .
