I need it, don't you? Today I am quietly listening.sumac
Barefoot College
You might think a person has to be able to read to go to college. You might assume students need to understand the language of the teacher, or of fellow students, to succeed in school. You might envision that children who herd cattle by day would be too tired to learn how to build water pumps at night. You might just think that a woman who didn't finish primary school could not possibly become an engineer in six months, or teach someone else to become one, and you might be wrong.
When Don and I watched a piece about India's Barefoot College on the PBS Lehrer Report the other night, we sat dumbstruck. (Please, if you have 9 minutes, click on "a piece" in the previous sentence and watch the streaming video.) Maybe you've already heard about it. All notions about illiteracy and education are turned on their head in the 20 Barefoot College field centres around India started by Sanjit "Bunker" Roy.
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Bunker Roy himself was born in what is now West Bengal and schooled at Doon School and St. Stephen's College in Delhi. He has won several awards for Barefoot College, including the Schwab (for social entrepeneurship) and the St. Andrew's Prize (Britain's largest prize for the environment).
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He was influenced by Gandhi's philosophy of sustainable development. Roy said:
There is a mistaken belief that illiteracy is a barrier to the rural poor developing themselves with skills of their own. In other words a rural poor farmer, weaver, potter, leather worker, blacksmith and other artisans, because they have never been through a formal education system are not capable of producing high quality products with a marvelous eye for aesthetics and form. In the rural areas of India today, for instance, there are endless examples of rainwater harvesting structures for drinking water and sanitation still being used today that are hundreds of years old - constructed when there were no architects and engineers.
Bunker Roy started the first Barefoot College in Tilonia, Rajasthan, in 1972 after the 1966-67 famine killed thousands in Bihar state. Since then his colleges have trained villagers without paper qualifications to install and maintain solar electrical systems, hand pumps and tanks for drinking water. I could not believe my eyes as I watched village women work on intricate solar panels, taking meticulous detailed notes to study the codes and tiny parts, simply by watching their teacher do it and communicate with hand gestures.
Barefoot solar engineers have installed solar photovoltaic (SPV) home lighting systems and fabricated produced solar lanterns across 10 states of India. The results include:
- Solar electrifying 870 schools across the country.
- 3530 solar lanterns manufactured at the College.
- 28 remote and inaccessible villages in Ladakh have 40 Kws of solar panels that provide three hours of light in the bleakest winter to 1530 families.
- In Leh and Kargil districts, solar energy initiatives have saved a total of 97,000 litres of kerosene.
- 392 rural youth including women trained as barefoot solar engineers with absolutely no aid from urban professionals.
- 350 villages and hamlets(clusters) have been covered where a total number of 12000 households have been solar electrified.
- 195,000 litres of kersoene saved, by replacing generators and oil lanterns with solar power.
- All solar panels have been installed, maintained and repaired by the village people without the assistance of any paper qualified engineer.
Since 1986, the Barefoot College has been using biochemic medicines. Many village men and women, most of whom have just a primary education, have been trained to administer biochemic medicines. This is fairly easy and does not need advanced academic qualifications. And since biochemic medicines have no side effects, these medicines are also quite safe.
in Tilonia, it is the children’s parliament, an elected body of girls and boys between 10 and 14 years of age that is responsible for making sure that schools are run properly—an ingenious way of giving children a hold on their own lives—and that of their villages.
Women have been empowered to participate in the local economy and infrastructure, and to lead other women.
Women are very active in the college. Here women gather in a village square to raise their voices in protest against cases of rape. Girls heavily outnumber boys in the night schools and many of the engineers trained in the college are women. One of the most successful solar lamps in use in villages in the area was designed by a woman using local material going to waste. Women have been going from village to village to gather support for developmental measures such as building local dams.
I am deeply impressed with Roy and his vision for helping people help themselves, including setting up rain water harvesting systems in many Indian villages. But I am flabergasted - and humbled - by the women, children and men themselves who learn and build the mechanics of these and solar electrical systems, and serve each other in order to strengthen themselves, their families, their communities - and the environment!
the frost is on the pumpkin
pumpkin pie made with molassesSome folks think all James Taylor songs sound alike. Could be, could be. Much of my musical taste was established as a teen while I did household ironing in the dining room listening to my eight-year-older brother Bennett's albums on the turntable behind me. While ironing my dad's handkerchiefs and t-shirts I listened to Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young sing "Suite Judy Blue Eyes." With the pillow cases and table cloths (including the very one in the pie photo, above) I was on to Leon Russell singing "A Song for You", and Dad's boxer shorts got smoothed out to the Beatles White album. To this day, the smell of steaming hot cotton under an iron evokes the warm chords of 1970s folk-rock. Too bad Dad had his dress shirts professionally laundered. Hey, I should have made a deal to launder, iron and starch his shirts, and with what he paid me I could have started my own musical library. I must have worn out my brother's albums, including multiples of Joni Mitchell and James Taylor, but Bennett never complained. And I never complained about ironing.
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Whenever the first frost sparkles up the pumpkins, I think of one of my favorite JT tunes:
from James Taylor's "Walking Man" -
. . . Well, the leaves have come to turning
And the goose has gone to fly
And bridges are for burning
So don't you let that yearning
Pass you by
Walking man, walking man walks
Well, any other man stops and talks
But the walking man walks
Well the frost is on the pumpkin
And the hay is in the barn
An pappys come to rambling on
Stumbling around drunk
Down on the farm . . .
Have a listen:
non-toxic wastebaskets
Eee gads, we've been steeping in the toxic waste of the mortgage-backed securities mess - and bailout, which didn't pass in the first round, then passed in the second after some changes. We generous taxpayers came through for our poor, suffering corporate dimbulbs. I hope it will be a better move than many of us feared and will help settle the markets down. (Whispering now . . .) Hey, if anyone sounds as though they understand this mess, don't believe 'em. As Don's economics professor said, no one really knows what affects markets and how to fix them. But don't tell anyone, this is just for you, because I know you can handle the ambiguity and not get freaked out knowing no one really knows what will happen.
Anyway, all that waste presents a good opportunity to show you my little wastebasket collection.
This one is in l'atelier. I picked it up at a yard sale.
This one is very old, and sort of falling apart. I think I bought it at a flea market, for the guest room. If you come for a visit, please don't throw anything into it, I think it would disintegrate. I see it as a sort of faux wastebasket, a wastebasket wannabe, a piece of art posing as a wastebasket. I should probably make a little sign to lean on it: PLEASE DON'T PUT ANYTHING IN ME. You can just throw your kleenex in the sturdy plastic bathroom wastebasket (which I'm not showing off here, as you see).
I guess I'm just as guilty as anyone of covering up and prettifying my trash.
I don't know about you, but this is what we do:
Anyway, all that waste presents a good opportunity to show you my little wastebasket collection.
This one is in l'atelier. I picked it up at a yard sale.
This one is very old, and sort of falling apart. I think I bought it at a flea market, for the guest room. If you come for a visit, please don't throw anything into it, I think it would disintegrate. I see it as a sort of faux wastebasket, a wastebasket wannabe, a piece of art posing as a wastebasket. I should probably make a little sign to lean on it: PLEASE DON'T PUT ANYTHING IN ME. You can just throw your kleenex in the sturdy plastic bathroom wastebasket (which I'm not showing off here, as you see).
This one is a treasure because it was my mother's. It sat in her study for as long as I can remember, under her secretary desk. I think it was her mother's before it was hers. I keep it by my dressing table (not on the bentwood chair on the porch where I posed it for a photo). Peter and Lesley can fight over it when I'm gone.
Detail of my mom's wastebasket.
I guess I'm just as guilty as anyone of covering up and prettifying my trash.I don't know about you, but this is what we do:
- recycle everything that can be recycled around here: plastic containers, newspapers, glass, magazines, junk mail, paper, tin cans
- get paper bags at the grocer to use for paper trash that we burn (I hope our little bit of paper burning doesn't hurt the atmosphere too much); goodness! some checkout clerks do not like bagging in paper! Yikes!
- give food scraps to the chickens, except what isn't good for them, which we dump in a compost pile (that isn't being dealt with as compost yet; we're lazy so far about that)
- the rest of the unrecyclable, uncompostable garbage goes into old plastic bags from the store; we finally stopped buying garbage bags - what a waste! We hardly have any garbage that goes into the dumpster now.
- Oh, and when I'm gone, I want to take up as little space as possible. I want to be cremated.
Obama on campus Thursday: UPDATE
click image to enlargeThursday, Oct. 2, 4:00pm: I'm back from the rally, and it was electrifying! The man can speak and fire up a crowd of thousands of college students. The crowd was projected to be 20,000, but all I know is, it was BIG.
And I just heard that McCain has suspended his campaign in Michigan. What?? He's announcing that he's given up Michigan to Obama? Is that a smart political move? What is happening here?
Hillary was in my small home town last Saturday at a rally for Obama, and tomorrow the man himself will be here on campus at MSU, just a short walk around Circle Drive from my office. I'm planning on taking the student who is here for an appointment at 2 (if she comes!) over to Adams Field to hear him speak. It's supposed to be chilly outdoors, but I think this campus will give him a warm welcome. I know I will! I'll try to post pictures after the fact - at least of the crowd. Michigan is an important swing state in the election. We're expecting several more visits by McCain and Obama in the next month until November 4.
you should be very afraid - but of whom?
me, John, Jim, Bennett, Nancy, Ginnie, Susan, NelsonSometime in this past week's accelerating and terrifying dance into fascism* I remembered an episode from childhood when I was faced with fear.
Like all pre-school children, I had been drilled on the danger of getting into the car of a stranger. What would actually happen if I did so was not spelled out. It was just fused in my brain: Never ever get into a vehicle with a stranger.
I was the last of eight children in my family to start kindergarten. My brother John, a fourth grader, walked me to school that first exciting day. If you saw the grid of streets in my home town, you'd see how the streets that run parallel to the river suddenly angle in a new direction after a few streets. My path to school was not 'go straight, turn left, turn right and you're there' but angled confusingly at a couple of junctures. So can you blame me that as a five-year-old (just - I had turned 5 the month before school began), after half-day kindergarten, I lost my way walking back home, alone?
There I stood on the sidewalk, facing a 5-way intersection in a residential neighborhood, utterly confused about which way to turn, crying. A strange (as in unknown, not strange) man in a pickup truck pulled up next to me on the street. He asked me if I was lost. I nodded. He told me he would give me a ride home.
How did this five-year-old face her conflicting fears? A. I am lost; I am alone; I will never get home again. B. A strange man is offering me a ride in his truck; I've been told never ever get in a vehicle with a stranger, but what exactly am I supposed to be afraid of? What could happen?
I got into the truck. He drove the maze of blocks to my house. I got out of his truck and ran inside to my mom. I don't remember what happened after that. Did Mom see my tear-stained face and hug me? Did my parents lecture me, or spank me, for getting in the truck of a stranger? Did they even know?
There wasn't really all that much wrong with the street layout in Grand Ledge. I just didn't know how to maneuver it. Someone I trusted should have shown me the way. We've trusted our leaders for decades that a free market system would work, and that it would somehow guide our economy safely along. As Winter Patriot says, it actually ran our government, but we were taught to ignore that and call it 'democracy.' Now that the free market system is a mile-high roller coaster whose tresses and pillars are crumbling, we are giving one of the guys who built the faulty roller coaster the contract to fix it. It's tantamount to giving a very bad stranger keys to a truck and asking him to go pick up your kid who is lost. And he ain't gonna take her home, folks.
*If you think this isn't starting to look like fascism (I added the italicized words after Loring's comment, since I agree that we are heading into it, and who can say how fast?), here's the Random House definition:
Like all pre-school children, I had been drilled on the danger of getting into the car of a stranger. What would actually happen if I did so was not spelled out. It was just fused in my brain: Never ever get into a vehicle with a stranger.
I was the last of eight children in my family to start kindergarten. My brother John, a fourth grader, walked me to school that first exciting day. If you saw the grid of streets in my home town, you'd see how the streets that run parallel to the river suddenly angle in a new direction after a few streets. My path to school was not 'go straight, turn left, turn right and you're there' but angled confusingly at a couple of junctures. So can you blame me that as a five-year-old (just - I had turned 5 the month before school began), after half-day kindergarten, I lost my way walking back home, alone?
There I stood on the sidewalk, facing a 5-way intersection in a residential neighborhood, utterly confused about which way to turn, crying. A strange (as in unknown, not strange) man in a pickup truck pulled up next to me on the street. He asked me if I was lost. I nodded. He told me he would give me a ride home.
How did this five-year-old face her conflicting fears? A. I am lost; I am alone; I will never get home again. B. A strange man is offering me a ride in his truck; I've been told never ever get in a vehicle with a stranger, but what exactly am I supposed to be afraid of? What could happen?
I got into the truck. He drove the maze of blocks to my house. I got out of his truck and ran inside to my mom. I don't remember what happened after that. Did Mom see my tear-stained face and hug me? Did my parents lecture me, or spank me, for getting in the truck of a stranger? Did they even know?
There wasn't really all that much wrong with the street layout in Grand Ledge. I just didn't know how to maneuver it. Someone I trusted should have shown me the way. We've trusted our leaders for decades that a free market system would work, and that it would somehow guide our economy safely along. As Winter Patriot says, it actually ran our government, but we were taught to ignore that and call it 'democracy.' Now that the free market system is a mile-high roller coaster whose tresses and pillars are crumbling, we are giving one of the guys who built the faulty roller coaster the contract to fix it. It's tantamount to giving a very bad stranger keys to a truck and asking him to go pick up your kid who is lost. And he ain't gonna take her home, folks.
*If you think this isn't starting to look like fascism (I added the italicized words after Loring's comment, since I agree that we are heading into it, and who can say how fast?), here's the Random House definition:
1. a governmental system led by a dictator having complete power, forcibly suppressing opposition and criticism, regimenting all industry, commerce, etc., and emphasizing an aggressive nationalism and often racism.
