students – Page 2 – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

November 30, 2023November 29, 2023

New Normal

Funny how conditioning works – not that of the hair treatment variety.

A person flies off to another land and settles into the things of life and work. Some years later, having grown conditioned to her adoptive culture, the person returns to her homeland only to find life disorienting.

Depending on how deeply entrenched he has settled into that ‘other life’, the reentry and reorienting process for the returnee may leave him reeling. I’m clearly a misfit, he reasons.

Such a person may feel more at ease in the company of the clerk tending to the nearby Asian or Latin-run convenience store than with many of his acquaintances of an earlier time.

It happened with me at the intersection of Sixth and Birmingham. Where aromas of Indian Curry and Chinese dumplings hung in the air.

ISI’s area director Jim Tracy had reached out, inviting me to accompany him on his rounds – connecting socially in informal friendship with international students hailing from lands abroad. Malaysia, Venezuela, China, the Middle East. . .

I fussed with upside-down feelings day by day as I routinely shadowed Jim, venturing along from one apartment dwelling to the next. Where we happily sipped hot chai offered up by our gracious, momentary hosts. (But wait. Aren’t we. . . us ‘Yanks’. . . meant to be hosting them?)

I grew mildly surprised sensing how the needle of my social barometer tilted in uncommon directions. Feeling less at home within my own mainstream American culture than with the young college students coming from places far, far away. I had hardly begun to know these ‘outsiders’ yet an easy kinship felt more in reach.

For a while this tug-of-war left me unsettled, musing over my ‘space’ and my identity (aren’t I the same red-blooded American fellow who merely relocated for a while those years back?).

In time I made peace with befuddling but pardonable reality. I had changed.

Change had happened on the inside of me. Living in Africa for a couple decades among people groups of varied customs and languages had ruined me – in the best kind of way. Components of my worldview had shifted, broadened. My preferences on many fronts had tweaked. In short, I had taken up a strange and intriguing and somewhat messy cross-cultural identity.

This new normal, it’s going to need some time.

March 18, 2016August 28, 2017

Pecan

How do you say it again, Jerry? This word?

I understood the reason prompting it but fielding such a question on my home town’s Main Street felt strange.

With a smile their way I began.

We spell it P-E-C-A-N. Pronouncing it once, then a second time, I continued. Notice the two syllables. We stress the last one – in this part of the country, anyway. Now, I coaxed them, your turn; let’s hear you say it.

In his Asian accent, one of these our new friends, offered up his version, Pih-Kahn.

Great!, I praised him. Spoken like a true Sooner!

A true what?

***

Our group of twenty – a mix of Tulsa area volunteers and university students from abroad – lined the sidewalk to sample the largest desert-serving they may ever see. Our campus ministry group had planned the June outing. To introduce our bright, young visitors – most engineering students – to a piece of North American culture. And a piece of pie thrown in.

Xiao’s spoon entered the Styrofoam dish for her second bite, Mm, this is a very new flavor to me!

As we meandered the town square, taking in music, seeing parents laugh as children ran squealing to an amusement-park ride, my thoughts wandered to an acreage north of town. A memory there.

***

Boys, there’s a way to earn yourselves a little spending money. Pretty easy. We turned to our father’s voice. The idea he offered was straight-forward and – like our dad himself – sensible. Tim’s dark eyebrows lifted, signaling his eagerness to give it a try. As little brother, I was fully in.

Next afternoon we visited a pecan-merchant at the west end of town – Dunhams – our half-filled burlap bag in tow.

Bring your gunny sack over this way, boys. The man moved to a set of scales. Let’s see now, he pondered, weighing our mini-crop. Taking up a pencil he calculated, At twenty-eight cents a pound. . .

Rewarded for our labors, our spirits buoyed, we all but strutted from the store. Pedaling the bicycle home with me balanced on the handle bar, my brother spoke and I could hear the smile in his voice behind me. Some of mother’s pecan pie is out on the table. A glass of milk will go good with it, huh. My mouth moistened.

I was still smiling when the student’s voice returned me to Okmulgee’s Pecan Festival.

Jerry, do we visit inside the old building now – where you said there is more about culture?

Sure. First, let’s take a look at the marker over here.

One of the newer-arrived students still navigating American English, studied the plaque. Her words came with some effort, but deliberate, distinct. Mm, I think I can pronounce, ‘Creek. Nation. Council. House.’ I nodded and she went on, Now, how do you say this word, M-u-s-c-o- – One of our volunteers came to her aid.

Directing our special guests to the city’s venerable landmark, I mused.

By bedtime tonight they’ll have plenty to write home about.

April 20, 2017August 28, 2017

Kentucky Surprise

“Fill ‘er up young man and check the oil, get the windows sparkling and, yes, run that vacuum of yours above and beneath the floor mats.”

It is common knowledge that many college kids scrape to get by. Such was our world in those days of self-service at the pump.

My young bride and I liked San Antonio with its Hispanic-flavored culture but could invest meager time sampling its delights. Time raced on in our happy but half broke world.

Fulltime work, fulltime schooling, volunteer pastoring duties, these pretty much consumed us. The adage two ships passing in the night depicted our days.

In time the San Antonio Express eyed my application and called me. I took up my post at the teletype machine. Life quieted. A little. Due to my skills the newspaper wage trumped my former gas-pumping earnings. Thank you Phillips 66 at the Caldera and Bandera crossing, and farewell.

Most days just after lunch I kicked the starter arm of my Vespa scooter and ventured to the city center. When my shift ended I mounted Old Blue again, making it to our eight-foot-wide house trailer on Hallelujah Hill before 1:00 a.m. Morning chapel kicked off at 8 o’clock. Vigorous praise music marginally rallied sleep-deprived students as we entered the old army barrack-turned-house-of-worship.

***

Mrs. Hottenstein.

“Brother Jerry, do you and Ann think you might swing by dear old Mrs. Hottenstein’s place Sunday mornings. . . bring her on to church, then drop her back home afterward?”

Pastor David went on, “She’s our retired school teacher from somewhere back in Kentucky’s hills and wants to come worship every week. She’s still pretty spry but is in her nineties and no longer drives. Anyway, maybe you all can talk it over, see what you think?”

A few weeks later following Sunday service we pulled from the church drive with our newer, older passenger. Responding to David’s invitation had been simple.

Nearing Mrs. H’s house this early afternoon I heard a clearing of the throat from our Pontiac’s back seat. Ann and I were fully unprepared for what followed.