This is America, speak...

... whatever you want!

Part of being free means not being told what language to speak.  Countries and regional governments that mandate and micromanage the use of language in private homes, schools, and in commerce inevitably become tyrannical, and often resort to language police.  I knew of a middle-eastern restaurant in Hull (on the Quebec side of the river from Ottawa) who had an ongoing battle with the Quebec language police over the spelling of "donaire" on his wall.  After being threatened with fines, after repeated harassment over it, he tore the "e" off the end of the word to be in compliance - and left the torn poster on the wall.

Tax dollars at work...

Language is fluid, and it changes based on natural linguistic shifts and progressions, as well as changing demographics in any given place.  English itself is an amalgamation of Anglo-Saxon and French (following the 1066 Norman invasion).  French itself is a modified Gallic dialect of Latin seasoned with centuries of local and regional usage.  The American English we speak today is considerably different than the English spoken in England at the time of the King James Bible, and is an entirely different language than the Old English of the time of Beowulf.  It has changed through both slow evolution and rapid revolution.  And these natural processes simply can't be regulated or attenuated by government fiat.

But it never seems to prevent legislators from trying.

In the 1920s, Louisiana francophones had state-sanctioned cultural genocide that strove to impose English on Cajuns and Creoles - many of whose ancestors predated Louisiana's membership in the American union itself.  Children were punished for speaking French on the playground; schools were compelled to use English only, and French-Louisianians were shamed and humiliated.  Eventually, parents stopped teaching their children to speak French as they felt being bilingual would have impaired them.

What a terrible mistake now that we live in a global economy!  Look at what natural advantages Louisiana lost in world trade on account of small-minded people who wanted to control others.

A few years ago, Louisiana realized how detrimental this abuse of state power was to the cultural and economic landscape, and backed off of the English Only bandwagon.  Thus there are many public schools offering French immersion classes, and they are quite popular.  French is being re-cultivated in Louisiana, and being a Cajun is no longer something to be ashamed of.

I saw something yesterday that I did not know existed: a French language licence plate that includes the name of our state written in French.  I am somewhat surprised that the federal government permits states to have non-English plates (since the federal government micromanages everything from local education to toilet bowl sizes).

You can read more about the plates, about the legal hassle involved in their approval, and how to get one here.

At least until someone who doesn't value freedom but who likes to tell everyone else how to live complains about it, and until some black-robed villain arbitrarily outlaws them, Lousianians can indeed have French license plates on their cars.

Vive La Différence: chez nous autres!

"This is America. Speak English!"

 Have you ever heard anyone say this?  Ever see that on a tee shirt or in a facebook meme?  It's usually said with a self-righteous, scolding tone - or even with anger.

Interestingly, I ran across  an American children's book in our local parish library (that's "parish" not "county" by the way) that was published in my home town of Gretna, Louisiana by the Pelican Publishing Company.  In fact, the illustrator is a Missouri Synod pastor, now retired, who was one of my predecessors at Salem Lutheran Church in Gretna.

To the apparent shock of the "English Only Movement," There is no English in the text of this book.  It is written entirely in French. Louisiana has no official language, though French has had special status in the state since 1968.

How can this be?

Well, not every state in the Union originated as an English colony.  Louisiana was settled by the French and the Spanish long before it became part of the predominantly English-speaking United States.

In fact, in the western part of the state, French is still spoken in many homes, heard on the radio, and is quite apparent in the last names of prominent families.  French was spoken here generations before English.  It is the ethnic heritage of many people in our state.

So, maybe some people here could scold Anglophones with something along these lines: "C'est la Louisiane. Parlez français!"

Even the copyright page of this book is written in French (aside from the name of the government office, and even that is bilingual).

And why is this offensive to some people?  Why would this prompt someone to wear a tee shirt that says: "This is America.  Speak English"?

The answer is really pretty simple: in the words of St. Augustine, it is the "lust for domination."  It is bullying.  It is the desire to control other people and entire populations - even the the point of regulating the speech of school children.  The state constitution of 1921 effectively abolished the use of French in public schools.  Older Cajuns recall being physically punished for speaking French even on the playground.  This has created a situation in many families where older people speak French, but felt ashamed to teach it to the next generation.  This was a sort of ethnic cleansing that has resulted in thousands of people with French last names, Cajun heritage, and francophone grandparents who can't speak French themselves.

There are few things that government does well.  Genocide, including that of the cultural type, is one of them.

Now, schools often have to recruit French teachers from Canada, France, and Belgium to teach ethnically French children how to speak the language their own state government attempted to stamp out.  CODOFIL is an organization dedicated to the encouragement of the French language in our state.

This organization was made necessary by previous generations who maintained the short-sighted attitude that  "This is America.  Speak English."

We Americans are known throughout the world for our inability to speak other languages.  As a professor at the seminary put it, half of our theological library is in German.  Unless a student can read German, half of the books are off limits to him.  What advantage is there in being unilingual?  Is this really something to be proud of?

Germans in America likewise suffered the loss of their linguistic heritage because of pressures from "patriotic" Americans during World Wars I and II - perhaps some of the same "patriots" that interred Americans of Asian descent into forced relocation camps complete with barbed wire and guard towers - even the relatives of some American military personnel who were fighting and dying in Europe.  "This is America..."

But the reality is this: compelling the use of English is un-American.  For the first amendment - a cherished explication of the American mind and articulation of the foundational rights explicitly defended in the Bill of Rights - protects the right of free speech: "Congress shall make no law... abridging the freedom of speech...".  Instead of "This is America.  Speak English," the truly patriotic sentiment is: "This is America.  Speak whatever you want!"  That is, if we still connect America to freedom, if we still believe it is the preservation of liberty that defines who we are as a people.

Instead of bullying foreigners and Americans into using exclusively English, why not let the free market decide?  Most people will speak English - perhaps only English.  But where freedom is allowed full course, some people will speak French in Louisiana, Spanish in Texas, German in Wisconsin, Norwegian in Minnesota, and Hawaiian in Hawaii.  So what?  And by teaching our children to be multilingual, they will only increase their odds at being successful in a global economy.

The fact of the matter is that Americans and foreigners are free to speak anything we want - in our homes, on the street, in our churches, at school, at work - anywhere.  If you want to say your prayers in Latin, read the Bible in Greek or Hebrew, converse with your family in French or Spanish, watch movies in Russian or Italian, order your meal in Hindi, Japanese, or Mandarin, or just plain learn to speak Icelandic for no reason at all, so what?  More power to you!  There are even artificial languages like Esperanto and Klingon.  People can even communicate in Morse Code or Pig Latin.  So what?  Why should I have any desire to compel someone to speak English?

Is this really anyone's business?

Here in New Orleans, some people do still speak French.  Spanish is quite common.  Just off the top of my head, I have also heard people in Louisiana speak Vietnamese, Chinese, Swahili, Russian, Japanese, German, Greek, Swedish, Norwegian, Ukrainian, Italian, and Arabic.  It is likely that English will always be spoken here.  And if for some reason it dies off (as even Latin did in Rome itself) it will be because over time, people will freely choose to speak something else.

And the words "freely choose" are important here.  That is supposed to be how decisions are made in America.  Not by government decree.  Not by bureaucratic bullying.  Not by social harassment and intimidation.

"This is America.  Speak whatever you want!"  And as we often say in our laissez-faire Louisiana culture: "Laissez les bons temps rouler!"

Thank you to the Rev. John Dreyer

We had an outstanding visit from our dear friend the Rev. John Dreyer, who serves as a recruiter (real title: Admissions Counselor) for Concordia Theological Seminary - Fort Wayne.  We had a blast!  I mean, he was working like a dog and not having any fun at all (this was a working trip, after all).  I don't want John to get in trouble with Rast.  I mean, President Rast.

Anyway, thanks to Pastor Dreyer for preaching at our Wednesday evening Mass, faithfully proclaiming God's Word and sharing in the most holy body and blood of our Lord - as well as making connections with men in the area interested in serving in the holy ministry.

Grace and I go back about a decade with John, and below is a picture of us together at my graduation from CTSFW in 2004.  It was obviously a more flattering camera angle seven and a half years ago as the gray hairs were sparse, if not rare!

Rev. John Dreyer and Vicar Larry Beane, 2004

Must be the light in the church...

Rev. John Dreyer and Rev. Larry Beane, 2012

Here is a link to our pictures after yesterday's service and during today's visit to the French Quarter - including the Napoleon House, Jackson Square, the St. Louis Cathedral, Arcadian Books, the Cafe du Monde, and a walk along the river.

What a great joy to catch up with a brother pastor and friend!

Bonne Année and Happy 20!

Today is the 20th anniversary of our first date at Parliament Hill in Ottawa!  Quite a bit has changed in the last two decades, including the advent of our son (who turns seven in a fortnight)!

Below is a pic taken five years ago at Parliament Hill.  Happy New Year, everyone!  Bonne Année and Happy Twenty Years, Miss Grace!  Here's to Auld Lang Syne, Veuve Clicquot, and the next 20 years of fighting the Sassenach!

New pics uploaded

Intéressant? Peut-être, ou peut-être pas.

Of course, this is likely only of interest to family and friends.  As one of my Christmas presents was 2 GB of memory for my computer, uploading pictures isn't as big a chore as it once was.  So here is a link to all of my Flickr sets (a set is like an album).  If you click on  set, you can hit the "slideshow" option to see all the pictures in that set.

Have fun, y'all!

My Siberian Adventure - Day 20 - July 16, 2011

Visit: Yekaterinburg

Father Daniel and I slept in a bit and went to the hotel's breakfast.  It was a very western buffet meal that included sausage, rice, cream of wheat (which looked not unlike grits and jambalaya), also bread and a hard-boiled egg.  I also had a coffee with milk.  There is a TV on in the dining room which has what seems to be a 24-hour news channel tuned on.

Father Sergey picked us up and drove us the short distance to the church.

We met several people - including Deacon Victor Shtraube (from Chelyabinsk) and his expecting wife!  I spoke with a young layman about 25-years old or so.  He speaks English though not fluently.  His name is Vadim, and he lives in Siberia in the city of Kurgan between Yekaterinburg and Omsk.

He's a member of Father Sergey's parish (Sts. Peter and Paul) and has a 6-hour bus commute to attend church on Sunday.  His parents are atheists, though his grandmother was Russian Orthodox.  He had been baptized in the Russian Orthodox Church, but was never able to understand the liturgy because of the language barrier (Russian Orthodox liturgies are not conducted in Russian, but rather in Old Slavonic).  He stumbled upon a children's Bible, and that set him on the course to become a Lutheran.

I have a cup of tea.  Father Sergey shows up with a half-liter bottle of Mountain Dew for me.  My Russian brothers are sensitive to my caffeine addiction, and they genuinely care about my comfort.

We have a brief prayer service along the lines of Daily Prayer according to our Lutheran Service Book (LSB) hymnal.  Father Sergey is dignified as he leads prayer.  I'm seated in one of the small pews next to an older woman wearing a head scarf.

I believe my friend Vladimir (see page one of this Siberian Lutheran Mission Society newsletter, "A Lutheran Soul") - who speaks very good French - has arrived.  Father Daniel has begun his lecture.  We will have two hours each today.

After an hour, we take a break.  I met Vladimir, and gave him a small gift: a fridge magnet from New Orleans which has some French on it.  I explain to him that le français est une langue officielle d'état de la Louisiane, et il y a beaucoup de personnes qui parle français dans notre état (French is an official language of the State of Louisiana, and there are many people who speak French in our state).  We chat back and forth in French, as I am certain that I've butched the language.  I am, however, amazed at how much I am able to understand as Vladimir speaks, though my own spoken French is terribly rusty.  I think being immersed in a non-English environment has stimulated the linguistic part of my brain (then again, maybe it was the Mountain Dew...).  Vladimir is quite fluent and enjoys speaking French as much as I enjoy hearing it.

In fact, it feels good - liberating, actually, to be able to speak in another lingua franca of the world, to be enjoying conversation with Vladmir in a language that is native to neither one of us, with neither one of us relying on a translator.  As we chat, we are speaking with more rapidity.  It's a great encouragement to grow in understanding and fluency in multiple languages.

After Dan concludes his lecture, we speak to the lady sitting next to me (our translator, as I will learn later, is Evgeny, a young guy who has only been speaking English for about a year and a half).  Her grandfather was a Lutheran pastor who was executed by Stalin.  He had served in the Volga region.  As a young woman, she wished to go to medical school, but was not permitted to study because her grandfather had been condemned as an "enemy of the state."  She was mocked as a student because of her Christian faith, which she retained even after all that her family had suffered.  I asked her to write her name for me, and she wrote in my little notebook "Альвина" - the letters of which I could not read very well in their cursive form.  Father Alexey later rendered this into Latin letters for me as "Alvina."  She is more commonly known by the diminutive form "Ала" ("Ala").  The German form of her name is "Albina" - and although I did not make the connection at the time, the Siberian Lutheran Mission Society had run a fascinating three part article telling Albina's story - which you can read here: Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3.

It was a great honor to have my picture taken with Albina.

Father Alexey gives his lecture on Romans.  We break for lunch, and a large group of us walks over to the Cafe Dadazh (where we went yesterday) - where we have a very typical Russian "business lunch" with a bit of Asian influence, consisting of salad, soup, and a main dish of chicken and rice.  We also drink a peach soda - shared by the four of us at our table - served in very small glasses - and we finish with tea.  The salad is dry (in a good way).  No glop.  The soup has some kind of seafood or fish in it.  It reminds me of New Orleans.  I'm seated with Father Alexey, Vladimir, Vadim, and another young guy named Evgeny (who previously served as my impromptu translator in my chat with Albina).  It turns out that he is a 4th year Orthodox seminarian.

After lunch, Father Alexey concludes his lecture.

I begin my Augsburg Confession lecture at about 4:00 pm and go on until about 6:00 with a break after about an hour.  My listeners seem engaged - especially Evgeny.  I cover the history part and I get through Article 8.

When I field questions, one attendee raised the question of the validity of a baptism conducted by a woman "pastor."  I answered that my pastoral practice is to treat such "baptisms" as outside the church.  One ELKRAS attendee (ELKRAS is the German missionary denomination in Russia, a more liberal body that "ordains" women), a young pastor named Dennis, became quite agitated.  I calmly confessed what I believe and what my pastoral practice is.

I was a little concerned, not wanting to offend my hosts, but Father Alexey assured me that my answer is actually the same answer as the position of the SELC.  To make things more interesting, we will be traveling to Dennis's congregation to speak to them on Tuesday evening.

Afterward, Fathers Alexey and Sergey take Dan and me to McDonald's.  It looks similar to its American cousin, only with Cyrillic letters.  Russia has similar language laws as Quebec, and this regulates the amount of English that can be used on signage.  I don't know how Traveler's Coffee gets around this.  The McDonald's sign looks like this: Макдоналдс - a direct transliteration.  I order the equivalent of a Quarter Pounder, known is Russia as a Royal Cheeseburger (Роял Чизбургер).  In Russia, you have to pay extra for condiments.  Dan and I both order "large" drinks.  The clerk says something in response to Father Alexey, who looks at me gravely and says: "Uh, Father Larry, he says that the large drink is a liter."  Of course, this is considerably smaller than the large in the U.S. (which explains why Americans are considerably larger than Russians).  Father Daniel and I, unfazed by the liter, laugh and confirm our order with Alexey.  Also, there are no ice in the drinks.  I never saw an ice machine in my time in Russia.  I also believe one of the staff was scolding me for taking pictures.

The four of us (Dan, Alexey, Sergey, and I) go outside to eat under one of the red and yellow umbrellas.

Next, we make an excursion to the "Alcohol Supermarket" subtitled: "Magnum" where Dan shops for cognac - which is of very high quality and considerably cheaper than in the states.  He has promised to bring back a bottle for a fellow pastor back home.

Afterward, our Russian brothers drop us off back at the hotel.

Dan would like to buy another bottle of Armenian cognac (Ararat brand), and I need some batteries.  We stroll around, find a supermarket, make ou purchases using a combination of gestures and pidgin Russian.  The clerks are helpful and friendly.  Dan buys a bottle of Ararat, and I purchase a small bottle of "Мохито" (mojito).  Dan forgets to buy himself a beer, and the store has no AA batteries.

We walk back.

We see a funny sight: a drunken man carrying a bottle in one hand, and in the other hand he holds a cellphone to his ear.  Paying no attention to his surroundings, he crosses the busy highway, chatting and swaying between the zooming cars.  It looks staged.  The traffic doesn't even slow down.  He staggers at a steady pace completely absorbed in his phone call.  Somehow, he arrives untouched at the other side without missing a beat, talking in his cell the entire time.

We visit a little kiosk where a customer can bring an empty beer bottle and the clerk will fill it with any beer that they have on tap, charging by the amount.

It's now well after ten, but the sky is still bright.  We stroll back to the hotel.  I enjoy an extended chat with Grace and upload pictures.  Our room in the Atlantic Hotel has a large and deep bathtub, so I indulge in a steaming hot bath.  My knees get sore sometimes, so the soak feels very good.

Photo: http://www.rushotels.com/hotel/1126

Here is a link to all of my pictures of Day Twenty.

Is this a waste of time?

I don't know much about the above congregations other than these facts: 1) They are Lutheran, 2) They are in Africa, 3) They speak French.

After one Sunday service in my own congregation (perhaps a year ago or more), I announced that the offerings placed into our mission box would be used to send funds to purchase hymnals for Africa.  A parishioner (who is no longer a member of our congregation) loudly fussed and fumed and declared to anyone who would listen that this was "a waste of time."

She never did clarify what she meant by that.


But to the above three facts, I can also add this: it is never a waste of time (or money) to support our brothers and sisters around the world.  Our Lord did charge us to make disciples of all nations, after all.  And while Christianity is on the decline in the United States and in the west in general - where entertainment is the new religion - the genuine faith is growing in Africa, where suffering and the cross are truly a mark of the church.  By way of example, there are more Lutherans in Madagascar than in North America.

These videos also shatter the myth that the traditional liturgy and hymns are not "missional."  Of course, the word "missional" is a hackneyed overused "hipster" word often employed by those who wish to drive a wedge between Lutheran doctrine and Lutheran practice - often among the professional bureaucratic and political class within North American Lutheranism.  Maybe a better way of thinking of traditional Lutheran worship as it relates to the mission field is that it reflects faith - faith in something bigger and more profound than the shallow American Idol of our own entertainment.  There is no "me-ology" in the ancient hymnody of the church and in the reverent worship that attends genuine belief in a transcendent God who nevertheless deigns to join us (and rescue us) incarnate in our fallen word.

These African saints get it.  I expect their grandchildren will be trying to evangelize our increasingly-dark continent the way the heroic Kenyan Archbishop Walter Obare brought the biblical faith back to Sweden where faithful Lutherans had been held hostage by a diabolical bureaucracy that can only be described as antichrist.

And notice the transcultural nature of traditional Lutheran hymnody and worship.  Even in a simple structure in which to worship, God is there in Word and Sacrament - and He is also adored by people who truly believe in the gifts given by the Lord.  They are obviously not looking for entertainment.

No, indeed, this is no waste of time!  Let us pray for our brethren and financially support them as we are able!  This should not only be our obligation and duty, but our privilege and our joy.

One of Many Ways to Learn

One of the nice things about home school is the flexibility - regarding both time and curriculum.  It's 7:30 pm, and we're doing Greek, Latin, and Catechism while eating ice cream, cracking jokes, and shooting video.  It is our second day of first grade, and Leo is loving it!  We get lots of quality time together as a family (he and I walked to the store this evening hand-in-hand singing the Greek alphabet).  We have a lot of field trips to Bayou Segnette planned - things like bird watching, looking for frogs, and canoeing.  And even in the "classroom" he doesn't have to sit still (I have no doubt that his incessant wiggling would be driving a classroom teacher insane after 20 minutes - not to mention the other kids).

I'm really impressed with Song School Latin and Song School Greek by Classical Academic Press.  The songs on the CD are simple and yet catchy and pedagogically effective.  Similarly, I'm using CPH's "Sing the Faith," which is the Small Catechism set to music especially suited to children.

Mrs. H. is doing the heavy lifting during the day, teaching Math, Reading, Writing, Spelling, Grammar, Science, History, and Geography.  Leo and Grace are also learning piano together.  Music Appreciation and French are around the corner.  And anything Mrs. H. and I happen to be studying gets into his system as well.

Lutherans in Africa!

Pr. Jonathan Fisk, in his unique and kinetic style, gives us the skinny about Lutherans in Africa, especially the work of the Rev. James May and his family, and how we can help - especially by providing hymnals to Lutheran pastors and congregations.

There are more Lutherans in Madagascar than there are in North America. Christianity (including Lutheran Christianity) is exploding in Africa. The newly-released French Lutheran hymnal from Canada is a wonderful resource for the large swath of Africa where the French language is still widely spoken.

Let us keep our African brethren in our prayers.

My Day as a Flâneur

My friend and brother in Christ, Deacon Latif Gaba, posted this wonderful reminder to enjoy life, encouraging his readers to be flâneurs in their own cities. If you don't know the term flâneur (as I didn't), I would encourage you to read Br. Latif's blog post The Virtue of the Flaneur. It is a treat.

I took Br. Latif's advice yesterday, being a flâneur in New Orleans - more specifically the French Quarter.

I have to say that it was a glorious experience.

It has been so long since I have had a true day off, I forgot what it means to relax, to be a flâneur. Now that the Lenten and Holy Week flurry of activity has ended, and now that school is out all week, I am trying to catch up on some relaxation. The way that I speak of it as a "to do" item demonstrates that I really need to pay heed to Deacon Gaba's admonition - as well as that of some of my own parishioners (you know who you are, and I really appreciate your concern and desire to take care of your shepherd).

Mrs. H and Leo are spending their days this week in French Camp. It is run by Lango Kids and held in New Orleans at one of the campuses of Ecole Bilingue de la Nouvelle Orleans, a local French immersion preschool and grade school. Mrs. H., a native Canadienne whose first language was French, is serving as a teacher's aid - which enables Leo to attend gratuis. They are having a great time.

Though I don't like to be separated from the fam, it is allowing me some quiet time, time to reflect, to relax, and even to get some work done at a slower pace and in a more contemplative setting.

Yesterday morning, I walked to the French Quarter from my front door. And yes, I did walk across the Mississippi River. Unlike our blessed Lord, I required the assistance of a boat. The Gretna Ferry now connects us West Bankers to the Canal Street ferry station. Walking to the Quarter is describable in no other way than by the French injection: Super-cool! It was also free, at least as far as any government operation is free (in other words, it is paid for by property taxes and other government funding schemes).

The ride was a relaxing twenty minute cruise along the bend of the Mississippi, water spraying as the ferry cut its way through the rapid currents near the mouth of the world's third largest river.

The weather was a glorious 70-something with the sun shining upon Canal Street as I headed toward the French Quarter with my backpack. I carried only the essentials: books, notebook, camera, and more books. I did leave room in the backpack for books, as there are some magnificent bookstores in the Vieux Carré. I did break a strap on my backpack (I wonder how that happened...), but that was a little later in the adventure.

There are always tourists in the city, in various degrees of sobriety, from every imaginable socio-economic level, of every race, and speaking many languages. There are also plenty of locals - both residents of the Quarter and flâneurs like me out for a stroll. It is never difficult to find French-speakers in New Orleans. Although we are nowhere near as francophone as the parishes to our west, there is still a remnant dating back to the age of the deportation of the Acadians, to the era of the Creoles, and even further back to the age of French colonialism to account for the language's survival even to the 21st century.

Near the St. Louis Cathedral (which viewers of The Princess and the Frog will recognize), I found a little French import store. I wandered in and was greeted with a "bonjour" by the friendly and proper frenchwoman behind the counter. We chatted in French, which means she spoke beautiful native Parisian while I stammered - but my interlocutress was most gracious and patient.

It turns out that she is not the owner, but was helping out her friend who owns the shop - which features elegant French knick-knacks, clocks, artwork, soaps, etc. In fact, she is actually a French teacher who works at Alliance Française de La Nouvelle-Orléans. Her father was born in Paris and her mother was born in a small town in Québec. She lives in New Orleans full time now, and isn't fond of our hot summers, but prefers them to the cold Canadian winters.

We had a delightful conversation - about 90% of which was in French - at least insofar as my own attempts can be classified as a recognizable version of the language. My own experience with French people is far from the stereotype of Gallic arrogance and rudeness. Like this temporary shopkeepress, I have found most French people - be they European, Canadian, or Lousianian - to be kind, polite, easy-going, and filled with joie-de-vivre.

I wondered around the streets of the Quarter with no particular place to go, in no particular hurry, not wanting to see anything in particular. I snapped a few pics here and there. I did visit William Faulker's old house on Pirate's Alley - which is today one of the landmark French Quarter bookstores. While there, I picked up yet another copy of the bookstore map - that is, the map showing the various bookstores in the Quarter. Have I mentioned books yet?

Strolling north of the Cathedral on Orleans Street, I visited the Acadian Bookstore. The owner has signs on the window indicating that he is also a French speaker as well as being a supporter of CODOFIL - an agency dedicated to the promotion of the French language in Louisiana. It is a sad reality that most young people do not speak French - whereas their grandparents often did. The state constitution of nearly a century ago forbade the use of French in public life - including in the public schools (where children were given corporal punishment for speaking French). That ill-advised policy nearly rendered Cajun French extinct. Fortunately, there are those (like CODOFIL) working to resurrect the language. They have made inroads among the young.

The Arcadian Bookstore is what a bookstore should look like. It contains a wonderfully disordered sense of order - the owner knowing precisely where to find any genre amid the anarchic and chaotic stacks and piles. The only thing missing was the typical bookstore cat - and he may have been lost in the stacks anyway. A bracket was laid diagonally connecting two stacks of books. It contained more books in addition to an electric fan. I hit the jackpot, finding the stash of books pertaining to Latin pedagogy - not to mention hundreds of French language books. To Mrs. H.'s relief and delight, I restrained myself, only purchasing two inexpensive Latin titles. But it was a fun place to hang out.

The Crescent City Books has a completely different feel, but was also a bibliophile's delight - with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, old couches, and rickety stairs connecting to even more books.

Contrary to what most book-lovers would like to believe, man cannot live on books alone. It was time to eat. I have always wanted to dine at the Napoleon House. And so that is exactly what I did. The Napoleon House is just that, a house - a building built as a private residence at 500 Chartres Street (at the corner of St. Louis) for the mayor (Nicholas Girod) in 1797.

In 1821, Dominique You, the half-brother of the famous pirate Jean Lafitte (it is impossible to write about New Orleans without the word "pirate" - and I have done so twice already- I think it is part of the Napoleonic Code as a literary requirement) was persuaded to hatch a plan to liberate the deposed French Emperor Napoleon (living in exile at St. Helena) and move him to New Orleans, with the intent of putting him up in this very house. Napoleon died that year, which ended the plot. But his personal physician, F. C. Antommarchi, did move into the house and practiced medicine there for some 13 years. This is why the State of Louisiana has one of the three death masks made of Napoleon Bonaparte - housed in the New Orleans Cabildo Museum next to the St. Louis Cathedral (the other two are in Paris).

The Napoleon House was purchased by the Impastato family in 1914, and remains in their possession to this day. The house was converted to a landmark restaurant and bar, and is still run by the family. It features open beams, peeling plaster, and a wood floor. The doors and windows are wide open. There is no air conditioner, as ceiling fans move the breeze around. I was seated at a small round wooden table next to one of the plastered brick walls. Graffiti abounds - not the crude and crass variety, but rather various odes and proclamations of love to the city. I watched the horse-and buggy roll by outside, observed every kind of person walk past - from well-heeled conventioneers to liberally-tattooed local denizens. Classical music plays as the waiters and bartender efficiently and yet with great warmth ply their trade - clad smartly in traditional white shirts and black bow ties. There is additional seating available in a peaceful little courtyard in back, featuring a fountain and banana trees.

Lunch was a pleasurable experience consisting of an Italian sausage po-boy and a Stella Artois. I did some writing before and after my meal: old fashioned pen-on-notebook - no laptop, no MicroSoft Word. No hurries and no worries. It was sheer delight.

And here is a video that captures the essence of the Napoleon House.

After lunch, I continued to wander to and fro, finally heading back towards the Cathedral. I decided to drop back into the little French store, realizing that I had not taken any pictures to show Mrs. H. or to share with Fr. H. readers. Upon entering, it became apparent that the nice French lady had been replaced by her less cordial friend - whose mannerisms and speech came across in a more stereotypically French way. It was really rather comical.

When I asked if I could take a couple pictures, she scowled: "No!"

I smiled and said "Pas de probleme."

She then barked back with great suspicion in a heavy accent: "Why do you want to take pictures of my store?" perhaps supposing me to be a terrorist or a rival importer of French goods looking for trade secrets.

I replied: "Because your store is so beautiful."

"I know it's beautiful" she replied, tossing her head back in an exaggerated gesture of pride. "But why do you want to take pictures?"

I did my best Gallic shrug and repeated that I understood her prohibition: "Ce n'est pas une problem."

So, I won't give her store a plug or a recommendation. Pas de problem. But in this day and age, courtesy is a nice policy, as anyone with a camera could be uploading a full video to YouTube. You just never know. So, I won't mention the name of the store or give it a bad report, but will try again at a later time. Maybe she was just having a bad day. Or she may be the living stereotype of French hauteur that has actually pretty-much evaded me until now.

In spite of this little blip of unusual rudeness, my time as a flâneur did not end on a sour note. The sun was still shining, the air still exuded the scent of flowers, the streets and shops and buildings were still every bit as charming as before. C'est la vie.

I strolled back by the Cathedral where a brass band was playing and a man had hair dyed the same color as the magnificent azaleas that were in full bloom. Jackson Square was all gated up in preparation for the upcoming French Quarter Festival, as workers put finishing touches on equipment. From St. Peter Street, I headed back to Canal Street to the ferry ride home.

The set of pictures of my little adventure as a flâneur can be found here.

Annual Mardi Gras "Debauchery"

Another glorious Mardi Gras is here (we just shifted the party from the church parking lot, where Grela and Bes rode past, to home), and I still have not received an apology from the pastor from a certain potato-producing state who has never been to New Orleans in his life, but felt qualified to use our beloved tradition of Mardi Gras parades as an illustration about sin in a popular Lutheran devotional the day before Ash Wednesday a couple years ago.

My congregation was not impressed.

The potato pastor was called on it. He was asked to retract it. He was even invited to come and join us for a real New Orleans Mardi Gras. But instead of joining us for the party, he dourly stood by his insulting words and just blew us off. Nice. Having grown up in Ohio, I know that the cold weather (especially this time of year) can certainly make one's world rather gray and drab. But why is it that the cold doesn't turn Canadians (nor Wisconsinites and Minnesotans) into wet blankets and scolds? That is one of the great mysteries of North American culture.

Well, it's his loss. Although the weather was chilly, it was beautifully clear. For yet another year, we had a wonderful time of family fun (you can see pictures of the "debauchery" here - note all the children, both tossing and receiving beads, stuffed animals, candy, and toys. Quelle scandale! Well, one of our cats (who, incidentally, was not wearing a stitch of clothing) did vomit when we got home. And I did manage to drink an entire Corona over the course of the day. I can just hear some of my more northerly brethren clicking their tongues from here. Tsk tsk.

And, incidentally, I am only kidding. It is Fat Tuesday, after all.

The mood this year was rather footbally, as this years Carnival colors (green, purple, and yellow) were augmented by a healthy dose of black and gold. I got some really nice fleur-de-lis throws. There were quite a few spontaneous chants of "Who dat?" and eruptions of the anthemic Stand Up and Get Crunk - especially as one of the Saints' players rode past us in one of today's parades. For his part, Leo was very excited to get a couple sets of beads featuring insects and spiders (as well as a crab and an octopus) from "Aunt Jean," who rode in the parade and was "scandalously" tossing beads from the Charlotte's Web float with her daughter and granddaughter. Leo was replete with joy. I immediately thought of the Nunc Dimittis: "Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace" - Leo's life had become complete at that point.

However, I half expect to see Jean's parade picture make the cover of Lutheran Witness as an example of sin - especially as payback from angry Colts fans.

Sigh.

Who dat?

We dat!

Salem's New Chasuble

Battling some mechanical and technical issues until this morning, Mrs. H. finished the green chasuble for Salem Lutheran Church - the third in the series (including purple and white) so far.

Here are more photos of the construction process.

The fleur-de-lis is not only a beloved symbol associated with the Louisiana and French heritage, it is also a Christian symbol - a lily (symbol of the resurrection) with the Most Holy Trinity represented in the trefoils. We are undecided at this point whether or not to send a "cease and desist" order to the NFL...

Thank you, Miz Grace and to the benefactors who donated the funds for this beautiful addition to the sanctuary of Salem Lutheran Church. Also, a big "thank you" to Kelly at Probst Decorating who was an answer to a prayer, providing the material for the "halo" around the fleur-de-lis - even refusing to take a penny for it!

Soli Deo gloria.

A Letter to New Orleans from a Viking Fan

Here is a nice letter to the editor from a Minnesota Vikings fan.

I have overwhelmingly heard and seen the same thing from the many visitors to New Orleans. The French Quarter and the Riverwalk are now a literal walk from my front door thanks to the rerouting of the Gretna Ferry. It is common in New Orleans to see opposing jerseys on tourists in town for big college and NFL football games. They are often wearing beads and carrying beers, daiquiris, or hand grenades (not the real ones) and big smiles.

Like I said, living in the town of Gretna (home of Zatarain's, Mel Ott, Heritage Fest, and Pelican Publishing) - a short walk from New Orleans - I have seen this same scenario again and again with my own eyes (such as a lot of Ohio State fans in scarlet and gray strolling around Canal Street and the Riverwalk high-fiving with LSU-clad folk right before the national championship two years ago). The local merchants likewise have no problem selling merchandise of the opposing team and putting them on prominent display. I have never once seen a person attacked or being rudely treated for being on the "wrong" side. To the contrary, it is a well-known fact that the local culture of New Orleans is rooted in hospitality to tourists visiting us, and though I'm sure there are exceptions, they only serve to prove the rule.

I grew up in Northeastern Ohio and worked for a while in downtown Cleveland. And I can tell you from experience, you do not want to walk around near East Ninth and Superior in a black and gold shirt. In fact, I would advise the clergy in the "best location in the nation" (the land of Ghoulardi, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, the twice-"ablaze"-Cuyahoga River, and Drew Carey) to avoid wearing gold crucifixes with black clericals if it is a Steelers-Browns weekend. I'm kidding, of course - but only a little. But even all that being said, the vast majority of Browns fans were good-natured and well-behaved. There's also the whole OSU-Michigan thing as well. Now that's a rivalry that made some blood boil!

I have lived all over the country - and as much as I did enjoy my time in Philly, we honestly got out of town when any Philadelphia team was in any championship game. A lot of people in Philly secretly rooted for the visiting team out of fear of a riot. And it goes without saying that the vast majority of Philadelphians did not set cars on fire and loot and create terror. But there were enough bad apples to create a lot of bad press for the City of Brotherly Love - as well as a lot of uncomfortable residents of the city.

The Crescent City (like any other place on the globe) is not without some bad apples of her own, but the overall culture of the city, and overwhelmingly so, is joie-de-vivre and laissez les bons temps rouler.

And here is an Open Letter to the City of Miami that kind of sums up how we roll in da Big Easy.

But win or lose, there will be a parade. Of course, if we didn't have the Saints, there'd still be a parade for some reason or other, dawlin'. And for lagniappe, we been having crawfish season a p'ti bit early now that winter's jus bout ovuh. If you want to trade in the snow for some beads and king cake, jazz and blues, and hospitality that's so Southern Fried that Southern Mississippi is considered "up north," - now's the time.

Y'all come!

Rusted From the Rain

In the late 80s and early 90s, I lived in New York and make frequent trips to Ottawa and Montreal. In the latter, there was a radio station called CKMF in Montreal that played mostly French-language pop/rock. There is nothing quite like being bundled in a parka tooling along the icy 417 headed from Montreal to Ottawa (Mrs. H's hometown), aiming between the snow drifts in a little Ford Escort, listening to the curious blend of 98% rapidly-spoken French with perfectly articulated English words thrown in. And there is a good bit of music that is largely unheard in the States, by both English- and French-speaking Canadians. CKMF always came in loud and clear, and had quite a mix of music.

In those days, the CKMF radio announcer would frequently identify the call sign of the station in a high-energy, loud, gravelly, manly voice (not unlike the stereotypical American promoter of "monster trucks"): "Quatre-vingt-quatorze, virgule trois, C-K-M-F, Montréal!" The station's frequency is 94,3 (with the comma replacing the period in our convention).

The announcer would really emphasize the first syllable of "virgule" (comma), "VIR-gule!"

I can just imagine the coaching that went on in the studio to get the right sound. If the "VIR-gule!" guy from CKMF is a Fr. H. reader (and my actually winning a million British pounds is more likely), I would like an exclusive interview...

Anyway, thanks to the Interwebs, we don't have to be in a Ford Escort in Québec to listen to CKMF 94,3. You can go to their site here and click on the little arrow and stream it in. They even have a little graphic of the particular music that is playing now. They don't seem to have the same announcement of the station, and in fact, they are pushing their corporate persona more than their call letters these days (NRJ, which means "énergie").

While listening to a little of the countdown yesterday, I ran across the above video of the tune Rusted From the Rain by the Canadian band Billy Talent.

It's pop music. It's nothing of an eternal or deeply profound nature, but I enjoyed the performance and the musicality of it. I thought the video was interesting, and (I might be wrong about this) I suspect that this band is much better known in Canada than in the U.S. Maybe you'll like it, maybe you won't - but you can watch for free right here.

And if you're a student of the French language, a Canada-phile, or just looking for something a little different to listen to musically, keep CKMF in mind. And again, if you are the VIR-gule guy, shoot me an e-mail and let me know how things are going in La Belle Province.

Differences on Winter

My dear esteemed northern colleagues, churchmen Father William and Brother Latif, are both singing the praises of winter as most of the country is in a cold snap. Their enthusiasm reminds me of my time at Fort Wayne attending seminary. My brethren from Minnesota made a point to wear shorts year-round - even during blizzards. I would be bundled in a parka, fur hat, boots, and elbow-length mittens while they strolled around campus looking like half-naked savages. All that was missing was for them to be slurping on ice cream cones or orange push-ups. I like my brothers from Minnesota, but I could not help but view them as specimens from another species.

I grew up in Northern Ohio, not far from the swirling hiemal blasts off Lake Erie, and Mrs. H. grew up in the second coldest national capital on the planet (Ottawa, the capital of Canada). However, both of us have reached the same conclusion: we don't care if we ever see ice and snow again. By far, we prefer palm trees, lush tropical foliage, citrus fruits, banana trees, and bulbs popping up in mid-February over the necessity of scraping ice off of windshields and getting slush inside the boots (though Mrs. H. still retains a perverse pleasure in shoveling snow, though this is almost certainly the result of a childhood trauma or some such...).

Of course, chacun à son goût (to each his own) and all that. But as for me, today was more than enough winter than any warm blooded mammal should ever have to endure. I mean, I had to wear a leather coat, a scarf (originally purchased in Cleveland), and a fur police hat made in a country that no longer exists, as the mercury dipped scandalously below 40 degrees F (a meteorological phenomenon which my in-laws in the Great White North would consider "balmy").

There are a couple saving graces to this inhuman level of frigidity: the temperatures will be back in the 70s in a few days (God be praised!), and the oranges and lemons are pretty much ripe, serving to remind us that even though global warming is a hoax, the sun still has the ability to bring glorious fruits to maturity unimpeded by the kind of weather that folks in Illinois and Wisconsin find attractive.

But as for the cold, I've had enough. I'm ready to go back to shorts, sandals, and tee shirts any day now...



Postscript: Add Father Christopher to the list of "snow people." Brrr!

Daniel Hannan Reviews Atlas Shrugged

I concur with this review of the 1957 novel Atlas Shrugged by the Russian-born American novelist and political philosopher Ayn Rand.

The philosophy of Ayn Rand (developed during her own childhood nightmare of living through the Bolshevik Revolution) is a complete repudiation of Communism and of all forms of collectivism. Rand makes a powerful moral argument for capitalism and for individual freedom.

The downside of her philosophy (which she called Objectivism) is that it posits that all altruism is evil - even when done completely privately without government involvement or compulsion. She is also fiercely Atheistic, and denounces all religion as evil.

And yet even with these caveats (along with her followers' cultishness and her own shameful conduct of her sad personal life which does not serve to vindicate her philosophy), there is much to be learned from Rand. Her essays are better than her novels - though even Atlas Shrugged is brilliant in parts. The premise is unique and promising (the producers and thinkers of society find a way to "go on strike"), heroic (Rand's good guys and bad guys are not hard to figure out, to say the least), and the book's rhetorical device, "Who Is John Galt?", has been iconic among conservative thinkers around the world for half a century. However, as a novel, the well-conceived plot falls flat on its face. The book is far too long, and Rand's storytelling is dreadfully wooden; her characters are simply too robotic to be realistic.

Nevertheless, I recommend it.

It has had a profound effect on American conservatism and libertarianism. It is a work of literature of the same genre as 1984, Fahrenheit 451, and Brave New World. It forces us to rethink our premises about the "common good" and the role of government. Even Christian conservatives and/or libertarians can draw from Rand - in spite of the bad storytelling and the hard edges to her philosophy. And I agree with Hannan that a film version might be just what the doctor ordered to clean up Rand's sloppiness and verbosity.

And as an aside, I find it a breath of fresh air to find a politician like Daniel Hannan, a thinking conservative who can truly write, witty, brilliant, at times fiercely independent, and unashamed to mix Latin, French, and American slang in a well-crafted book review.

If more Congresses and Parliaments around the world had more men like Daniel Hannan, perhaps we could afford to ignore Ayn Rand and not heed the warnings in books like Atlas Shrugged.

C'est nôtre fils, bien sûr

LiveMocha Update

I had previously blogged about LiveMocha, the international community of people studying languages and helping one another, and I'm really enjoying it!

I enrolled in the (free) beginning French class, after realizing just how rusty I had become - in spite of three years of High School study, a French-Canadian wife, and years of practice with my sainted (and très Française) grandmother-in-law who didn't speak English. Mrs. H. and I are trying to speak as much French as we can at home to help Garçon de Lion pick up his ancestral tongue with as much facility as possible.

So far, I am 55% done with French 101. It is a very helpful review, which I'm supplementing with another French text.

The really cool thing about LiveMocha is having native speakers (and also fellow students) critique your writing and speaking - as well as the ability to do live chat (which I have not done) and written messages with your "friends."

And some of my "friends" really are becoming friends - not to mention excellent language instructors.

• Andréanne is a 15-year old Québecoise who is native in French, fluent in English, and intermediate in Spanish. She is a meticulous and thorough tutor, lavish with praise, and equally unflinching with criticism.
• Eric is a 36-year old Swiss who is native in French and a beginner in English, German, Spanish, and Russian.
• HoSeok is a North Korean who is (obviously) native in Korean, as well as being advanced in English. He is a beginner in Russian, Farsi, Esperanto, German, and Arabic!
• Jean Marie is a real character, a 60-year old French musician and artist who lives in a small house near Bordeaux and is building a shed to use as a studio. He is a huge help with my French, and he is also an intermediate student of English.
• Louis is a really helpful tutor. He is a native Québecois who has lived in British Columbia for more than 20 years. He is about my age, is a member of the RCMP (Royal Canadian Mounted Police), is native in French, fluent in English, and is himself a beginner in Spanish and Italian. He is always very encouraging and thorough.
• Micrurus is a 30-year old Peruvian guy who is native in Spanish, fluent in Latin (!), English, and German, is intermediate in Sanskrit (!) and French, and is a beginner in Russian, Portuguese, and Italian.
• Vladimir is a 31-year old Russian who is a beginner in English. He often submits his work to me for evaluation and review - and he works very hard to get the pronunciation and accent right. His dedication is quite an inspiration, especially given the difficulty and quirks of English - which of course uses a different alphabet than his native language.

I have other friends as well, some of whom are native and fluent in Scandinavian languages. LiveMocha does not currently have a Swedish course, but I am looking forward to when they do (they do have a lot of Scandinavian members) so I can brush up on it as well.

LiveMocha currently offers classes in Arabic, Bulgarian, Dutch, English, Estonian, Farsi, Finnish, French, German, Greek, Hindi, Hungarian, Icelandic, Italian, Japanese, Korean, Mandarin Chinese, Polish, Portuguese, Brazilian Portuguese, Romanian, Russian, Spanish, Turkish, and Ukranian - with more courses on the way.

Each time you submit an exercise to be reviewed, you are expected to review the work of an English student - which generally takes only a couple minutes. It is all about give and take, about learning from, and with, a worldwide community, alongside people of every imaginable background and cultural circumstance.

I continue to be impressed, and highly recommend it to anyone wanting to learn, review, or practice languages - or if you just want to make international friends. LiveMocha is très cool!

Language Learning Online

Check out LiveMocha! It is an online approach to learning languages that works along the "social networking" model like Facebook and MySpace - only this international community is filled with people learning foreign languages.

There are online courses offered in several languages (a free version as well as very inexpensive "premium" versions that offer a few extra benefits, such as help from professional tutors) that make use of multimedia and instant feedback for learning (along the lines of the popular and expensive Rosetta Stone). And, your exercises (written and spoken) are critiqued by native speakers in the community. Also, you can help others learn by critiquing their English (or whatever language you speak).

You can "friend" people based native language or based on whatever other languages they are studying (as well as the level of their expertise).

If you are interested in taking a course, you can take a little quiz in the language of your choice just to assess where you are. I was placed in intermediate French (based on a short reading quiz). However, upon starting the free French 201 course, I realized my writing and speaking were rusty. So, I actually re-enrolled in the French 101 course for practice and review. And when I submitted exercises for peer review, I was asked to help out a couple people with their English.

LiveMocha is looking to expand the language courses offered, and there are many optional helps available, such as flashcards you can download and additional exercises for practice.

Here is a write-up on Wikipedia, also a review at VentureBeat, and here is the help page from LiveMocha itself.

Language is ultimately about communication, and it makes great sense to exploit the World Wide Web to share language learning and practice with people around the world. It is stunning how many people around the world are fluent or advanced in multiple languages - and are still interested in learning new ones.

The little I have used LiveMocha so far, I'm impressed.