Day 119

A wonderful passionate argument arose between two grade 9 kids in the Art room.  All about what constitutes hate speech, why people should have a right to say things out loud, but some things should not be shouted in a public place, hating the speech but defending the right to it, heated faces putting their points across, looking deep into one another's eyes, totally focused. And even more thought-provoking because one is a Muslim girl and the other a Jewish boy.  It got really fiery and there were almost tears, and then it calmed down, they calmed themselves down, well, the girl was the soothing influence, and slowly, steadily, they both got down from their high horses and realised that they were on the same side, the side of sense, the voice of reason. 

And this is the great thing about my school, the diversity of cultures, of faiths, of opinions, of languages.  And I truly believe that being a part of this school and studying within these curricula (French and IB) makes for students who think, who question. Of course it is not a perfect place and there are still silly fights and people who do not get on, and the occasional bully, but generally it is an amazing little place.

I have recently read American Gods by Neil Gaiman, which tells the story of a man called Shadow and his encounters with a wide number of gods, all brought over by people who came to America from all over the world, the immigrants who made this country.  So there are the old gods, the Norse gods, and Anubis and Thoth who run a funeral parlour, and leprechauns who get drunk and pluck gold coins out of the air.  There are pixies and fairies and all manner of gods, large and small.  They are all at odds with the new gods, Media and the Technical Boy and various others.

Anubis

Thoth, with Am-met.

It has made me wonder which gods I brought with me to America. 

Perhaps the old gods of my beloved mountains of Cape Town are here with me, their granite faces gazing out on to my meadow as they sit there on the large rocks, contemplating the different terrain.    And the god of Kalk Bay, the stern god of the place where I learned to swim, who is in all likelihood from Malaysia originally, haunts my Good Harbor Beach.  Also the tree-nymphs of the jacaranda and silver-oak of 10 Forest Drive, and the loquat and the pecan-nut tree of 16 Cross Street, suddenly find themselves going into suspended animation as they cling to the trunks of birch and white pine to survive the cold winter snows of Massachusetts.

And here on the mat in front of the fire, almost visible at times, are all my cats, Jenny-any-dot, Little Fat Cat, Grizzabella, Gracie, Mungo Jerry, Rumpleteaser, Clement, Quinn, Wilberforce, and little old Lily, who have joined Bast,  stretched out in bliss.  And lying in the kitchen and under the dining room table with Sarama are all the dogs, Timmy, Gwynn, Sacha, Mishkin, Liza, Luca, Jemima, Skye and Mad Molly Malone, all keeping watch over us here in this strange new land, this America.

Sarama, Vedic goddess of intuition and dogs

Egyptian statue of Bast, the cat-goddess.