Conference lgp30::christian-perspective

1236.0. "Prisoner of the fold..." by THOLIN::TBAKER (The Spirit of Apathy) Fri Apr 12 1996 15:11

I couldn't keep this to myself...


From:	US1RMC::"origami-l@nstn.ca"  4-APR-1996 22:40:00.49
To:	Multiple recipients of list <origami-l@nstn.ca>
CC:	
Subj:	Chinese Modulars- finally the story


I *finally* got around to uploading the story I wrote for the York 
College writing contest- it's basically an account of my visit to the 
prison to see the refugees.  I *promise* to post diagrams to the units I 
mention; regrettably, though, I couldn't get the formula for the 
papier-mache type stuff.

Here goes (excuse any melodrama):

                          "Prisoner of the Fold"

     When I mention the word "origami," in a mixed crowd, a few
people respond, recalling childhood images of abstract paper
birds, airplanes or "cootie catchers."  Most have not experienced
the true scope of the art form.  "Paperfolding" has been a part
my life for the last eleven years.  My elementary school days
were enlivened with two-fold ducks and hopping frogs.  Over time, 
I gradually acquired new books and special papers, my ability
grew.  Rather than using scissors to make "legs" on animals, I
was able to create lifelike creatures by simply folding a single
square of paper.  Through bibliographies in books, I found others
who enjoyed this hobby.  By the time I graduated from high
school, I had joined the national Origami society (today called
Origami USA), and been to two three-day conventions in New York
city.  When I arrived at college, I discovered a mailing list on
the Internet for the art, and promptly joined.  
     Through this interaction with folders from around the world,
I learned of a group of Chinese detainees who were being held in
the York County Prison, a short distance from my home.  The
mailing list is not typically a forum for addressing social
injustice.  The attraction to the plight of these accidental
immigrants was based on rumors that they had developed "a neat
new triangle module folded from paper."  Intrigued, I decided to
attempt to visit these "fellow artists."  



     When I called the warden to arrange the affair, a strange
conversation ensued.  "Are you a lawyer?" he asked.  
     "No sir," I responded.  
     "Part of a religious organization?"  
     "No sir," I replied again, "I'm a paperfolder."
     After a moment of silence, the warden agreed to allow the
visit, and transferred the call to the prison chaplain.  After
the initial exchange, I explained my "project."  When I had
finished, he laid the ground rules.
     "You do realize this is a maximum security prison," the
chaplain warned.  
     "Sure," I replied offhand.  
     "Don't carry any sharp objects, and don't wear blue; that
color is in season for inmates this year.  And don't wear a
necktie."
     I chuckled at this odd request.  "Why not?" I queried.
     "You could get strangled to death that way."
     I swallowed, audibly.
     "That reminds me," he continued, "you'll have to sign a
little waiver when you come to visit.  If you are captured during
a riot, we'll try and negotiate your release, but we won't
concede to every prisoner demand." 
     As the chaplain finished his grim speech, visions of
peaceful, paper polyhedra vanished from my mind, to be replaced
with scenes from the movie "Attica."


     "Oh," said the chaplain offhandedly, "there's one more
thing.  You can't bring anything in with you; no paper.  And I
hope you speak Chinese."
     Three days later, I stood nervously in front of the Male
wing at the York County prison, wondering idly if I would survive
the ordeal, or if I should have told my mother about the "rules". 
She had already questioned my sanity when I casually mentioned
that I was visiting the prison to fold paper; I didn't want to
upset her even more.  After checking in at the desk I was
escorted through a couple of rumbling sets of steel doors before
arriving in the office of Robert "Bob" Brenneman, Assistant
Chaplain of the York County Prison.  
     As I entered the room, I glanced around, expecting to see a
few scraps of paper, abstract shapes made from substandard
materials.  Instead, I noticed multicolored, intricate vases and
handcrafted animals decorating the otherwise bland workspace. 
Bob chuckled to himself as he gauged my reaction to the elaborate
artwork.  After staring in awe for a few long minutes, I managed
to find my voice, and inquired about the origin of this art form.
     "The translator called it "folded paper," he began, "and
that's how it began, at least."  Bob gestured to a somewhat
lopsided abstraction of a turkey hidden in a corner.  "Origi
nally, the Chinese just assembled "folded pieces" made from
scraps."   According to Bob, one of the detainees moved beyond
the original, "traditional fold" and began creating "pineapples"
folded together from scraps found around the cell.  He taught his
cellmate how to make them, and the "art" soon spread through the
"pod'" or containment area.  The pod consists of a few rows of
cells and a small common area with a TV set.  The refugees began
making these pineapples in a sort of assembly line, as "gifts"
for anyone who was helping them with their plight (attorneys and
visitors).  The Chinese "artists" were a group from variety of
backgrounds- engineers, shopkeepers, and teachers.
     The form evolved, and the Chinese began scavenging any
material at their disposal to create new works of art.  They
combined toilet paper with Elmer's glue in a swirled mash which
then could be "sculpted" into shape, over painstaking hours of
work.   They combined the earlier "triangle" paper modules used
in their pineapples with their sculpted pieces, detailing them
with magic marker.  The artists did not have pictures for these
first models; eagles, fish and lobsters.  They worked entirely
from imagination.  "For a while they were coming up with new
animals that didn't exist," accorded Brenneman.  The eagles
gradually evolved from early simple representations to realistic, 
detailed finished work.  The skilled men would etch lines to make
"feathers" with the tools at hand- the ends of plastic spoons. 
The spoons were then used to smooth out the bodies until they
were perfect surfaces.  The Chinese devised a method for creating
lifelike eyes which shone with life.  "We're not sure how they
did it," the Chaplain says, "we think they might have used some
sort of soap."
     Their ingenuity at creating implements for their work was
remarkable, though not always compatible with the prison
regulations.  "We walked in one day to the cells and found a
couple of the men calmly slicing pieces of cardboard with what
appeared to be knives," Bob recalled, "The tools were created
from metal elements in their boots.  They didn't even realize
they had done anything wrong; they needed to cut, so they made a
tool for the job"
     After the lesson in the history of this "new" art form,     Bob
and I walked to the Chinese cell pod.  As we passed the first set
of cells, Bob shouted, and a door to one of the pods opened.  An
energetic youth, Jian Le Shi, sprang forth and became my "tour
guide."  Bob explained who I was and Jian Li cheerfully pumped my
hand with vigorous aplomb.  We moved onto another pod to visit
the creators of some of these masterpieces.  The heavy automatic
door opened, and Jian bounded into the pod, pointing and shouting
in rapid Chinese at a crowd watching a television.  Several of
them immediately arose from their perches atop makeshift tables
and rushed upstairs to the upper cell block.  Jian hopped up the
stairs and shouted until Bob and I followed.  
     I entered the first cell, and spied a slumbering form in one
of the bunks.  A single eyeball peered out from beneath the
covers, and the sleeping man awoke immediately.  After a brief
exchange with Jian, he withdrew a mystical dragon from beneath
his bed.  His creation, a meticulously carved design, sported
detailed scales, burning eyes, and gnashing teeth (made of
styrofoam from a cup) in a mouth complete with a "pearl".  The
creature's animated form shone with a life that stood in sharp
contrast to the bleak cell.  

     I recalled trips to art museums as a child where admonishing
security personnel carefully guarded sculptures, insuring that
the pieces are not touched or handled in any way.  Not here.
Unlike the museums of the big city, this artist was happy to
share his work, and immediately handed me the dragon to appraise. 
After staring appreciatively at this ingenious work, I turned to
my right and spied an eagle with a 3-foot wingspan.  The wings
were composed of hundreds of triangle modules made from magazine
covers, carefully color-sequenced and meticulously assembled. 
Three of the Chinese moved around the piece and scooted it across
the floor towards me so fast I nearly fell over it.  At that
moment, I wished that I knew enough Chinese to express my
appreciation, but at the same time had a feeling that mere words,
no matter what the language, could never convey my feelings.  I
hope my dazzled expression was sufficient.
     In the next cell, I nearly fell over a 4-foot long model of
a ship, created entirely from the toilet paper "mash," paste,
glue and soap. "It's like the one they came over on," explained
the Chaplain's Assistant, "for their Golden Venture."  The
Chinese perked up upon hearing the Bob's last two words, and
began shouting them excitedly among themselves.  One of the more
animated fellows tugged at my sleeve and gestured to the boat,
speaking in his rapid native tongue.  The Chaplain explained that
they were talking about the trip.  "They were on the boat for
almost a month," he said, "and received only a handful of rice to
eat, every other day."
     
     We eventually left the room and proceeded to the final cell. 
There, the "chief artist," Xiang Gui, stood proudly before his
modest "workshop."  Ten styrofoam cups sat on the floor, filled
with a multicolored assortment of handmade mash, his sculpting
material.  Half-finished pieces sat in various stages on a table
next to the bed.  A winged golden lion perched on the sill 
guarding the window.  I glanced over at the table and noticed a
picture from a Franklin Mint advertisement, showing a family of
white owls roosting on a tree.  Noticing this, Xiang sifted
through some items on his desk, finally withdrawing his latest
work- an exact replica of the sculpture in the photo. 
     Four intricate white owls gazed despondently from their
perches, a family alone on an island tree of handmade paste and
magic marker.  One of the group spoke up.  "Owl," he managed,
"like us," he gestured to the group, "We fly.. America., go back
for Mamma and baby.  Bring family to USA."  I looked around at
the faces of the assembled detainees and noted the first break in
their animated, cheerful countenances since I had arrived two
hours earlier.  One spoke up "We America. No go back China" 
"America," they chanted in unison.  
     Finally, as we left, I paused one last time before the
cells.  Two men emerged from the artists area, each bearing a 
perched eagle, each finely crafted over many hours.  "You should
be honored," said Bob, "Those are easily worth a couple of
hundred dollars."  I didn't know how to thank them properly.  "We
teach you how to make," one of the men offered.  As I departed
their prison, I reflected upon how eagerly I would have accepted
the offer.  Regrettably, though, these fine people would more
than likely be gone within 2 months, given up on a futile legal
struggle.  
     As I departed the prison, I reflected upon their situation,
and my own perceptions.  Before I met these fascinating people, 
"immigrant" was a dirty word, the embodiment of a foul scourge
which threatened to seep into the country, robbing America of
jobs and taxpayer dollars.  During my brief visit, I discovered
that the pieces of Chinese artwork were fetching hundreds of
dollars in the marketplace, where they were sold by third parties
to benefit family members, still overseas.   "Why can't they
apply for citizenship," I asked Bob, "they can obviously make a
living and contribute to the country."  
     "Their situation is largely political," he replied soberly,
"They claim that they are political refugees, and they aren't
'officially' recognized by our government as being persecuted by
China."  
     I pondered this grim fact of life.  In China, there are no
"official" beatings, no "official" forced abortions.  I suppose
there is also no "official" art form of "folded paper."  If these
people are returned to their miserable existence, there never
will be.  The hope and optimism that drives their artwork will
die with the broken spirits of the artists.























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Quite a story, thanks for posting it.

Steve

    A very touching story, and an unfortunate consequence of a very complex
    political problem.  It's important to remember though that the actions
    of our government in this sort of thing are a reflection of our laws,
    laws which we ourselves sanction via our elected legislature. 
    Unfortunately, sometimes we forget that immigrants are the ones who had 
    built this country.
    
    Trying to think of biblical references on how one should treat
    non-nationals.  It seems Jesus broke barriers in this area by putting
    all men on an equal standing.  The good Samaritan story comes to mind.
    But I've read something from Steven Mitchell's "The Gospel According to
    Jesus" which puts even him in a position of showing some
    national/religious bias.  
    
    The story went something like this (clarifications and comment always
    welcome)... Jesus went to a small village to rest from the crowd who
    were relentlessly approaching him for miracles. While resting, a
    non-Jewish woman (I foget her nationality) approached him asking for a
    miracle to save her child.  Jesus responded by asking why he should
    throw good food to the dogs while denying his own children (why should
    he perform a miracle for a non-Jew). She responded that even the dogs get 
    the scraps that fall under the table.  To this Jesus replied "well said" 
    and cured her child.  
    
    Was Jesus caught in a moment of being nationally biased?  Was he
    outwitted by this woman?
    
    As for the problem in China, I feel that we and the rest of the world
    need to keep constant peaceful pressure on the regime and most
    importantly try to establish and maintain contact with it's population.
    In time, the regime will collapse from within or relent to the
    inevitable.  
    
    -dave