A few more pictures from Hannibal, Missouri where the writer Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens) spent much of his childhood.
Dear Friends, Colleagues and Acquaintances of Rudy Wilson (Papa Rudy):
Kindly consider this note your official invitation to the launching of a book in Honor of Rudy Wilson on Tuesday, November 16, 2010 at 12 Noon at Southern Illinois University Edwardsville (SIUE).
Since his retirement from SIUE as Assistant Provost for Cultural and Social Diversity and a professor in School of Education, a group comprising of friends and mentees of Rudy Wilson has put together a short festschrift titled, Multiculturalism in the Age of the Mosaic: Essays in Honor of Rudolph G. Wilson. The book, edited by Dr. Michael O. Afolayan, Assistant Director for Academic Affairs, Illinois Board of Higher Education, with a foreword by Dr. Venessa Brown, Assistant Provost for Institutional Diversity and Inclusion and Professor of Social Work at SIUE, came out in September.
This important one-hour event will take place at the Morris University Center (Hickory/Hackberry Room). There will be short readings from the chapter on “Reflections” written by friends and colleagues of Rudy, brief statements from invited guests, and a response from Rudy Wilson.
Please mark your calendar, and be there to honor this “Man of the People!”
Last year Halloween, I missed my chance to dress up as a Pirate of the Caribbean. This year, to redeem myself, I came up with a variety of costume ideas. At first I thought that I could be Robert Mugabe, the Zimbabwean dictator. I gave that up when I realized that I’d need to wear a three piece suit to be close. Then I wanted to be the stupid Nigerian Underwear bomber from last year. To do that, I might need to wear a t-shirt (and maybe a fiery underwear) and look silly. No way. Then I thought I could be Kunta Kinte. Who cares, I thought. Halloween is such a day for the ridiculous anyway. However, Kunta was a short man, and I’d have to look and behave really angrily. I gave that up as well. Then I said I’d be Fela the musician. Then I realized that no one around here really knows who he was to be able to correctly identify me. Then I said maybe I should be Eddie Long. Oh no, I said again. I’m not that desperate to be ridiculous, so I jettisoned that too. I decided to go as myself, in a classy Yoruba dashiki vest.
Nothing more needs to be said except that it was thick enough to keep the cold out when I’m outside, and colourful enough to be a Halloween costume in America. When I was asked who I was supposed to be, I said I was an African president from the Congo – not minding that the clothing material is not even worn in the Congo. When I went to the parade at downtown Edwardsville yesterday, I wore it again, and I got a few interesting glances. It’s Halloween, geddit? Let’s see what happens when I wear it to the department sometime. A student from Ghana saw me and said it is called fugu in Ghana, and is worn mostly by the Hausas in the Northern part of the country. All I know is that Wole Soyinka wore it on top of an “English” dress to accept his Nobel Prize in 1986 in Stockholm. Now it all makes sense. The cold in that part of the world is beyond belief.
And so it ends, another season of fun and festivities.
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Random: I think it’s unfair that most of America’s fun places are in Missouri rather than in Illinois. Sometimes last week, I went to Grant’s Farm – a spacious fenced plantation ground belonging to the former general and president Ulysses Grant, also in Missouri. The grounds of the farm – now populated with animals of different kinds – was where the president spent much of his time during the civil war and the Mexican war. The state has so much more than has been presently discovered, and I’d be glad to check out as many more as I can discover.
The parade at downtown Edwardsville yesterday night was a jamboree. As early as six o’ clock in a car driving towards the venue of the annual Halloween rally, I had wondered if all of America had decided to converge here after all. The traffic was long, some roads had been closed, there were policemen at every junction, and all visible parking lots were already filled up. On roadsides were people in different costumes in family-size groups. On another side were tents and sheds, and people preparing for the parade.
I eventually made it to a safe place to park, and headed out to the road to await the start of the parade. It was cold, very cold. (You don’t have to take my word for it. I’m Nigerian. But remember that by this time last year, I’d already bought gloves.) Between six thirty and six forty-five the first group marched by. They were a band of firefighters from the city with musical instruments and a matching costume. They were followed by a bunch of school children also in costumes, and musical instruments. It soon became clear that the parade was going to follow a similar pattern. From then until about eight thirty when I have had enough, there were trains of people, cars, politicians, little children and uniformed employees who had come out to celebrate the season the way they’d done so for years.
There was plenty sweets (or candy) to go around, as any of the kids on the side of the roads watching the parade and catching them as they are flung would admit. Maybe for them, it would be enough to justify their coming out in such a cold weather. On the other hand, maybe it’s not that cold or the event would have taken place in the early fall or summer. But then, doesn’t the Mardi Gras take place in February when it’s the coldest? The other way to look at it is that this is one time during the year when whole families come out for a common purpose that is neither political nor polarizing. I saw three year olds, and I saw seventy-year olds, and a town suddenly made alive in a hopeful celebration of optimism and the fact that life always goes on.
I’m glad I went. I was a good chance to breath the fresh air of the outdoors, though I’d have preferred if it was just a little less cold.
