Death to ethnocentrism.

So, Mom, you're upset with the 10-year-old boys. Did I mention these rough-and-tumble kids were 3 girls, one boy? Seriously. Stop worrying about me walking home alone. First of all, I don't have much of a choice--and there are 11 other students doing the exact same thing. I don't know what you're picturing, but it's all in public. All homes are essentially outdoors--there will always be witnesses. And I think I've done enough assuring that I am safer here than I could be at home. I feel more uncomfortable walking next to Kicker's Bar on Lakeshore; no lie.

On my walk this morning, Gloria left her yard to meet me again. She asked me to remind her of my name; she has broken Uganda's winning streak of remembering names, but I forgive her because she's adorable. She asked if I would bring her sweets today. I told her I couldn't (we leave today for Jinja for the weekend), but would next time I pass. And so, her name is written on my hand; I need to go shopping.
Some promises are harder to keep. Some strides away from Gloria, I met two little boys. One of them stopped me, said he wanted to talk with me. He told me his father had died, and he asked me to be his sponsor. Such a commitment, which I'm not sure what it entails (besides going to his home, which he asked me to do), is too large. I don't even know.

Have I mentioned they say sorry a lot here? It is more a form of sympathy than apology. When you cough, they say sorry. If you drop something, they say sorry. (If you sneeze, they say nothing. I can't get out of the "God Bless You" habit, and they laugh every time). They use "thank you" in much the same way (it really is such a kind, beautiful culture in so many ways). They thank you for things not even related to them. For instance, you tell someone gyebale, or gyebale ko, when they are working hard (even if you don't know them and you pass them in the street, washing, or digging, or slashing the grass). Last night my friend Caroline's host-dad thanked her for having a curfew in America. Or they'll thank you for studying. No benefit to themselves. It's beautiful.

Beautiful, much like the past two nights' matoke. Two nights ago Aida made the most delicious batch of spinach I've ever had, and I drowned my matoke with it. Last night was an incredible eggplant sauce. Not only was I stomaching the matoke, I admit I wanted more.
I am enjoying eating hardboiled eggs. I always have, but here it seems more Cool Hand Luke-ish. No salt, no pepper, no symetrical slice down the middle. Whole and true.

My Luganda lessons hiked it up a notch last night. Rebecca was explaining verbs to me, and the different conjugations.
To laugh: okuseka
I am laughing: Nseka
Let us laugh/we are laughing: Tuseke.
He/she is laughing: aseka
So, much, fun.

Circumcision. That's not a word you write every day, in most cases. But I feel like I've already had 5 or 6 conversations about it. It might just be in the national anthem here.
For one, Rwanda just made a law or something, requiring all the Rwandan men to be circumcised, for the sake of combatting AIDS. They are beginning this venture with the children and military.
Also, there is a certain tribe or clan or something here that has a circumcision ritual. It is essentially the man's right of passage. (Maybe I don't know why I am sharing this info after all...oh well). There is a whole ritual, ceremony when the man is grown and ready. (I think it was Caroline or Kyle who recently saw the workings of the ceremony going on in Mukono the other day). The man, and a whole bunch of family and neighbors, run around dancing for a good long time (my mom gave me the impression they go door-to-door, and with instruments and jubilation). After awhile--that's a lot of dancing--the man can't feel much anyway. Then they circumcise him, in front of everyone. I don't know why I get such a kick out of this. Hah. Hah twice.
(I am in this room laughing out loud to myself as I write; my friend Melody just added to the story: for her African Traditional Religions class, she is required to go watch the ceremony. She just offered me an invitation. I think I'll pass).

The other night, Rebecca was picking my brain about what I thought of Africa. I was telling her my expectations, about what my friend J.E. said, having been here last summer. She asked me if he thought they were uncivilized and dirty; I felt so sick, again, of my culture and the countless reactions I got when I said I was going to Africa. The responses were much the same. I could count on one hand the people who thought it would be a great experience: my cousin Michael, my aunt Laurie, I won't keep going, but there weren't many. The majority would raise their eyebrows, flare nostrils, look disgusted and make jokes. Because, for some reason, we are convinced that America is the ultimate, everything else is primitive, unworthy. This makes me feel like I did when we flew over Sudan; flight attendant, I need a disposal bag, and quick. Honestly. It killed me to hear a girl, a wonderful, incredible, intelligent and WISE person assume, and assume correctly, that the Western world thinks of her and her people as not good enough. Please. She later told me, in a different conversation, why she wants to marry, specifically, a white American, as opposed to a white Englishman. She doesn't like the English. She has met too many of them, coming to America with her family who lives in London, who raise their eyebrows to her face, stick up their nose, and look at her as though she is dirty. If she only knew: Americans are much the same way; just not the ones she has met.

Can I just say that America is not the ultimate? It is more of the pretend version of life. (For the most part. Stereotyping isn't fair, I know). We think we need not only toilet seats to survive, but every cosmetic product imaginable, every paint shade and curtain style and brand name shoe, etc. I'm not saying we are horrible people for buying our corn instead of picking it, but why do we assume that these people who actually know how to survive, and know the purpose of life runs deeper than plumming and other luxuries, are primitive, lower than us?
I have only been here two weeks, and already I have met people whose company I am going to miss so much Saturday and half of Sunday when I travel to Jinja. I want to be with them all the time. They know how to love, how to live. They are some of the most Christ-like people I have ever met, and I have so much to learn from them.
When I mention I want to be a missionary, people ask where. Whenever I mention "possibly Africa," I am asked why in the world. "There are people in the states who need the help just as badly." Who says I want to go to Africa because they need my help? Maybe I need their help. Maybe we all do.
The thing is: we have so much to learn about God and about living that cannot be found in Cleveland. He is not only in America. He is in Ecuador, Egypt, Scotland.
In Uganda, His name is Katonda. It turns out He has characteristics I have never seen before. But they are prevalent in the people of Mukono, the people who have Katonda's name written all over them. And I'll tell you what, it sure beats a hot shower.