On Knees and Kneeling.

My phonetic spelling gets the best of me. I ridiculously wrote "quagala" down as love in my notebook and to...everyone. It's kwagala. I saw it in a hymn yesterday and felt completely dumb for thinking qu- would be common here. Oh no. But double j's and double d's and gye-, this is the norm.

The hymns are helping a lot as I learn the language. I have only been here a week, and I feel I know so much—well, not so much, but a good deal. I like to think of four months, and how much I will know. Hopefully enough to return some day and find my way home, so Christine can come with and meet my family. (I keep finding your hidden notes, Chris: thanks). J

Mom, you asked about starches. Every meal is essentially matoke, tasteless bananas smooshed and cooked, and rice. I dreamt about the food the other night. That my mom, my biological Ohio mom, met Aida, who cooks, and asked her about my nutrition. I also dreamt about a certain taco dip my aunt Sharon makes. But then I wake up to another day of fish I need to de-bone and de-spine myself, scraping the fin aside to the corner of my plate.

We had some noodles last night, and I felt like I was in Heaven. But then we had cake, made by my sister Rose who makes cakes commercially, and I realized Heaven is as high as you can go, so the noodle-Heaven must’ve been a farce. I have never had such excellent cake. She said there was cinnamon and nutmeg in it…and the icing was so thick and amazing. I wish this were the staple; matoke can take a hike.

I helped Aida peel/slice the matoke the other night. It was essentially a laughing session at myself. The sap stained my hands brown, and Rebecca pointed out that I was her color now. I told her I should cover myself in matoke before I walk to school, then the kids won’t call me Mzungu. She said they still would.

The power just went out; this is becoming the norm.

I’ve been able to talk more with Huntington. This is my 30-something, I think-year-old brother. The hardest Ugandan, Bagandan, to understand, if you ask me. But Friday night we watched the news together with Rebecca, and conversation was more steady. A goateed policeman came on the TV and Rebecca said he looks like a thief. Huntington explained to me she said this because of the goatee. Then he told me about a universal contest that was held recently, the world in search of the best beard. He told me a man from Spain won, and a man from Liverpool took second. He got such a kick out of this. Later we did dishes together. It was more of him teaching me the African way of doing it, but I think he assumed I didn’t know how to do dishes at all: “At home, do you just put them in the sink?” It was funny.

Sometime before the news, we were watching music videos—as in Snoop Dogg. Mom walked by and said matter-of-factly, “He dances like a woman,” and well, I lost it.

I am not collecting mosquito bites, as I would have guessed, but rather canker sores. In class the other day, one of our leaders was listing off side effects to certain malaria meds. Doxy-something gives you nausea and crazy dreams, and I’m thinking, “Fools. Why would you take Doxy?” Then he said Malarone, mine, gives you mouth sores. Revelation.

All of Saturday I essentially spent at church. My sister Sara was confirmed in the morning, and from 4-8 we listened/sang along with Christmas carols. Yes, Christmas carols. People are still greeting me with Happy New Year. I suppose only us Americans are in a hurry to wave goodbye to the holidays, which for so long, I thought they were calling “Holy Day.” Until I asked what Holy Day was, and they laughed. During the confirmation, the row in front of me was filled with children—one of them being very attentive to me. She turned around to pet my face and my hair during prayer time. “Child, we are praying!” my mom said.

It was dark walking home from the Christmas carols. Though it was a nice view and the lit-up hills looked like a scene from Aladdin, I was scared to death. There are no street lights, so I feel less safe. Possibly because the cars and boda-bodas drive nearly over your toes, there being no sidewalks or lanes and barely any good roads.

My mom translates the message for me, and tells me what passage we’re reading from, so I can follow along in English. Because I need to be intent on hearing her, and she is sitting next to me, I’ve noticed one of the most incredible things thus far. She has blue eyes. Her pupils are big and dark, but the outer rim, the color part, most definitely blue. Dark blue. I can’t comprehend it; but it makes it difficult to pay attention to what she’s saying.

At her birthday party yesterday, the family was great. Kids everywhere, and my brothers and sisters whom I feel should be my aunts and uncles. Marianne reminds me a whole lot of my Aunt Laurie. They just look so similar, just different colors. She is getting married soon; my mom told me I might be here for the wedding.

It was awkward at first, not really knowing anyone, and the people I do know, only knowing them for a week. But my sister Josephine’s husband John befriended me and asked a lot about Cleveland. He talked about when he was in the states, and asked me about Writing and what my family thought of me coming here. It is interesting and ironic explaining to someone that Americans think it is so dangerous here, and how laughable it really is. I feel much safer here, really. I explained to him how I can stop here and ask two men for directions, but I wouldn't think of it at home. America, I'm noticing, is much more dangerous. The heart and mentality of the people is just so different here, but correct, in order, the way it should be: humble and selfless. (I'm not pointing fingers; I too am American).
John took pictures of everyone, saying, “This will go on Facebook.” If that wasn’t surprising enough, my nephew? I guess, Daniel, has his own cellphone. My family is one of the more Western ones, I’m gathering. Complete with leather couch.

Speaking of Daniel, a woman named Ruth who I met yesterday at church, asked me to repeat my name about 4 times. She kept giving me a confused, almost disgusted, sort of look. “Like in the Bible?” I told her yes, only the girl version, and then I feared she thought I might be saying “girl virgin.” Awkward. Anyway, Daniel is pronounced as Danielle here anyway, which makes everything confusing, and might possibly make them think my parents were very confused.

The children are so respectful and obedient here. Everyone respects their elders a great deal, children or not. As in, the 30-year-olds entering the house yesterday, kneeled when greeting my mom. This happens a lot as we walk to church or school together. If she greets a child or vice versa, the child kneels where he’s at.

Walking to school today was awkward, before Sharon and Caroline’s dad, the Reverend, picked me up in his car (Caroline tore her ACL). My dress goes to my knees, but borderline: just to my knees. Though I was completely modest by America’s standards, I kept pulling it down to cover more of my legs. The looks I got were reasonable to their culture. Dana, one of the interns here, said someone came into her house on a Saturday and told her to cover her knees; she wasn’t very happy. On the contrary, from the waist up, that sort of modesty, doesn’t really matter here. One of the guys here said dinnertime was very awkward for him recently, sitting next to his mom with half of her upperhalf exposed. That’s as nicely as I can put it. If she would have been showing her thighs, though, oh my goodness. Now that would have been unacceptable.

Before I left for school this morning, Rebecca and I had a long conversation about singing voices. She couldn’t understand how I would say my voice is bad, horrible. “Horrible is a very strong word,” she said, laughing. I told her she has never heard me sing, and that horrible is the perfect word. She went on to explain that we can have different color and different hair for certain purposes of God (“my skin black so I can survive the sun, and your skin white so you can survive…I don’t know, so you can survive something. And you have nice, full hair to keep you warm, but it would be too hot for me.”) Then she said that voice is one of the constants, something God gives to all of us so we can praise Him. She told me my voice is unique, no one else has it, and that’s why it is good, and that is why the world will stop to listen to it. She told me that before Satan got kicked out of Heaven, he was the best singing angel (I’ll have to read up on this—there is so much I forget), and it was his boasting that got him in trouble. “He still thinks he’s the best singer, and he goes about boasting. That’s why we all need to sing and show him he is not the best. When we praise, God joins us.” It was a wonderful conversation. She told me she had a specific testimony about it she would tell me when I get home from school. While at times I dread returning to a matoke meal, I never dread returning to my family. And today I have a testimony to look forward to. Amazing.