Sharon just quoted Celine Dion.

My day started with me walking very slowly behind a little boy in sweet racer shades and Barbie sandals. I would normally pass him up, because we whites walk so dang fast, but I thought someone should babysit him. He looked to be about 5; his mom was walking a full 15 feet ahead of him, never turning around to even check on him. And this on one of those dangerous roads I mentioned. Man, what a difference from the world I'm used to; I still remember where exactly in the kitchen closet my Mom stored Charlie's velcrot wrist-leash.

I read some Hemingway last night; it was beautiful. I got home before everyone else, didn't know what to do myself, searched my suitcase for something that wasn't homework, and had a ball. When my mom came home, I was sitting on...a concrete slab? I don't even know what to call it. It was pretty dark outside. She said, "My baby!" and I'll admit: I loved that she called me baby. I also loved that her next words were, "You aren't reading in this light, are you?" because that is the one question my biological mom has probably asked me more than all other questions. I guess I like to read in the dark.

Last night was out-of-the-ordinary. Rebecca was gone til late, since she was at her friend's burial. And Mom left for about an hour because she was going to "visit the neighbors real quick." So there we were, me and Aida, watching Malcolm in the Middle. Finally, something other than dubbed-over Spanish jazz. When the TV gets fuzzy or goes out, Rebecca or Aida always does the following: pulls back the drapes, walks outside, adjusts the tree branch to which the satellite is attached, while looking through the open window at the TV. I got to do it last night. Every time I adjusted the branch, I would get to the doorstep and the TV would be fuzzy again. This happened 3 or 4 times; it was the hardest I have laughed with Aida. Even harder than when she impersonated Ghana's victory dance, and sings along with the Uganda Telecom commercial every...single...time.

As much as I am not a fan of matoke, I have not had it in three days, and, well, I can feel that something is missing. I want to hit myself for wanting some, because it tastes like nothing, except that it tastes like something you never want to taste again. So I can't really explain why I'm hoping we have some tonight.

I never noticed how censored, and for good reason, America's media is. Until I saw the news and the newspapers here. Dead, charred, bloody bodies from car accidents or Kenya's tribal wars...on the front page like it is nothing. I hadn't realized, until now, that the only dead body I've ever seen (that wasn't in a casket) was pretend, in a movie, on ER. Not real life.

I am taking a New Testament class for the second time in my life. Today, listening for the second time, just in a different country, about Matthew and Luke being so similar and having used Mark as a source, I wondered if I was wasting time and money. But through this class I learned something sweet about Matthew 18 that I had never realized before. (I have to share, because I'm just so excited: When Jesus is giving instructions about confronting your brother who has wronged you, He gives the appropriate steps. The last step, which is what you do if the brother continues to ignore you and his wrong, is to "treat him as you would a pagan or a tax collector." I always thought this meant excommunicate him. But what in the world. Professor George Hope, who my new Ugandan friend Lydia whispered to me "has a big butt", reminded me of the way Jesus treated pagans and tax collectors: with the most incredible love imaginable. Dang). So I am glad I am still gaining from this class. As in, gaining relationships with Ugandans as well; Lydia abandoned her group of friends to befriend the Mzungu this morning. (But then she told me her philosophy that she doesn't think married people sin as much as single people do. This was after the professor said "fornication." I was speechless).

And Suzann, Vicky, and Franca I have also met from this class. (I mentioned this the first week). I joined them for tea this morning. As we walked to tea, they too mentioned the size of our thin professor's abnormally large behind. Hah. Suzann imitated his walk, too. Said she recently saw a man with hips, and he walks like a woman. Then she told me the Luganda word for wedgie. Unfortunately, all I remember is that it starts with a C.

Lunch time was incredible today. Betsy, Becca, and I sat at a free table, in order to leave room for Suzann and the gang; we were supposed to meet her there. Instead, though, Joshua and Tim, two Ugandan men, showed up. Joshua is known for befriending the USP kids; and you can tell. He is very Americanized. He brings hot sauce to pour over his beans and rice; he asked us if we liked hot stuff, Betsy said yes, and he said, "What sort of hot stuff do you mean? Food?" We lost it.
I heard him say Steadman, and saw that he was looking at the engraving in my Bible. He asked what the C was for. For a few minutes he wouldn't stop repeating, "Danielle Catherine Steadman" in a very pompous, elegant, Ugandan voice. They all informed me it was, indeed, a pompous name, and Joshua told me to "leave your specs on, Danielle Catherine Steadman," because apparently my name matches my glasses. When they said goodbye to us, he used my full name. It was a lot of fun, as was the entire conversation.

(This is not to say that I do not enjoy Stevie Lennox's preaching at IWU. His chapels have always been my favorite), but Sharon and I had a good laugh at chapel this morning. Rev. Michael Okwii got on the platform and preached about what? The first line of the Apostle's Creed. I wonder if this was the first of a series of sermons. If so, God's sense of humor is even stronger than I thought. And I've always thought it pretty strong.