What I forgot to say:
When Vicky and Susan were explaining to me what the other students thought of them, Vicky said:
"When they say that you are sponsoring Susan, we tell them yes. Just to bother them. If we said no, they wouldn't believe anyway. But we tell them yes so they will hang themselves from a tomato tree with toilet paper."
To which Susan leaned to me and explained,
"It is impossible, you know, to hang yourself from a tomato branch. And with toilet paper! You couldn't hang a, what? A lizard, from a tomato branch."
The humor here is incredible.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Below the Belt.
I am pretending today is Friday, so I can write before I leave.
Tomorrow morning we leave for Kapchorwa, a village northeast of here, to live in a more rural setting; we return March 3, I believe.
They have a whole different language. Luganda is invalid. Crap.
Quick, little news up in here. But first: the big.
Rebecca got a job! I couldn’t believe it. It was one of those times when your mouth hurts because you can’t stop smiling, and when you’re not smiling, you’re screaming. She has been praying for this for so long; she feels helpless and bored at home, and all the other feelings, I am sure, that come with hopeless unemployment.
I remember that night we talked about the man from
“He took time off of work for a few years. He had enough money to keep him going. But he spoke…he spoke as if, when he was ready to get a job again, a job was just as guaranteed as sugar being available in the market. Hmmm.” That does seem to be the case; and I hate that she doesn’t have that same luxury. But, oh man, God is faithful.
We were about to watch “Little Man,” on
“Tell me. If I gave you something, and you said nothing, you did not thank me, how would that make me feel?”
We all just sort of looked at her; one of us said “Sad.” She said,
“Well then. Look what God has done today, and we haven’t even thanked Him yet.” At that, we all kneeled at our chairs in the dining room and thanked God for Rebecca’s job. I can’t get enough of this family, basically.
I had an incredible time with Vicky and Susan today. I am getting attached to so many Ugandans; I wasn’t expecting this outside of my household. But they are simply incredible. They were telling me about what people think of them here, because they always hang out with the Mazungu (they are so friendly with all of us). They get rolled eyes, the silent treatment, and people assume that we are all financially sponsoring Susan in her school fees, and they are milking us. That’s crap. Ticks me off. They don’t mind it, though. And I love that they are still so openly loving toward us. These two are such a blessing. They are the only reason I didn’t skip New Testament today.
It rained torrentially yesterday. When it rains here, it’s like the world stops. I wouldn’t expect this. But, after showing up in New Testament completely soaked through—my slip was even showing through my skirt…I really was drenched—no one was really there. The professor came later, once it stopped raining, naturally. And afterwards, I got as far as the library and it started again. A crowd of us waited for a full half hour in the library before venturing back out. It’s interesting. But if you walk in it, chances are you are the only one, you are assumed crazy, and you are white.
I keep meaning to mention that they burn the trash here. I don’t know why I really care, but it’s neat: having two garbage pails together, usually. Labelled Burnable and Non-burnable. On my walk home, I pass countless heaps of burned and or/burning trash. Pretty smoke.
That song here that I love so much: my mom taught it to me. It’s incredible and beautiful. Hopefully I can videotape my Sunday School class kids singing it and eventually put it up here.
(Sorry about the lack of visuals…it takes so dang long to upload).
Be back in 10 or so days, hopefully with slaughtering a chicken and milking a cow under my belt.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Catching dusk.
I couldn't explain the dusk thing. So I am back, because Mongo Beti, an African writer, says it beautifully:
"Every evening, as the sun went down, the distinct features of village and surrounding forest merged in dark anonymity, and night spread across the sky like a great velvet cloth, yet scarcely more sombre than the tropical undergrowth which it obscured. And every evening, watching this metamorphosis, I thought: Look your fill. A darkening picture, perhaps; but look closely, you cannot risk forgetting it. When you remember it in after time, think of your pleasure at recalling every minutest detail, even the infinite gradations of shading in the evening sky, or the bird in the distant forest, sadly celebrating the faithlessness of each fickle day, like a boy weeping for his mother's death. Think of the grey, neutral banana-trees, their sharp outlines melting into the darkness till they take on the semblance of ghosts. Think, last, of the moon, rising in splendid self-annunciation behind the tangled trees, unlooked-for and incredible, slowly climbing till she rode clear at last, tranquil as a goddess, gleaming, radiant." --Mission to Kala
Mmmm. I suppose if you are born here, you should naturally be able to write beautifully. In other words, I really regret not taking a picture of the sun this morning. And later I will try to catch dusk.
"Every evening, as the sun went down, the distinct features of village and surrounding forest merged in dark anonymity, and night spread across the sky like a great velvet cloth, yet scarcely more sombre than the tropical undergrowth which it obscured. And every evening, watching this metamorphosis, I thought: Look your fill. A darkening picture, perhaps; but look closely, you cannot risk forgetting it. When you remember it in after time, think of your pleasure at recalling every minutest detail, even the infinite gradations of shading in the evening sky, or the bird in the distant forest, sadly celebrating the faithlessness of each fickle day, like a boy weeping for his mother's death. Think of the grey, neutral banana-trees, their sharp outlines melting into the darkness till they take on the semblance of ghosts. Think, last, of the moon, rising in splendid self-annunciation behind the tangled trees, unlooked-for and incredible, slowly climbing till she rode clear at last, tranquil as a goddess, gleaming, radiant." --Mission to Kala
Mmmm. I suppose if you are born here, you should naturally be able to write beautifully. In other words, I really regret not taking a picture of the sun this morning. And later I will try to catch dusk.
A certain Luganda praise song keeps me up at night. Nothing matches. And words can't cut it.
I just finished doing homework with Sharon under a mango tree. Enough said.
I had to print out a paper on Friday, and I don’t think I have yet mentioned what that’s like. There are mini-shacks all around campus, down certain roads, that have barely enough room to turn around in, yet there are printers and photocopiers. You pay by the page, and hand them a CD with your stuff. Very cute. It is much like buying air time for your phone, which again, you pay by the minute. Mini-airtime shacks/stands everywhere you go. In fact, that is Celtel’s slogan, I think. The commercial has stuck with me: “everywhere you go.”
I learned how to count on Friday. I mentioned this a few weeks back, that Rebecca had taught me. But really, she had just written all the vocabulary down in my notebook. I don’t learn that way; I need to speak it and learn via conversation, and later rereading.
I was having tea with mom, eating groundnuts (G-nuts), and I separated them into groups of eleven, just for kicks. Then I decided I should teach myself to count that way. And I did. Emu, biri, satu, nya….real good stuff.
I ate chocolate on Friday. We went to the store, and I already had the candybar wrapper opened within feet of the door. It was amazing; beyond that, I am speechless. And today. Today we are having cheese. We are walking to the Colline Hotel, which has food, and ordering a plate of four pieces of cheese and four crackers for 6,000 shillings. This is ridiculously much, considering a banana costs 100. But in American money, 6,000 would be…what? Four dollars? I am ready for this. I have dreamt of this.
(Colline Hotel: Kyle went there last week for a one hour full-body massage. Hah. And for 8,000 shillings. Less than ten bucks. Hilarious).
I forgot to mention that last week, and all the time really, we saw/see what I guess I will call music trucks. They are like icecream trucks, minus the icecream, and plus the DJ. We’re talking microphone in the driver’s seat, or in the truckbed, and massive speakers also lining the truckbed. As we were walking home, Caroline bet us that they would say something about the Mazungu into the microphone. A second later, the DJ in the truckbed talked over the Kiganda music: “Hah! Mazungo!”
I keep thinking what Julia told me about “rockstar.” White rockstars. It sucks.
Also Friday: we watched Amazing Race as a family. And afterwards, Rebecca and I watched the Bachelor. So refreshing, American TV.
In the Amazing Race, there were about 15 or so teams still. As soon as I saw the soccer Moms, I called them out, said they would lose. Sure enough, they were the ones released that episode. My family wanted to know how I knew. It is hard to explain a soccer Mom to an African. No offense, soccer Moms. (Aunt Sharon, this doesn’t include you. You are a Soccer Coach Mom, which is much different. Much different. Very “I would win the Amazing Race if I entered” sort of different).
Great conversations came out of that TV session. Such as: for part of the race, the teams had to travel via donkey. Rebecca got such a kick out of this. She basically kept falling in her chair, laughing like crazy, saying such phrases, which I wrote down word-for-word in my moleskin:
“A donkey? They do not know what they are doing on Earth.”
“The most unserious animal I have ever seen. Serious work, but unserious face. You tell it to stand, it goes. You tell it to sit, it stands.”
“A donkey needs someone patient to ride it. Someone like Jesus.”
There was a news special on coffee during commercial breaks. Mom sighed and smiled. “When I hear the word coffee, I get so happy,” she said. “Coffee is in my blood. I was raised on coffee money, I went to school on coffee money, my life was built on coffee money.” Simply interesting.
Rebecca has developed nicknames for me. “Steadman,” which is probably my favorite, “Nani,” or “Nina”, after the football player for Arsenal who she has a crush on, and “Ohio beauty.” I purposely don’t answer when she uses “Ohio beauty.” That, or, I say, “Tuswaala,” which means, “Stop already; you are shaming us.” My family still can’t believe that Rebecca taught me this word. Aida says she is teaching me bad Luganda. The other day, Mom was imitating a hand motion I made in our music video, and I told her, “Nswaala,” conjugating the verb, and saying I was ashamed. They laughed for a while.
I call Rebecca “Salty,” “Blue,” and “Nanteeza.” Nanteeza is her Luganda name. It means something like gift/mercy/God’s provision. Blue is her favorite color, and Salty: like Sweety, but Salty is better. Salt of the earth. Preservative. Necessary for all foods. She learned this in a sermon on Sunday.
Saturday was…I can’t remember what happened on Saturday. But what didn’t happen: I did not get a black eye from an oar, or lose my two front teeth. Which happened to others during the rafting trip. Instead, I did laundry for two hours in the sun, and a whole lot of homework. I was reading outside, and some visitors came. The boy, like most everyone, asked how I could stand the sun, and said, “Me, I will not do it. I fear getting blacker.”
When I was hanging my clothes on the line, I had an entertaining conversation with preteen boys walking through the backyard:
Boy 1: “Mzungu, give me my money.”
Me: “Sirina sente.” (I don’t have money).
Boy 2: “Mzungu, what are you doing?”
Me: “What does it look like I am doing?”
I mean, really.
Sunday school was lovely again. I just love Susan. I will call her Susan 1, since she was the first Susan I met. This is relative-of-mine Susan, fellow Sunday School teacher Susan. Susan 1. I met a little girl named Patience, and then one named Peace. It got me thinking about other “series” names for kids. Like “Denver,” and “Houston,” and maybe even “Springfield.”
“Little Rock” would be the dog.
Sunday afternoon was far lovelier. We went to Rose’s house, my sister, the mother of Daniel and Joshua. We were celebrating Daniel’s success and departure for boarding school. (Most kids, who can afford it, go to boarding school. Such is where the good education is found). Speaking of which, I pass a school every morning and evening on my walk. A bunch of uniformly dressed young boys, running around a courtyard—which I see through a barred gate—playing football, or soccer. The “barbed wire” is pieces of glass lining the tops of the walls. Anyway, it makes me think “Dead Poets Society” every time I pass it, and there’s nothing like thinking of Robin Williams and literature in the morning. An unexplainably delighting combo.
Anyway, my point: Daniel is 13. And Daniel is by far the most respectful, well-behaved boy I have ever met. For instance:
Rebecca was sitting in front of the TV, which was boasting a Spanish soap, while she was looking through a photo album. She was engrossed in the album, if you ask me. Not even watching the TV. Daniel wanted to play PlayStation, but of course, he wouldn’t come out and say it. Instead:
“Aunt Rebecca, are you watching that?”
“Yes.”
“Alright.”
“You want to play?”
“I can wait until you are finished.”
Gosh. I want Charlie to meet this kid. Daniel didn’t even break the PlayStation into two pieces.
AIDA IS BACK. That is what happened Saturday. That is what happened Saturday and mattered.
I got to spend a lot of time with my sister Jackie this weekend. It was most enjoyable. We talked about poverty, Canadian sentence tags like “-eh?” and Luganda’s “banaange,” (“my friends”), and other things. But Jackie has been to Scotland. So, most often, I just want to ask her about that. Repeatedly.
She was complimenting me on how fast and extensively I was learning the language, and Rebecca told her how I think they sound like they are singing when they talk, where they put their stresses, and just the sing-song-ness of it all:
“WebaLE,” “KAAAAALEEE,” “GYEEEEEBAALEEE KOOOO,” etc. Jackie protested, and said it is me, us, who sing when we talk. And with each one of my one-line protests, she pointed out how I do rise and drop my voice with different words. While I say, “That’s funNY,” she said, “I just say it flat. That’s funny.”
I bet none of that made sense, because you can’t hear it, only read it. But it’s interesting, that’s all.
Sunday I was walking with Rebecca and Rose’s house-girl, Annet, to buy soda from a small shop. We made this walk a few times that day. Rebecca and I were disagreeing about the color of the dirt. I insist that it is red, especially when it rains. “No, no. It is brown. Look, it is brown.” It isn’t brown. It’s red. Then she said,
“Hmm…one day I will walk here and remember that I once shared the red dust with Danielle. And I will cry.”
I told her I will come back to visit. I said it, and I meant it—and that makes it official: I am coming back.
My favorite time of day, anywhere, not just here, is around dusk. But it’s not dusk—it’s different. The sun has left and the moon is still undecided on whether or not he’ll be joining us. As the sun exits, it leaves behind some extra light that will last us a few minutes or so. It’s like a generator of sorts. Anyway, it is perfect here. Because the smell and feel of the air matches what it looks like. That’s something I can’t explain, so I’ll stop.
Last night. An adventure. A most unpleasant adventure. I had a History paper to write. The power was out, so I had to handwrite this paper (which is allowed, just slower). The bad part was having to write it without music. I shut off the music, Spice Girls’ “Viva Forever,” (really the only justification-song for Spice Girls ever being around), when I thought someone was about to break in. Noises are nonstop outside—and I still can’t tell which is the goat and calf and which is an intruder. And robberies aren’t rare. So, surely I didn’t want to sit in the dining room anymore, right by the door, with everyone asleep. I’m the kid who slept endless nights at the foot of my parents’ bed. Uncomfortably but feeling safe.
So I went to bed with all my books and paper and my flashlight, and even grabbed batteries because I could sense it was that time, time for it to run out when I needed it most. Which happened. But I tried changing the batteries in the dark, and realized it is a one-use flashlight. Suck. So I stumbled to the bathroom, where we bathe, sat on the floor, and finished my paper. (I wasn’t going back into the dining room, of course). It was just a pain, both literally and figuratively. Things I take advantage of at home. Convenience.
I apologize for the length. But I need to write the following for the sake of processing thoughts, and for the sake of sharing how cross-cultural and how intricate our God is.
As departure for Uganda was approaching last semester, I met worry. I’m not used to worry, really, in its strangling form. It was new for me. But my mind was consumed for weeks on second-guessing and wishing I could control things I couldn’t control. I tried feasting on Psalm 131, the weapon against worry:
“I do not concern myself with great matters or things too wonderful for me. But I have stilled and quieted my soul; like a weaned child with its mother, like a weaned child with its mother is my soul within me.”
Weaned children rock, as in, they rarely cry in their mother’s arms (yes, moms, that’s debatable). But when a child is weaned, he knows by now that his mom will provide. He doesn’t necessarily need to cry when he is hungry. He trusts, he knows. He is content, and reasonably enough.
As much as I memorized and prayed over this passage, it helped very little. But what did help: my suitemate Talia and I had a sort of prayer meeting with her family and some friends one Saturday night, just before I left. It was a “just because” prayer meeting—it wasn’t connected to my trip at all.
I had just met this woman, also named Danielle, that night. Yet, after we prayed for a bit, she told me, “Worry is all over your countenance. It is all over you. God wants you to trust Him. The Holy Spirit doesn’t want you to have to go through this. Just stop worrying about what you can’t control anyway.” Dang. I told her, obviously, that she hit it on the nose, and so another of the ladies was praying for me. As she did, I silently prayed Psalm 131 over and over. In the middle of her prayer, she sort of started to laugh, or giggle really. She said she felt dumb, but “God, I keep seeing Danielle, a child, sitting in your arms. You are holding her, and she is fine.”
Psalm 131 for sure. It was all so wonderful, being confirmed in that way, by the Holy Spirit Himself, working and speaking through someone who barely knew my situation and didn’t know the importance of the Scripture I was praying simultaneously. I wasn’t surprised, though. Our God is like that. All the time.
Anyway, I was encouraged. After that night, trusting came a lot easier. I was a weaned child. But now. Now it isn’t worry so much that is wedged between us, but it’s disobedience of sorts. The fact that I’m simply not as determined as I once was, in terms of making an effort to know Him. He’s been on the back burner lately, and when we talk, our conversation is basically constant apology on my part. That’s no way to pray or live; guilt is binding, but I can’t get around it, can’t battle it effectively. Because this is what I am thinking: Yes, I am your weaned child. But what is keeping you with me? Yes, your grace abounds, as does your mercy, but when is enough enough?
I keep thinking, and almost hoping, that He’d give up on me. His kindness can be too much; if I were Him, I would’ve stopped listening, stopped loving, a long time ago. Yet He keeps forgiving me. I keep thinking of Hebrews 10: “If we deliberately keep on sinning after we have received the knowledge of the truth, no sacrifice for sins is left” (so true: Christ died so I could get away from this bondage. What more can He do for me?) The writer of this passage then refers to such sinning as trampling “the Son of God underfoot” and treating “as an unholy thing the blood of the covenant that sanctified him.” I am counting Christ’s sacrifice as crap, keeping my distance like this, putting other things before Him like this. So I do not deserve His kindness.
And now my point/how God is using Africa and my African family to combat this struggle: A few weeks ago, Rebecca and I were cooking and talking about Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. Thinking of mothers, she shared with me one of her favorite passages: in Isaiah 49. “But Zion said, ‘The LORD has forsaken me, the Lord has forgotten me.’ Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you! See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands…” As great as that was, I didn’t think about it for too long.
This Saturday night, Rebecca pulled out her Bible and walked around the room, reading this whole chapter, squinting and straining her face and voice when she said, “Though she may forget,” “Though she may forget, I will not.” She loves that part.
The next day, we were sitting on mats on the grass at Daniel’s party. She grabbed my hand and looked at the lines on my palm. She was looking for an M, because there is one on hers. She showed me an M, a Y, and a backwards K on her palms, formed by the lines of her skin. “M is for Mukama. Y is Yesu. And K, Katonda.” The names of God. Written on Rebecca’s palm. I thought of Isaiah 49, of course.
And to top it off: as the party ended, Daniel’s dad prayed, we sang, and he grabbed his Bible. He said he wanted to talk about what the pastor talked about that morning. He opened His Bible to Isaiah 49. Rebecca and I looked at each other, much like my best friend Jenny and I looked at each other every. single. day. sophomore year as Romans 7 kept popping up for us both, just when we needed it. And so he read that passage. Can a mother forget her child? No. But even if she did, I will not, God says. You are written on my hands.
Isaiah 49 has been for me like a Psalm 131 Part II, after a horrible intermission between. Weaned child becomes disobedient child becomes forgiven and not forgotten child.
I had been weaned, but because of my disobedience, I have been expecting Him to push me off His lap. To stop holding me, stop feeding me, stop treating me as His. But He will not forget, He cannot forget. He will not walk away from His daughter. And I am sick of being the one who walks away all the time—and away from something so good!
I love that this is what I am learning in Africa (Give me weaned or give me forgiven; distance from Him is death).
And I love that He doesn’t only teach me in my context, but wherever we happen to be together. I love that I followed Him here, that He was on the plane, and off the plane, waiting. He didn’t stay as I walked through security. This is how He is. And it makes me love Him more.
Post Script:
We have returned from cheese. I think I’ll wait for America’s version next time.
I had to print out a paper on Friday, and I don’t think I have yet mentioned what that’s like. There are mini-shacks all around campus, down certain roads, that have barely enough room to turn around in, yet there are printers and photocopiers. You pay by the page, and hand them a CD with your stuff. Very cute. It is much like buying air time for your phone, which again, you pay by the minute. Mini-airtime shacks/stands everywhere you go. In fact, that is Celtel’s slogan, I think. The commercial has stuck with me: “everywhere you go.”
I learned how to count on Friday. I mentioned this a few weeks back, that Rebecca had taught me. But really, she had just written all the vocabulary down in my notebook. I don’t learn that way; I need to speak it and learn via conversation, and later rereading.
I was having tea with mom, eating groundnuts (G-nuts), and I separated them into groups of eleven, just for kicks. Then I decided I should teach myself to count that way. And I did. Emu, biri, satu, nya….real good stuff.
I ate chocolate on Friday. We went to the store, and I already had the candybar wrapper opened within feet of the door. It was amazing; beyond that, I am speechless. And today. Today we are having cheese. We are walking to the Colline Hotel, which has food, and ordering a plate of four pieces of cheese and four crackers for 6,000 shillings. This is ridiculously much, considering a banana costs 100. But in American money, 6,000 would be…what? Four dollars? I am ready for this. I have dreamt of this.
(Colline Hotel: Kyle went there last week for a one hour full-body massage. Hah. And for 8,000 shillings. Less than ten bucks. Hilarious).
I forgot to mention that last week, and all the time really, we saw/see what I guess I will call music trucks. They are like icecream trucks, minus the icecream, and plus the DJ. We’re talking microphone in the driver’s seat, or in the truckbed, and massive speakers also lining the truckbed. As we were walking home, Caroline bet us that they would say something about the Mazungu into the microphone. A second later, the DJ in the truckbed talked over the Kiganda music: “Hah! Mazungo!”
I keep thinking what Julia told me about “rockstar.” White rockstars. It sucks.
Also Friday: we watched Amazing Race as a family. And afterwards, Rebecca and I watched the Bachelor. So refreshing, American TV.
In the Amazing Race, there were about 15 or so teams still. As soon as I saw the soccer Moms, I called them out, said they would lose. Sure enough, they were the ones released that episode. My family wanted to know how I knew. It is hard to explain a soccer Mom to an African. No offense, soccer Moms. (Aunt Sharon, this doesn’t include you. You are a Soccer Coach Mom, which is much different. Much different. Very “I would win the Amazing Race if I entered” sort of different).
Great conversations came out of that TV session. Such as: for part of the race, the teams had to travel via donkey. Rebecca got such a kick out of this. She basically kept falling in her chair, laughing like crazy, saying such phrases, which I wrote down word-for-word in my moleskin:
“A donkey? They do not know what they are doing on Earth.”
“The most unserious animal I have ever seen. Serious work, but unserious face. You tell it to stand, it goes. You tell it to sit, it stands.”
“A donkey needs someone patient to ride it. Someone like Jesus.”
There was a news special on coffee during commercial breaks. Mom sighed and smiled. “When I hear the word coffee, I get so happy,” she said. “Coffee is in my blood. I was raised on coffee money, I went to school on coffee money, my life was built on coffee money.” Simply interesting.
Rebecca has developed nicknames for me. “Steadman,” which is probably my favorite, “Nani,” or “Nina”, after the football player for Arsenal who she has a crush on, and “Ohio beauty.” I purposely don’t answer when she uses “Ohio beauty.” That, or, I say, “Tuswaala,” which means, “Stop already; you are shaming us.” My family still can’t believe that Rebecca taught me this word. Aida says she is teaching me bad Luganda. The other day, Mom was imitating a hand motion I made in our music video, and I told her, “Nswaala,” conjugating the verb, and saying I was ashamed. They laughed for a while.
I call Rebecca “Salty,” “Blue,” and “Nanteeza.” Nanteeza is her Luganda name. It means something like gift/mercy/God’s provision. Blue is her favorite color, and Salty: like Sweety, but Salty is better. Salt of the earth. Preservative. Necessary for all foods. She learned this in a sermon on Sunday.
Saturday was…I can’t remember what happened on Saturday. But what didn’t happen: I did not get a black eye from an oar, or lose my two front teeth. Which happened to others during the rafting trip. Instead, I did laundry for two hours in the sun, and a whole lot of homework. I was reading outside, and some visitors came. The boy, like most everyone, asked how I could stand the sun, and said, “Me, I will not do it. I fear getting blacker.”
When I was hanging my clothes on the line, I had an entertaining conversation with preteen boys walking through the backyard:
Boy 1: “Mzungu, give me my money.”
Me: “Sirina sente.” (I don’t have money).
Boy 2: “Mzungu, what are you doing?”
Me: “What does it look like I am doing?”
I mean, really.
Sunday school was lovely again. I just love Susan. I will call her Susan 1, since she was the first Susan I met. This is relative-of-mine Susan, fellow Sunday School teacher Susan. Susan 1. I met a little girl named Patience, and then one named Peace. It got me thinking about other “series” names for kids. Like “Denver,” and “Houston,” and maybe even “Springfield.”
“Little Rock” would be the dog.
Sunday afternoon was far lovelier. We went to Rose’s house, my sister, the mother of Daniel and Joshua. We were celebrating Daniel’s success and departure for boarding school. (Most kids, who can afford it, go to boarding school. Such is where the good education is found). Speaking of which, I pass a school every morning and evening on my walk. A bunch of uniformly dressed young boys, running around a courtyard—which I see through a barred gate—playing football, or soccer. The “barbed wire” is pieces of glass lining the tops of the walls. Anyway, it makes me think “Dead Poets Society” every time I pass it, and there’s nothing like thinking of Robin Williams and literature in the morning. An unexplainably delighting combo.
Anyway, my point: Daniel is 13. And Daniel is by far the most respectful, well-behaved boy I have ever met. For instance:
Rebecca was sitting in front of the TV, which was boasting a Spanish soap, while she was looking through a photo album. She was engrossed in the album, if you ask me. Not even watching the TV. Daniel wanted to play PlayStation, but of course, he wouldn’t come out and say it. Instead:
“Aunt Rebecca, are you watching that?”
“Yes.”
“Alright.”
“You want to play?”
“I can wait until you are finished.”
Gosh. I want Charlie to meet this kid. Daniel didn’t even break the PlayStation into two pieces.
AIDA IS BACK. That is what happened Saturday. That is what happened Saturday and mattered.
I got to spend a lot of time with my sister Jackie this weekend. It was most enjoyable. We talked about poverty, Canadian sentence tags like “-eh?” and Luganda’s “banaange,” (“my friends”), and other things. But Jackie has been to Scotland. So, most often, I just want to ask her about that. Repeatedly.
She was complimenting me on how fast and extensively I was learning the language, and Rebecca told her how I think they sound like they are singing when they talk, where they put their stresses, and just the sing-song-ness of it all:
“WebaLE,” “KAAAAALEEE,” “GYEEEEEBAALEEE KOOOO,” etc. Jackie protested, and said it is me, us, who sing when we talk. And with each one of my one-line protests, she pointed out how I do rise and drop my voice with different words. While I say, “That’s funNY,” she said, “I just say it flat. That’s funny.”
I bet none of that made sense, because you can’t hear it, only read it. But it’s interesting, that’s all.
Sunday I was walking with Rebecca and Rose’s house-girl, Annet, to buy soda from a small shop. We made this walk a few times that day. Rebecca and I were disagreeing about the color of the dirt. I insist that it is red, especially when it rains. “No, no. It is brown. Look, it is brown.” It isn’t brown. It’s red. Then she said,
“Hmm…one day I will walk here and remember that I once shared the red dust with Danielle. And I will cry.”
I told her I will come back to visit. I said it, and I meant it—and that makes it official: I am coming back.
My favorite time of day, anywhere, not just here, is around dusk. But it’s not dusk—it’s different. The sun has left and the moon is still undecided on whether or not he’ll be joining us. As the sun exits, it leaves behind some extra light that will last us a few minutes or so. It’s like a generator of sorts. Anyway, it is perfect here. Because the smell and feel of the air matches what it looks like. That’s something I can’t explain, so I’ll stop.
Last night. An adventure. A most unpleasant adventure. I had a History paper to write. The power was out, so I had to handwrite this paper (which is allowed, just slower). The bad part was having to write it without music. I shut off the music, Spice Girls’ “Viva Forever,” (really the only justification-song for Spice Girls ever being around), when I thought someone was about to break in. Noises are nonstop outside—and I still can’t tell which is the goat and calf and which is an intruder. And robberies aren’t rare. So, surely I didn’t want to sit in the dining room anymore, right by the door, with everyone asleep. I’m the kid who slept endless nights at the foot of my parents’ bed. Uncomfortably but feeling safe.
So I went to bed with all my books and paper and my flashlight, and even grabbed batteries because I could sense it was that time, time for it to run out when I needed it most. Which happened. But I tried changing the batteries in the dark, and realized it is a one-use flashlight. Suck. So I stumbled to the bathroom, where we bathe, sat on the floor, and finished my paper. (I wasn’t going back into the dining room, of course). It was just a pain, both literally and figuratively. Things I take advantage of at home. Convenience.
I apologize for the length. But I need to write the following for the sake of processing thoughts, and for the sake of sharing how cross-cultural and how intricate our God is.
As departure for Uganda was approaching last semester, I met worry. I’m not used to worry, really, in its strangling form. It was new for me. But my mind was consumed for weeks on second-guessing and wishing I could control things I couldn’t control. I tried feasting on Psalm 131, the weapon against worry:
“I do not concern myself with great matters or things too wonderful for me. But I have stilled and quieted my soul; like a weaned child with its mother, like a weaned child with its mother is my soul within me.”
Weaned children rock, as in, they rarely cry in their mother’s arms (yes, moms, that’s debatable). But when a child is weaned, he knows by now that his mom will provide. He doesn’t necessarily need to cry when he is hungry. He trusts, he knows. He is content, and reasonably enough.
As much as I memorized and prayed over this passage, it helped very little. But what did help: my suitemate Talia and I had a sort of prayer meeting with her family and some friends one Saturday night, just before I left. It was a “just because” prayer meeting—it wasn’t connected to my trip at all.
I had just met this woman, also named Danielle, that night. Yet, after we prayed for a bit, she told me, “Worry is all over your countenance. It is all over you. God wants you to trust Him. The Holy Spirit doesn’t want you to have to go through this. Just stop worrying about what you can’t control anyway.” Dang. I told her, obviously, that she hit it on the nose, and so another of the ladies was praying for me. As she did, I silently prayed Psalm 131 over and over. In the middle of her prayer, she sort of started to laugh, or giggle really. She said she felt dumb, but “God, I keep seeing Danielle, a child, sitting in your arms. You are holding her, and she is fine.”
Psalm 131 for sure. It was all so wonderful, being confirmed in that way, by the Holy Spirit Himself, working and speaking through someone who barely knew my situation and didn’t know the importance of the Scripture I was praying simultaneously. I wasn’t surprised, though. Our God is like that. All the time.
Anyway, I was encouraged. After that night, trusting came a lot easier. I was a weaned child. But now. Now it isn’t worry so much that is wedged between us, but it’s disobedience of sorts. The fact that I’m simply not as determined as I once was, in terms of making an effort to know Him. He’s been on the back burner lately, and when we talk, our conversation is basically constant apology on my part. That’s no way to pray or live; guilt is binding, but I can’t get around it, can’t battle it effectively. Because this is what I am thinking: Yes, I am your weaned child. But what is keeping you with me? Yes, your grace abounds, as does your mercy, but when is enough enough?
I keep thinking, and almost hoping, that He’d give up on me. His kindness can be too much; if I were Him, I would’ve stopped listening, stopped loving, a long time ago. Yet He keeps forgiving me. I keep thinking of Hebrews 10: “If we deliberately keep on sinning after we have received the knowledge of the truth, no sacrifice for sins is left” (so true: Christ died so I could get away from this bondage. What more can He do for me?) The writer of this passage then refers to such sinning as trampling “the Son of God underfoot” and treating “as an unholy thing the blood of the covenant that sanctified him.” I am counting Christ’s sacrifice as crap, keeping my distance like this, putting other things before Him like this. So I do not deserve His kindness.
And now my point/how God is using Africa and my African family to combat this struggle: A few weeks ago, Rebecca and I were cooking and talking about Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. Thinking of mothers, she shared with me one of her favorite passages: in Isaiah 49. “But Zion said, ‘The LORD has forsaken me, the Lord has forgotten me.’ Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you! See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands…” As great as that was, I didn’t think about it for too long.
This Saturday night, Rebecca pulled out her Bible and walked around the room, reading this whole chapter, squinting and straining her face and voice when she said, “Though she may forget,” “Though she may forget, I will not.” She loves that part.
The next day, we were sitting on mats on the grass at Daniel’s party. She grabbed my hand and looked at the lines on my palm. She was looking for an M, because there is one on hers. She showed me an M, a Y, and a backwards K on her palms, formed by the lines of her skin. “M is for Mukama. Y is Yesu. And K, Katonda.” The names of God. Written on Rebecca’s palm. I thought of Isaiah 49, of course.
And to top it off: as the party ended, Daniel’s dad prayed, we sang, and he grabbed his Bible. He said he wanted to talk about what the pastor talked about that morning. He opened His Bible to Isaiah 49. Rebecca and I looked at each other, much like my best friend Jenny and I looked at each other every. single. day. sophomore year as Romans 7 kept popping up for us both, just when we needed it. And so he read that passage. Can a mother forget her child? No. But even if she did, I will not, God says. You are written on my hands.
Isaiah 49 has been for me like a Psalm 131 Part II, after a horrible intermission between. Weaned child becomes disobedient child becomes forgiven and not forgotten child.
I had been weaned, but because of my disobedience, I have been expecting Him to push me off His lap. To stop holding me, stop feeding me, stop treating me as His. But He will not forget, He cannot forget. He will not walk away from His daughter. And I am sick of being the one who walks away all the time—and away from something so good!
I love that this is what I am learning in Africa (Give me weaned or give me forgiven; distance from Him is death).
And I love that He doesn’t only teach me in my context, but wherever we happen to be together. I love that I followed Him here, that He was on the plane, and off the plane, waiting. He didn’t stay as I walked through security. This is how He is. And it makes me love Him more.
Post Script:
We have returned from cheese. I think I’ll wait for America’s version next time.
Friday, February 15, 2008
I can now listen to Mr. Brightside without fast-forwarding the risque.
The circumcision has been cancelled. I mean, I'm sure he's still being circumcised today, but the American students aren't sitting in the bleachers. Metaphorical bleachers; I promise the ritual isn't that public.
I think it's a blessing for all involved; these kids are crazy.
Speaking of crazy kids, I saw a DONATE BLOOD poster in the lunch line, and laughed. Maybe I was thinking of what my mom would think/say/punch if I told her I was going to sit in a chair and have a needle injected in my arm in East Africa. Yet, apparently, not everyone here agrees with the danger. I've been told that a few are looking to tattoo themselves in Kampala.
I can think of better ways to die.
Such as: bungee jumping over the Nile. All that to say, fear not, Mom. Because the circumcision has been cancelled, rafting and bungee-jumping is tentatively back on the schedule for tomorrow. But I am not a part of that schedule, this time. It was so last-minute, and I don't think 24 hours is enough time to reflect, pray, and jot down the pros and cons of snapping crucial bones in your body. I need more time than this; for me, it will be another weekend with the fam. And I think that's equally exhilarating.
All week I have been trying to upload the most amazing video ever made by humans of the 21st century. I don't mean that pridefully, just truthfully.
Alright, it's not that great, but Betsy, Sharon, and I filmed a sweet music video here on Tuesday, and now I have to watch it every time I go to start homework. It boosts my blood pressure or something.
I took my laptop home that night to show my family the video. Rebecca and Irene screamed the entire time, and made me replay it 3 times. No Rebecca imitates my dance and sings the song every chance she gets; and it's more entertaining than the original, if such is possible.
(Charlie, we then watched our video of Mr. Brightside in the car. They loved it immensely; and I realized just how much I miss you like crazy).
I also used the laptop opportunity to show my family more recent pictures of my family. The only hard copies I brought were from high school. So, Charlie, for instance, has shot up. "He grows by the hour," Rebecca said. She went on to talk about our height, mainly my brother's, and she compared herself to a Chinese. "Me, I took 27 years, and this is how big I got. YOUR BROTHER IS SO BIG!" Over and over.
We had pizza at the Buttons Tuesday night. It was alright; the salad was the exciting part. And bagels, oh my goodness. And coconut and coffee ice cream. It was a wonderful Tuesday.
At the Buttons we met Abigail and Alex, the children of these missionaries/professors. And they are so incredibly smart. I enjoy seeing Mzungu children; there were three in my Sunday School class, and I found myself staring at them, much like everyone else stares at them/us. It is just so shocking still to see white faces. White little faces.
Abigail, age 7, told me that according to the Romans, her name is also Danielle, because her dad's name is Daniel.
And, in preparation for my favorite Batman joke, when I asked her if she knew who Batman was, she said no. Her dad was instantly on the defensive: "She knows who Batman is; she just doesn't KNOW who Batman is." So I asked her again. You know, Spiderman's friend. Do you know who Batman is?
"Oh, yes. But I do not know who is inside the costume."
And all that in a nearly-English accent. Incredible.
I was watching the news with my mom the other night. There was a special on Japan. The words "Tokyo" and "Kyoto" came up, and I nearly lost it. Goodness gracious, they have the same letters! The Japanese are geniuses. The special was about this fisherman who eats oysters raw from the river/sea/ocean/some body of water. I told my mom about the minnow I ate from the creek once, and about how that is the farthest I will ever go when it comes to raw fish. Then she said, "I wish you will be here when the ants come." Apparently, ants, loads and loads of ants, pour from the ground during a certain season, and they are rather tasty. "You have to put them in your mouth fast, so they will not bite your lip." Well, yeah. I think about that all the time.
Unsurprisingly, I agreed with her: "I hope I am here when the ants come too."
Aida and Rebecca's absence in the evenings allows for much mother-daughter time; surely I enjoy it. Last night, after watching some news in Luganda, she shut off the TV and we talked about love and marriage, short of Sinatra. She wondered what I thought of racially-mixed, culturally-mixed marriages. It was a great conversation. She is simply wonderful; and we're on the same wavelength.
I met her Wednesday night at church for the prayer service. Preparation for Easter/fight against witchcraft. Rev. Henry, who I think is the best-looking Ugandan I have seen thus far (Sharon and Caroline's dad), had my aunt read the passage. My mom was presently absent--I forget where she went, but she was only gone for a minute, and I had to find in my Bible where the heck we were. Aunt Victo said something that sounded like Mordecai, streamed in with the Luganda, and so I hurried to Esther. Then I heard "kabaka," which means "king", so I looked at the start of every chapter for "Mordecai" and "king" in the first paragraph. Esther 4. And I guessed right.
It was one of the sweetest experiences ever.
Earlier in the week I had asked my mom where I could find/buy a Luganda Bible. Wednesday night, as we chopped up the greens, she asked me why. I couldn't really voice my reason, but it had something to do with having the language written down, and in the best form ever, and being able to read Luganda when I wanted, and someday trying to teach my kids to pronounce it: she doubled over, put her hands on her knees, and laughed. Extensively.
In these nightly news-watching experiences, I get more and more depressed. Depressed is too strong of a word, but, saddened, I guess? Disgusted, maybe. There were some riots going on in some Ugandan markets. After the police chase down the culprits, they beat them with their sticks. Like dogs. Even when they're not putting up a fight. There they are, surrendered, sitting cross-legged on the ground, and being beaten.
My mom didn't like it either; she complained, lamented about it for a while. The only difference: our American government would punish such police. Here, it is normal. Just not right.
Speaking of what is normal here. Walking back from New Testament class with Vicky, Franca, and two new girls: Claire and Harriet, we passed the blood drive going on under a tent in the courtyard.
Claire: "Me, I don't want to find out. I would rather not know. Live freely."
Harriet: "I will not get tested until I am married."
Vicky: "I know I do not have AIDS."
I hate that I can just safely assume that I do not have it; but an air ticket away, it's similar to, "Do I have pneumonia? Do I have the flu?" Suck.
On a lighter note, there is a fellow missions-emphasis student here named Todd. He is different from the rest of us, in that no one hollers MZUNGU! as he walks down the street. They yell YESU! In fact, that is how Todd is greeted here by most everyone. He is white, he has a beard, and a curly sort of (fro?), hence, he must be Jesus. He is Yesu to everyone.
As funny as I find that, I hate the fact that because the white man brought Christianity to Africa, Christ is "white man." Jesus was middle-Eastern, for goodness' sake. Let's darken those hues and eyebrows.
A similar story of "greeting" while walking the streets. My friend Betsy has made some friends of her own. A certain man who wants to go running with her. He, short-short wearing running shorts, first approached her, saying, "Please teach me to walk like you walk. I love how you walk." Interesting. I am currently taking lessons from Betsy on how to walk like she walks.
Valentine's Day is interesting in Africa. Much different than at home, though I don't know how to pinpoint it. I wasn't expecting the holiday to be a very big deal, if it was even celebrated at all. But it carries a lot of meaning and symbolism here. Whereas, at home I feel it is a holiday celebrating friendship in a lot of ways, here it is strictly for lovers.
(My mom chose to inform me of this just as I had handed Huntington his Disney valentine; and I already had reservations on giving him one. It was awkward).
If you are taken and "waiting for your valentine and the evening date", you wear red, or red and black. Then and only then. For, if you are wearing blue stripes, or I guess magenta, you are on the market, and will likely be approached so that you too can change into red and have a date lined up for the evening.
I was wearing magenta. Walking back from New Testament class with Vicky, Susan, and Franca, we were discussing both the Q source (NT talk), and why Franca was allowed to carry around a flower on Valentine's Day. I sensed someone who wasn't Vicky or Franca or Susan walking next to me and staring. It was Ivan. I met Ivan last week at tea, and we had a conversation about copying homework, i.e., cheating, or "xeroxing." He couldn't understand why I thought it was wrong. As we left tea that day, Susan said, "That one is confused." (They say "this one" and "that one" a lot, regarding individuals. It's fun). I also saw Ivan earlier in the week, when I was carrying home a few gallons of water from school. (We are responsible for refilling our jerry cans when we run out, and transporting them home. The most uncomfortable traveling experience of my life, other than half-marathons. My hands are still recovering). But Ivan had passed me and my jerry can, and said, "Should I join you?" No. No you shouldn't.
But here he was, walking next to me as we headed toward tea time at the dining hall.
Ivan: "Who is your valentine?"
Me: "I...I...don't know."
He pointed to himself, smiled, and said he didn't have one either. Hah. I kindly apologized, and said no thanks, and gave him what I thought was a good reason to refuse. But he persisted.
Whether he was serious or not, once he realized I was always serious in my refusal, he took a step back and grabbed onto his friend's shoulder. Leaning all his weight on his friend, he said, "Help a brother. I think I've had a stroke."
We laughed at him, but continued our walk and discussion of the Q source. After a minute or so, still behind us and still holding onto his friend, he said, "Never mind the Q source. You have a brother dying behind you."
One of the girls asked if he was really dying.
Ivan: "Of a broken heart. Of all days. This day. Valentine's Day."
We laughed at him some more, and Vicky offered some comfort: "We are going to the kitchen, Ivan. You can console yourself there."
Ivan: "But how can I, when my heart is pumping like this?"
Vicky: "A hot drink will help you."
Ivan: "A hot drink? But my heart is already on fire."
So I turned around and kicked him in his shins.
No, I didn't kick him. But I couldn't help laughing in his face; it was hilarious. The performance was worthy of applause.
That day at tea, Vicky asked me, "Danielle, are you the firstborn?"
Me: "No."
Vicky: "The youngest."
Me: "No."
Vicky: "Oh...you are in the middle. That is why you have these?" And she pointed to the center of her cheeks. She told me she loved dimples, and that Franca, "that one", has them too.
Me: "Franca, are you the firstborn?"
Franca: "No."
So I have yet to uncover the mystery of what cheek curves have to do with lineage. I suppose "Are you the firstborn?" is a legitimate way to introduce any question.
The other night, Rebecca was sitting in bed reading her Bible out loud. "Do I sound like your people?" she asked. She was trying to remove her Luganda accent and talk like us. It was entertaining, and a rather decent job.
Highlights of last night:
1. The stars were far more ridiculous than they have been thus far. And to top it off, the clouds weren't blocking them, yet were still present. Whipped and slashed like white paint all around them. So beautiful. Mom stood outside with me to look at the moon. She said, "They used to tell us that there is a woman on the moon, carrying firewood on her head. One day she was carrying her firewood home, and the moon swooped her up. Now she is there forever."
2. It was the first night I did my homework during sleep time, other than in my bed with a flashlight. I sat at the kitchen table with my computer, techno Mr. Brightside in my headphones on repeat (the only 12 minute song that can be on the same level as Free Bird, live version), and I finished a paper for Literature. I don't know what it was about it all...but I have never enjoyed writing a paper so much. It was probably the Killers. And having more light than a flashlight. But I surely felt productive.
I am learning, in class material mostly, about how community-oriented this place is, these people are. And I love every bit of it.
It is really challenging, and really novel--yet it makes complete sense with much conviction--to be told in chapel, "Look at the Lord's prayer. Give US our daily bread. Forgive US our sins." We are, I am, a lot more self-centered than I thought. The whole individualism movement, which I thought was a fact of life, is mainly an American thing. Surprise, surprise. We want to be unique, we want to be ourselves, we want our relationships with God to be just that: us and God.
But, really, do we take communion in the corner of our bedrooms, or do we eat the flesh and drink the blood in a circle of thirteen. It makes me wonder about the disciples. Was it Jesus-Peter, Jesus-John, Jesus-James, Jesus-Thomas, or was it Peter-John-James-Thomas-Jesus.
I am learning, (again: in the class room, not by practice), that our relationship with the Father is just that: OUR relationship with the Father. The body is so much more important than I thought. I've been learning that the past few years, but even more so now.
What does that look like? Having a many-persons relationship with God, instead of an individual one? I bet it looks quite like the Trinity. And like praying with Jenny, interrupting each other during prayer, with comments and even laughter, in a three-way sort of conversation.
But as an entire church? This is hard stuff for me to grasp. But I'm looking out for it, in wonder, just the same.
I think it's a blessing for all involved; these kids are crazy.
Speaking of crazy kids, I saw a DONATE BLOOD poster in the lunch line, and laughed. Maybe I was thinking of what my mom would think/say/punch if I told her I was going to sit in a chair and have a needle injected in my arm in East Africa. Yet, apparently, not everyone here agrees with the danger. I've been told that a few are looking to tattoo themselves in Kampala.
I can think of better ways to die.
Such as: bungee jumping over the Nile. All that to say, fear not, Mom. Because the circumcision has been cancelled, rafting and bungee-jumping is tentatively back on the schedule for tomorrow. But I am not a part of that schedule, this time. It was so last-minute, and I don't think 24 hours is enough time to reflect, pray, and jot down the pros and cons of snapping crucial bones in your body. I need more time than this; for me, it will be another weekend with the fam. And I think that's equally exhilarating.
All week I have been trying to upload the most amazing video ever made by humans of the 21st century. I don't mean that pridefully, just truthfully.
Alright, it's not that great, but Betsy, Sharon, and I filmed a sweet music video here on Tuesday, and now I have to watch it every time I go to start homework. It boosts my blood pressure or something.
I took my laptop home that night to show my family the video. Rebecca and Irene screamed the entire time, and made me replay it 3 times. No Rebecca imitates my dance and sings the song every chance she gets; and it's more entertaining than the original, if such is possible.
(Charlie, we then watched our video of Mr. Brightside in the car. They loved it immensely; and I realized just how much I miss you like crazy).
I also used the laptop opportunity to show my family more recent pictures of my family. The only hard copies I brought were from high school. So, Charlie, for instance, has shot up. "He grows by the hour," Rebecca said. She went on to talk about our height, mainly my brother's, and she compared herself to a Chinese. "Me, I took 27 years, and this is how big I got. YOUR BROTHER IS SO BIG!" Over and over.
We had pizza at the Buttons Tuesday night. It was alright; the salad was the exciting part. And bagels, oh my goodness. And coconut and coffee ice cream. It was a wonderful Tuesday.
At the Buttons we met Abigail and Alex, the children of these missionaries/professors. And they are so incredibly smart. I enjoy seeing Mzungu children; there were three in my Sunday School class, and I found myself staring at them, much like everyone else stares at them/us. It is just so shocking still to see white faces. White little faces.
Abigail, age 7, told me that according to the Romans, her name is also Danielle, because her dad's name is Daniel.
And, in preparation for my favorite Batman joke, when I asked her if she knew who Batman was, she said no. Her dad was instantly on the defensive: "She knows who Batman is; she just doesn't KNOW who Batman is." So I asked her again. You know, Spiderman's friend. Do you know who Batman is?
"Oh, yes. But I do not know who is inside the costume."
And all that in a nearly-English accent. Incredible.
I was watching the news with my mom the other night. There was a special on Japan. The words "Tokyo" and "Kyoto" came up, and I nearly lost it. Goodness gracious, they have the same letters! The Japanese are geniuses. The special was about this fisherman who eats oysters raw from the river/sea/ocean/some body of water. I told my mom about the minnow I ate from the creek once, and about how that is the farthest I will ever go when it comes to raw fish. Then she said, "I wish you will be here when the ants come." Apparently, ants, loads and loads of ants, pour from the ground during a certain season, and they are rather tasty. "You have to put them in your mouth fast, so they will not bite your lip." Well, yeah. I think about that all the time.
Unsurprisingly, I agreed with her: "I hope I am here when the ants come too."
Aida and Rebecca's absence in the evenings allows for much mother-daughter time; surely I enjoy it. Last night, after watching some news in Luganda, she shut off the TV and we talked about love and marriage, short of Sinatra. She wondered what I thought of racially-mixed, culturally-mixed marriages. It was a great conversation. She is simply wonderful; and we're on the same wavelength.
I met her Wednesday night at church for the prayer service. Preparation for Easter/fight against witchcraft. Rev. Henry, who I think is the best-looking Ugandan I have seen thus far (Sharon and Caroline's dad), had my aunt read the passage. My mom was presently absent--I forget where she went, but she was only gone for a minute, and I had to find in my Bible where the heck we were. Aunt Victo said something that sounded like Mordecai, streamed in with the Luganda, and so I hurried to Esther. Then I heard "kabaka," which means "king", so I looked at the start of every chapter for "Mordecai" and "king" in the first paragraph. Esther 4. And I guessed right.
It was one of the sweetest experiences ever.
Earlier in the week I had asked my mom where I could find/buy a Luganda Bible. Wednesday night, as we chopped up the greens, she asked me why. I couldn't really voice my reason, but it had something to do with having the language written down, and in the best form ever, and being able to read Luganda when I wanted, and someday trying to teach my kids to pronounce it: she doubled over, put her hands on her knees, and laughed. Extensively.
In these nightly news-watching experiences, I get more and more depressed. Depressed is too strong of a word, but, saddened, I guess? Disgusted, maybe. There were some riots going on in some Ugandan markets. After the police chase down the culprits, they beat them with their sticks. Like dogs. Even when they're not putting up a fight. There they are, surrendered, sitting cross-legged on the ground, and being beaten.
My mom didn't like it either; she complained, lamented about it for a while. The only difference: our American government would punish such police. Here, it is normal. Just not right.
Speaking of what is normal here. Walking back from New Testament class with Vicky, Franca, and two new girls: Claire and Harriet, we passed the blood drive going on under a tent in the courtyard.
Claire: "Me, I don't want to find out. I would rather not know. Live freely."
Harriet: "I will not get tested until I am married."
Vicky: "I know I do not have AIDS."
I hate that I can just safely assume that I do not have it; but an air ticket away, it's similar to, "Do I have pneumonia? Do I have the flu?" Suck.
On a lighter note, there is a fellow missions-emphasis student here named Todd. He is different from the rest of us, in that no one hollers MZUNGU! as he walks down the street. They yell YESU! In fact, that is how Todd is greeted here by most everyone. He is white, he has a beard, and a curly sort of (fro?), hence, he must be Jesus. He is Yesu to everyone.
As funny as I find that, I hate the fact that because the white man brought Christianity to Africa, Christ is "white man." Jesus was middle-Eastern, for goodness' sake. Let's darken those hues and eyebrows.
A similar story of "greeting" while walking the streets. My friend Betsy has made some friends of her own. A certain man who wants to go running with her. He, short-short wearing running shorts, first approached her, saying, "Please teach me to walk like you walk. I love how you walk." Interesting. I am currently taking lessons from Betsy on how to walk like she walks.
Valentine's Day is interesting in Africa. Much different than at home, though I don't know how to pinpoint it. I wasn't expecting the holiday to be a very big deal, if it was even celebrated at all. But it carries a lot of meaning and symbolism here. Whereas, at home I feel it is a holiday celebrating friendship in a lot of ways, here it is strictly for lovers.
(My mom chose to inform me of this just as I had handed Huntington his Disney valentine; and I already had reservations on giving him one. It was awkward).
If you are taken and "waiting for your valentine and the evening date", you wear red, or red and black. Then and only then. For, if you are wearing blue stripes, or I guess magenta, you are on the market, and will likely be approached so that you too can change into red and have a date lined up for the evening.
I was wearing magenta. Walking back from New Testament class with Vicky, Susan, and Franca, we were discussing both the Q source (NT talk), and why Franca was allowed to carry around a flower on Valentine's Day. I sensed someone who wasn't Vicky or Franca or Susan walking next to me and staring. It was Ivan. I met Ivan last week at tea, and we had a conversation about copying homework, i.e., cheating, or "xeroxing." He couldn't understand why I thought it was wrong. As we left tea that day, Susan said, "That one is confused." (They say "this one" and "that one" a lot, regarding individuals. It's fun). I also saw Ivan earlier in the week, when I was carrying home a few gallons of water from school. (We are responsible for refilling our jerry cans when we run out, and transporting them home. The most uncomfortable traveling experience of my life, other than half-marathons. My hands are still recovering). But Ivan had passed me and my jerry can, and said, "Should I join you?" No. No you shouldn't.
But here he was, walking next to me as we headed toward tea time at the dining hall.
Ivan: "Who is your valentine?"
Me: "I...I...don't know."
He pointed to himself, smiled, and said he didn't have one either. Hah. I kindly apologized, and said no thanks, and gave him what I thought was a good reason to refuse. But he persisted.
Whether he was serious or not, once he realized I was always serious in my refusal, he took a step back and grabbed onto his friend's shoulder. Leaning all his weight on his friend, he said, "Help a brother. I think I've had a stroke."
We laughed at him, but continued our walk and discussion of the Q source. After a minute or so, still behind us and still holding onto his friend, he said, "Never mind the Q source. You have a brother dying behind you."
One of the girls asked if he was really dying.
Ivan: "Of a broken heart. Of all days. This day. Valentine's Day."
We laughed at him some more, and Vicky offered some comfort: "We are going to the kitchen, Ivan. You can console yourself there."
Ivan: "But how can I, when my heart is pumping like this?"
Vicky: "A hot drink will help you."
Ivan: "A hot drink? But my heart is already on fire."
So I turned around and kicked him in his shins.
No, I didn't kick him. But I couldn't help laughing in his face; it was hilarious. The performance was worthy of applause.
That day at tea, Vicky asked me, "Danielle, are you the firstborn?"
Me: "No."
Vicky: "The youngest."
Me: "No."
Vicky: "Oh...you are in the middle. That is why you have these?" And she pointed to the center of her cheeks. She told me she loved dimples, and that Franca, "that one", has them too.
Me: "Franca, are you the firstborn?"
Franca: "No."
So I have yet to uncover the mystery of what cheek curves have to do with lineage. I suppose "Are you the firstborn?" is a legitimate way to introduce any question.
The other night, Rebecca was sitting in bed reading her Bible out loud. "Do I sound like your people?" she asked. She was trying to remove her Luganda accent and talk like us. It was entertaining, and a rather decent job.
Highlights of last night:
1. The stars were far more ridiculous than they have been thus far. And to top it off, the clouds weren't blocking them, yet were still present. Whipped and slashed like white paint all around them. So beautiful. Mom stood outside with me to look at the moon. She said, "They used to tell us that there is a woman on the moon, carrying firewood on her head. One day she was carrying her firewood home, and the moon swooped her up. Now she is there forever."
2. It was the first night I did my homework during sleep time, other than in my bed with a flashlight. I sat at the kitchen table with my computer, techno Mr. Brightside in my headphones on repeat (the only 12 minute song that can be on the same level as Free Bird, live version), and I finished a paper for Literature. I don't know what it was about it all...but I have never enjoyed writing a paper so much. It was probably the Killers. And having more light than a flashlight. But I surely felt productive.
I am learning, in class material mostly, about how community-oriented this place is, these people are. And I love every bit of it.
It is really challenging, and really novel--yet it makes complete sense with much conviction--to be told in chapel, "Look at the Lord's prayer. Give US our daily bread. Forgive US our sins." We are, I am, a lot more self-centered than I thought. The whole individualism movement, which I thought was a fact of life, is mainly an American thing. Surprise, surprise. We want to be unique, we want to be ourselves, we want our relationships with God to be just that: us and God.
But, really, do we take communion in the corner of our bedrooms, or do we eat the flesh and drink the blood in a circle of thirteen. It makes me wonder about the disciples. Was it Jesus-Peter, Jesus-John, Jesus-James, Jesus-Thomas, or was it Peter-John-James-Thomas-Jesus.
I am learning, (again: in the class room, not by practice), that our relationship with the Father is just that: OUR relationship with the Father. The body is so much more important than I thought. I've been learning that the past few years, but even more so now.
What does that look like? Having a many-persons relationship with God, instead of an individual one? I bet it looks quite like the Trinity. And like praying with Jenny, interrupting each other during prayer, with comments and even laughter, in a three-way sort of conversation.
But as an entire church? This is hard stuff for me to grasp. But I'm looking out for it, in wonder, just the same.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Tuesdays, Fridays.
I don't know where to start, so I'll opt for the chronological, I think. Much has happened, yet nothing has happened. Details, everyday minor things, still seem huge to me. So, sorry if the details bore.
I left school early on Friday to go grocery shopping with Rebecca. An adventure. Along with vanilla extract, you can buy pineapple extract. (Mom, you want me to bring some back? I have no idea what you'd put it in...but, heck. Sweet, yes?) These extra hours gave Rebecca and I a lot of time to talk and just enjoy each other's company. I am going to miss this girl like crazy. (She started classes yesterday. Yes, post-degree classes. She gets home around 10, dinner time. I'll rarely see her now).
Anyway, Rebecca and I sat in the sitting room (go figure) and talked about an array of things. Such as, the word "fat." They told us when we got here, to not be offended if we were called this, because here is is a compliment. I half believed that, thought it was just a self-esteem cushion. Feminine tears our program leaders wanted to dodge. But, no. I talked to Rebecca about eating disorders, and she said she wants to start a campaign to make the word "fat" universally acceptable, if not loved. She told me that fat is beautiful here. The men want meat on their women. Her exact words: "We think it is beautiful, flesh hanging all over, dancing when you move." Hah, dancing flesh. Gorgeous.
I decided to keep my eyes open. Like Saturday, at the graduation party we went to. The larger women. Yes, beautiful indeed. The African dress. the gomez, is much more becoming on a larger figure. Seriously.
I don't want to skip to Saturday yet, though. Still on Friday, Rebecca was encouraging me to wear my mosquito spray. I was grimacing, or saying, "Okay...I will eventually" or something. She said,
"No. I need to look after you. I am your...what is your sister's name again?"
"Christine."
"Yes. I am your Christine in Africa."
We laughed. Later in the conversation, we sighed at the same time. I've taught her "jinx" because we say things together a lot. When our sighs were mutual, she said,
"See. We are sisters. You didn't know I was out here in Africa, but now you've found me. When you get home you need to tell your Dad, 'Shame on you for leaving our other sister in Africa.'" Yeah. Shame on you, Dad.
My family called on Saturday night. Rebecca talked to my mom and told me afterwards how much she loved my mom's voice. She wouldn't stop talking about how lovely it was.
After my two moms talked, Josephine came over for her last time before leaving for the Netherlands. Her flight was the next day; Mom's hug and goodbye to her was rather long. As we walked back into the house, Mom told me that my mom cried on the phone.
"I know. I'm sorry," I told her.
"That's what she said."
But it was awesome watching my one family connecting with the other all on a tiny Nokia.
I'd have to say the best part about my family calling: my brother Charlie asked if I had seen any lions. I laughed and told him they weren't in town. Only in savannas and such. His response:
"What, do they have electric collars that keep them from coming into town?"
Yes. Yes, they do.
Saturday, from 1 until 7, I sat in a chair at a graduation party. All in Luganda. Rebecca eventually "captured" me, as she called it, and apologized for 6 hours of Luganda. I reminded her that I am a day-dreamer. Such is my weapon.
But ceremonies, parties, etc. are so different here. We're talking full suits, formal dresses. For a graduation party. Plus, we had mass at the party. No communion, but mass still. So interesting.
AND CAKE. I'm very much in love with the cake--including the way they cut it. At the wedding, when they cut the cake, they counted down from 3, and on 1, they opened three bottles of champagne and it fountained over them. Some sort of sparklers also came out from around the table. At the graduation party, silly string replaced the champagne. According to my mom, "We are Christians." So, no champagne. :)
The other highlight of the graduation party: one of the dads stood up, and announced into the microphone, that he was buying both of the graduates a goat. This is very generous. An honor indeed.
Which reminds me: last night I learned Kwagala, our cow, 's story. She is a new addition. Mom used to have 3 cows; I forget what happened. Then she had no cows. Then her daughter got engaged--Miriam--and her fiance's family gave Kwagala as a gift to the family. So it's not just in the books. The cow I say goodbye to every day is a dowry cow. Cute.
Sunday morning was wonderful. I talked to Mom about getting more involved in the community, perhaps Sunday School, and the next day she tells me she arranged with the Sunday School teacher that I can help. It was wonderful. I knew two of the other teachers already: Frank I had met at the graduation party, and Susan was the first Susan I met in week one, who asked me "How is your life?" and wouldn't let go of my hand. Teacher Betty is our leader, and Teacher Betty gives us soda between services. I like Teacher Betty.
(Have I mentioned we drink soda from reusable bottles? As in, straws are a must, unless you want to contract something. Oops). But I have started a sweet bottlecap collection.
The children were wonderful, the songs we learned were wonderful, and the only name I learned was "Leona." Shame on me. But I think we're friends now. Leona is wonderful.
A sweet part of Sunday School: a little boy ate a blue crayon. I wrote a short story once about a little boy eating a blue crayon. It was like the word becoming flesh.
I woke up from my Sunday nap to start on the peanut butter cookies. Instead of taking 10 minutes to cook, as the recipe said, it took a good 50 minutes. Three batches; we're still eating them. They are entirely incredible. Rebecca helped; it was the first time she had ever made cookies/seen cookies being made. She was in awe.
After the baking was done, we started on the meal. Mashed potatoes, spechlies (spaetzles) and the beef and sauce (essentially, beef stew). Note to Mom and every Distler: if you put green peppers and onions, and heck even eggplant, in the gravy, it's far more wonderful than you'd imagine. Grandma and Grandpa, I thought of you most the time I was dropping the dough into the boiling water. Who the heck would've thought spaetzles would come to Africa?
It all turned out incredibly well. To tell you the truth, I had been silently dreading it all week; I feared A. I would screw it up, or B. Their tastebuds would object. Neither happened. Mom said, "We must always mash our potatoes now," which I hope doesn't happen, and everyone loved the spaetzles.
The cooking lasted from 5 until 10. When I try to count the hours, it doesn't make sense. But maybe it's the whole cooking-over-a-fire thing. It takes longer.
Before Sunday, I thought African cake was the highlight of my stay. Shallow, yes. My family is up there on the list too. But those 5 hours of cooking were definitely some of the greatest I have had here thus far. I am convinced there is just something about cooking when your Mom is not around to watch/help. When you are in charge, and it's up to you to feed the family. To quote Christine, "I just want my own kitchen."
I can't describe what it felt like, other than to compare it, parallel it, to another feeling. And it felt exactly like the whole month of May, when I babysat little Bill. Specifically: the last two hours before his Mom came home. Lying down with him as he finishes his bottle and we watch the original Superman series. He falls asleep, and I soon after him, and when we wake up and I have to pull him off of me and hand him to his mom, we are both covered in warm, damp sweat. Baby nap sweat. The whole ride home smells of baby formula, and it's all rather beautiful.
That's what the 5 hours of cooking felt like. My sweaty shirt and his sweaty shirt.
I tried explaining that to Rebecca. We sat next to the fire, waiting for the spaetzles to finish frying, and I said, "I feel like a mom." She laughed at me.
In that same conversation, she came to mention, or ask really, why white people can't dance. She found it rather hilarious: "But it is uniform. It is not just some of you. NONE of you have rhythm. It is true." And, well, yes. It is true. Because even those who dance on TV, she said. "Even Britney Spears. They all take classes, don't they? They do it over and over and over. Us? Put on the music, and we'll do it. We do not need classes."
I then mimicked for her what clapping sounds like in American churches--a badly broken metronome--and together we laughed at all white people everywhere.
Aida went home to her village this week. Originally, they told me she'd be gone one week. But Rebecca told me she always extends it. It will be two or three before she is back. Gosh, do I miss her. I feel selfish, wanting her to be home with us, yet knowing she is visiting her son Ibrahim, whom she only sees twice a year. She has to make a living, and that means being separated from her son and family and home. For her sake, I guess I hope she extends her stay at home for awhile.
Just to clear things up: Martin didn't kill the chicken. He just held the head and the knife afterwards.
Martin knows my name now, or Dani, rather. He had called me Becca for awhile--Rebecca was the name of the American student they hosted last semester.
He hugs my legs when I come home and says things I can't understand.
I will hopefully blog on Friday, if I can control myself. Tuesdays and Fridays, the days with only one class. Friday I will probably be the only white kid on campus. Everyone else is going on the circumcision field trip. Call me crazy, but I'm really not interested. I asked Sharon if there was something wrong with me--because everyone is completely excited. I think there is a certain portion of my brain missing that everyone else has here. The I-want-to-watch-a-live-circumcision cerebellum or something. Becca, a different Becca from all other mentioned above (this is an American mission student Becca), just said:
"Who is going to let 35 Mazungu watch their circumcision?"
Seriously. Let's do this in private, people. Or at least sell tickets.
Dr. Button is having us for dinner tonight. Not in the cannibal way.
We are having pizza: yikes.
I left school early on Friday to go grocery shopping with Rebecca. An adventure. Along with vanilla extract, you can buy pineapple extract. (Mom, you want me to bring some back? I have no idea what you'd put it in...but, heck. Sweet, yes?) These extra hours gave Rebecca and I a lot of time to talk and just enjoy each other's company. I am going to miss this girl like crazy. (She started classes yesterday. Yes, post-degree classes. She gets home around 10, dinner time. I'll rarely see her now).
Anyway, Rebecca and I sat in the sitting room (go figure) and talked about an array of things. Such as, the word "fat." They told us when we got here, to not be offended if we were called this, because here is is a compliment. I half believed that, thought it was just a self-esteem cushion. Feminine tears our program leaders wanted to dodge. But, no. I talked to Rebecca about eating disorders, and she said she wants to start a campaign to make the word "fat" universally acceptable, if not loved. She told me that fat is beautiful here. The men want meat on their women. Her exact words: "We think it is beautiful, flesh hanging all over, dancing when you move." Hah, dancing flesh. Gorgeous.
I decided to keep my eyes open. Like Saturday, at the graduation party we went to. The larger women. Yes, beautiful indeed. The African dress. the gomez, is much more becoming on a larger figure. Seriously.
I don't want to skip to Saturday yet, though. Still on Friday, Rebecca was encouraging me to wear my mosquito spray. I was grimacing, or saying, "Okay...I will eventually" or something. She said,
"No. I need to look after you. I am your...what is your sister's name again?"
"Christine."
"Yes. I am your Christine in Africa."
We laughed. Later in the conversation, we sighed at the same time. I've taught her "jinx" because we say things together a lot. When our sighs were mutual, she said,
"See. We are sisters. You didn't know I was out here in Africa, but now you've found me. When you get home you need to tell your Dad, 'Shame on you for leaving our other sister in Africa.'" Yeah. Shame on you, Dad.
My family called on Saturday night. Rebecca talked to my mom and told me afterwards how much she loved my mom's voice. She wouldn't stop talking about how lovely it was.
After my two moms talked, Josephine came over for her last time before leaving for the Netherlands. Her flight was the next day; Mom's hug and goodbye to her was rather long. As we walked back into the house, Mom told me that my mom cried on the phone.
"I know. I'm sorry," I told her.
"That's what she said."
But it was awesome watching my one family connecting with the other all on a tiny Nokia.
I'd have to say the best part about my family calling: my brother Charlie asked if I had seen any lions. I laughed and told him they weren't in town. Only in savannas and such. His response:
"What, do they have electric collars that keep them from coming into town?"
Yes. Yes, they do.
Saturday, from 1 until 7, I sat in a chair at a graduation party. All in Luganda. Rebecca eventually "captured" me, as she called it, and apologized for 6 hours of Luganda. I reminded her that I am a day-dreamer. Such is my weapon.
But ceremonies, parties, etc. are so different here. We're talking full suits, formal dresses. For a graduation party. Plus, we had mass at the party. No communion, but mass still. So interesting.
AND CAKE. I'm very much in love with the cake--including the way they cut it. At the wedding, when they cut the cake, they counted down from 3, and on 1, they opened three bottles of champagne and it fountained over them. Some sort of sparklers also came out from around the table. At the graduation party, silly string replaced the champagne. According to my mom, "We are Christians." So, no champagne. :)
The other highlight of the graduation party: one of the dads stood up, and announced into the microphone, that he was buying both of the graduates a goat. This is very generous. An honor indeed.
Which reminds me: last night I learned Kwagala, our cow, 's story. She is a new addition. Mom used to have 3 cows; I forget what happened. Then she had no cows. Then her daughter got engaged--Miriam--and her fiance's family gave Kwagala as a gift to the family. So it's not just in the books. The cow I say goodbye to every day is a dowry cow. Cute.
Sunday morning was wonderful. I talked to Mom about getting more involved in the community, perhaps Sunday School, and the next day she tells me she arranged with the Sunday School teacher that I can help. It was wonderful. I knew two of the other teachers already: Frank I had met at the graduation party, and Susan was the first Susan I met in week one, who asked me "How is your life?" and wouldn't let go of my hand. Teacher Betty is our leader, and Teacher Betty gives us soda between services. I like Teacher Betty.
(Have I mentioned we drink soda from reusable bottles? As in, straws are a must, unless you want to contract something. Oops). But I have started a sweet bottlecap collection.
The children were wonderful, the songs we learned were wonderful, and the only name I learned was "Leona." Shame on me. But I think we're friends now. Leona is wonderful.
A sweet part of Sunday School: a little boy ate a blue crayon. I wrote a short story once about a little boy eating a blue crayon. It was like the word becoming flesh.
I woke up from my Sunday nap to start on the peanut butter cookies. Instead of taking 10 minutes to cook, as the recipe said, it took a good 50 minutes. Three batches; we're still eating them. They are entirely incredible. Rebecca helped; it was the first time she had ever made cookies/seen cookies being made. She was in awe.
After the baking was done, we started on the meal. Mashed potatoes, spechlies (spaetzles) and the beef and sauce (essentially, beef stew). Note to Mom and every Distler: if you put green peppers and onions, and heck even eggplant, in the gravy, it's far more wonderful than you'd imagine. Grandma and Grandpa, I thought of you most the time I was dropping the dough into the boiling water. Who the heck would've thought spaetzles would come to Africa?
It all turned out incredibly well. To tell you the truth, I had been silently dreading it all week; I feared A. I would screw it up, or B. Their tastebuds would object. Neither happened. Mom said, "We must always mash our potatoes now," which I hope doesn't happen, and everyone loved the spaetzles.
The cooking lasted from 5 until 10. When I try to count the hours, it doesn't make sense. But maybe it's the whole cooking-over-a-fire thing. It takes longer.
Before Sunday, I thought African cake was the highlight of my stay. Shallow, yes. My family is up there on the list too. But those 5 hours of cooking were definitely some of the greatest I have had here thus far. I am convinced there is just something about cooking when your Mom is not around to watch/help. When you are in charge, and it's up to you to feed the family. To quote Christine, "I just want my own kitchen."
I can't describe what it felt like, other than to compare it, parallel it, to another feeling. And it felt exactly like the whole month of May, when I babysat little Bill. Specifically: the last two hours before his Mom came home. Lying down with him as he finishes his bottle and we watch the original Superman series. He falls asleep, and I soon after him, and when we wake up and I have to pull him off of me and hand him to his mom, we are both covered in warm, damp sweat. Baby nap sweat. The whole ride home smells of baby formula, and it's all rather beautiful.
That's what the 5 hours of cooking felt like. My sweaty shirt and his sweaty shirt.
I tried explaining that to Rebecca. We sat next to the fire, waiting for the spaetzles to finish frying, and I said, "I feel like a mom." She laughed at me.
In that same conversation, she came to mention, or ask really, why white people can't dance. She found it rather hilarious: "But it is uniform. It is not just some of you. NONE of you have rhythm. It is true." And, well, yes. It is true. Because even those who dance on TV, she said. "Even Britney Spears. They all take classes, don't they? They do it over and over and over. Us? Put on the music, and we'll do it. We do not need classes."
I then mimicked for her what clapping sounds like in American churches--a badly broken metronome--and together we laughed at all white people everywhere.
Aida went home to her village this week. Originally, they told me she'd be gone one week. But Rebecca told me she always extends it. It will be two or three before she is back. Gosh, do I miss her. I feel selfish, wanting her to be home with us, yet knowing she is visiting her son Ibrahim, whom she only sees twice a year. She has to make a living, and that means being separated from her son and family and home. For her sake, I guess I hope she extends her stay at home for awhile.
Just to clear things up: Martin didn't kill the chicken. He just held the head and the knife afterwards.
Martin knows my name now, or Dani, rather. He had called me Becca for awhile--Rebecca was the name of the American student they hosted last semester.
He hugs my legs when I come home and says things I can't understand.
I will hopefully blog on Friday, if I can control myself. Tuesdays and Fridays, the days with only one class. Friday I will probably be the only white kid on campus. Everyone else is going on the circumcision field trip. Call me crazy, but I'm really not interested. I asked Sharon if there was something wrong with me--because everyone is completely excited. I think there is a certain portion of my brain missing that everyone else has here. The I-want-to-watch-a-live-circumcision cerebellum or something. Becca, a different Becca from all other mentioned above (this is an American mission student Becca), just said:
"Who is going to let 35 Mazungu watch their circumcision?"
Seriously. Let's do this in private, people. Or at least sell tickets.
Dr. Button is having us for dinner tonight. Not in the cannibal way.
We are having pizza: yikes.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Tie a cord around his legs, and he'll still kick the bucket.
I only have one class today. That is my excuse for writing.
I feel I need to excuse my hypocritical ways.
There's a first for everything. And that's what the past 48 hours have been filled with. It started with my finally asking Rebecca, "Is it okay if I wear trousers to bed?" because night gowns are ridiculous. So 2 nights ago was my first time wearing sweat-capris to bed, and man, was it blissful.
On a more upsetting note, today could possibly have been the first time I've left a house without brushing my teeth. I woke up at 8 and basically ran out the door. I blame the capris; I am sleeping too soundly.
Speaking of sleeping too soundly, I heard a certain phrase for the first time yesterday, and it was the first time my guinea pig laugh escaped while in Africa. That's a lie: Becca is hilarious, and so hurts my abs. But it was the first time I laughed that hard with my family, to the point of needing to catch my breath. I was asking Rebecca how she slept the night before. She told me, "I slept like...an embryo." Oh my goodness; I lost it. She explained, after my repeating it ten times and telling her I'm going to say it forever, that: babies don't really sleep through the night, so why say "I slept like a baby?" And sleeping like an angel isn't any better; angels have to keep waking up to go rescue people. But embryos, on the other hand....
Another first. Death of the nkoko.
When I got home from school yesterday, I asked Mom, "Nkuyambe?", which means, "May I help?" She told me, "No, there is nothing. Right now he is killing the chicken." Well, gee. I put down my bookbag immediately and asked if I could watch. I didn't know what I was saying; I am much more impulsive here. The words "Can I watch?" coming out of the little kid who would cry and scream when her sister killed the ant in the kitchen right after she promised she wouldn't. I'm still dreading the day I run over my first squirrel. I know I'll lose it.
But I went in the backyard and stood next to a boy I've never seen while he plucked all the feathers out (I missed the beheading). Frances the milkman's little boy, Martin, was also standing and watching. Martin, who is 5 I think, was holding a bloody knife in one hand, and the chicken's head in the other. I laughed, thinking of his age-mate, my cousin Tyler, and what he would look like holding the same.
It was sweet to watch. While he broke off the legs, blood poured out of the severed neck. I'm laughing while I write this. It's just too much.
The death of the chicken ushered me into the "first" I have been waiting for. Breakthrough with Martin. Gloria has gone to school, I think--this I am guessing because I haven't seen her this week, and last time I saw her, her head was newly shaven. (During school years, the girls must have short hair). And I really want to play with the kids, yet the others can't get over the Mzungu factor. I'm famous, not a playmate.
But Martin. While we watched the chicken's plucking, he started using that bloody knife to cut tiny fruits/seeds off a tree for me. Just to play with. He eventually made a running motion and said a Luganda word, so I think he wanted to race. We ran around the backyard for a bit, Martin chasing the calf, and me chasing Martin. He doesn't know English, so most of our communication was imitation. Us stealing each other's flip-flops (slippers), spinning in circles, and rolling on the ground. The rest was like a movie. This little boy saying no words because I can't understand them anyway, ten feet ahead of me, making the motion for "Come." Sometimes he would say "jangu." Other times he just put his hand out and clapped his fingers down. It's like a baby wave, and it means "Follow me", essentially. He led me all around the yard, under and over the wooden bars of the cow stall, and to a corner where you can peer between cracks in the bricks (of the walls that surround our yard).
At one point, a bit after we danced together, he jumped up and down and pumped his arms. He was making a squirting noise with his mouth. I thought he was still dancing, but wasn't too sure--until I put two and two together: the squirting noise, the pumping motion, and the cow standing directly behind him. It was time to milk Kwagala, and Martin was ecstatic. I said "Oh, mata," which means milk, and that was the extent of our understanding.
But watching Frances milk? Another first.
I realize I am falling in love with the food. Who would've thought? Josephine and John came over for dinner last night (Josephine leaves for the Netherlands for 5 months this Sunday--studying abroad), and we basically had a feast. (The newly-killed chicken being a main factor). I've finally been giving myself regular portions, instead of eating very little. Huntington stood over my plate and said, "It looks like Danielle has finally come to Africa." Granted, this was 11:30 at night. I had a banana for lunch. I was hungry.
Today in class I was looking at a drawing I made in my book last week. A grotesque face, complete with moles and empty eye sockets, eating a whole load of stick people. Flames in the background. On the bottom I wrote: "If matoke had a face." But I'm beginning to think my relationship with matoke is similar to my relationship with cats. One minute I will say, quite firmly, that I hate it, and three minutes later I am petting the thing (or eating it). But I don't eat cats. A.L.F. does.
On a more depressing note, four people died in Mukono yesterday, and Huntington watched it. He told us, "Today was bad. I saw people die." Taxi accident at a nearby gas station. Brake failure had it running into the pumps and one huge metal thing slicing through the van. Goodness.
In that same conversation, I realized that I need to come back here. At least someday. I don't think I can bear never seeing this family again. There was Mom, sitting outside with Huntington, Rebecca, Jospehine, and me, excitedly talking about the football (soccer) game that was going on inside. You could probably hear Aida and Irene's cheers down the street. Mom waved her hands while she talked: "Me? Those are not real goals, those penalties. It is only the goal-keeper. I love it when they kick a goal with everyone running," and then she squealed.
When I said goodnight and goodbye to Josephine, I knew she wasn't coming back from the Netherlands until June. This is only the second time I have seen Josephine; the first was at Mom's birthday party. Yet I had to walk out of the room really quickly so I wouldn't cry when I told her goodbye. I can't imagine what it will be like in April, saying goodbye to this family. I am totally in love.
Jenny wrote me an incredibly encouraging email after my last blog. About our deep gladness not necessarily being easy 24/7. It was so simple, so obvious, yet it really hadn't occurred to me. (And this is why I love my best friend). But our deep gladness should be deep enough to pursue even when it seems to suck; this is essentially what she said.
Emailing Daniel just now, at 3:11 my-side-of-America time, I realized that Mom, when I busted out of you, hah, at 3:11, do you even know what time it was in Africa? 11:11. As if the best number in the number line hadn't already won my heart.
That's deep gladness right there.
It is interesting to see the hands-on results of a short-term missions trip. As in, Rebecca got home late yesterday; she was at the dentist. What I had forgotten was that there is a team from Michigan here this week, providing free dental care to Mukono. First knowing my sister, and then seeing her come back from "the dentist" made it all very real for me. But what sucks:
Sharon and Caroline live with the Reverend of my church. They essentially invited the team to come or something; so the team had dinner at the Reverend's house Monday night. Caroline and Sharon made sloppy joes, to join the rest of the African-style feast they had prepared for "our most honored guests."
Tuesday at school, asking how the sloppyjoes went, we didn't get the expected response. Sharon and Caroline were so torn, so hurt, so offended by the team. Not in the matter of sloppy-joes. But in the matter of, "We were embarassed of them all night." I'm sure we're all guilty of it, going into a culture for only a few weeks, so our motives are different. We don't want to learn so much as we want to help. I guess it's not completely horrible, just naieve. But they said things at dinner that were inappropriate, insensitive, ungrateful. Making faces at the food, but cheering for the sloppyjoes. Asking the family very direct questions, but as if they were babies. Eew. But thanks for the dentistry.
Rebecca and I have a shopping date today. I am on a hunt for chicken broth. Spaetzles (Spechlies) are coming to Africa; Grandma, you'd be proud.
(Last night Rebecca said, "Sunday, we are going to Ohio.")
I feel I need to excuse my hypocritical ways.
There's a first for everything. And that's what the past 48 hours have been filled with. It started with my finally asking Rebecca, "Is it okay if I wear trousers to bed?" because night gowns are ridiculous. So 2 nights ago was my first time wearing sweat-capris to bed, and man, was it blissful.
On a more upsetting note, today could possibly have been the first time I've left a house without brushing my teeth. I woke up at 8 and basically ran out the door. I blame the capris; I am sleeping too soundly.
Speaking of sleeping too soundly, I heard a certain phrase for the first time yesterday, and it was the first time my guinea pig laugh escaped while in Africa. That's a lie: Becca is hilarious, and so hurts my abs. But it was the first time I laughed that hard with my family, to the point of needing to catch my breath. I was asking Rebecca how she slept the night before. She told me, "I slept like...an embryo." Oh my goodness; I lost it. She explained, after my repeating it ten times and telling her I'm going to say it forever, that: babies don't really sleep through the night, so why say "I slept like a baby?" And sleeping like an angel isn't any better; angels have to keep waking up to go rescue people. But embryos, on the other hand....
Another first. Death of the nkoko.
When I got home from school yesterday, I asked Mom, "Nkuyambe?", which means, "May I help?" She told me, "No, there is nothing. Right now he is killing the chicken." Well, gee. I put down my bookbag immediately and asked if I could watch. I didn't know what I was saying; I am much more impulsive here. The words "Can I watch?" coming out of the little kid who would cry and scream when her sister killed the ant in the kitchen right after she promised she wouldn't. I'm still dreading the day I run over my first squirrel. I know I'll lose it.
But I went in the backyard and stood next to a boy I've never seen while he plucked all the feathers out (I missed the beheading). Frances the milkman's little boy, Martin, was also standing and watching. Martin, who is 5 I think, was holding a bloody knife in one hand, and the chicken's head in the other. I laughed, thinking of his age-mate, my cousin Tyler, and what he would look like holding the same.
It was sweet to watch. While he broke off the legs, blood poured out of the severed neck. I'm laughing while I write this. It's just too much.
The death of the chicken ushered me into the "first" I have been waiting for. Breakthrough with Martin. Gloria has gone to school, I think--this I am guessing because I haven't seen her this week, and last time I saw her, her head was newly shaven. (During school years, the girls must have short hair). And I really want to play with the kids, yet the others can't get over the Mzungu factor. I'm famous, not a playmate.
But Martin. While we watched the chicken's plucking, he started using that bloody knife to cut tiny fruits/seeds off a tree for me. Just to play with. He eventually made a running motion and said a Luganda word, so I think he wanted to race. We ran around the backyard for a bit, Martin chasing the calf, and me chasing Martin. He doesn't know English, so most of our communication was imitation. Us stealing each other's flip-flops (slippers), spinning in circles, and rolling on the ground. The rest was like a movie. This little boy saying no words because I can't understand them anyway, ten feet ahead of me, making the motion for "Come." Sometimes he would say "jangu." Other times he just put his hand out and clapped his fingers down. It's like a baby wave, and it means "Follow me", essentially. He led me all around the yard, under and over the wooden bars of the cow stall, and to a corner where you can peer between cracks in the bricks (of the walls that surround our yard).
At one point, a bit after we danced together, he jumped up and down and pumped his arms. He was making a squirting noise with his mouth. I thought he was still dancing, but wasn't too sure--until I put two and two together: the squirting noise, the pumping motion, and the cow standing directly behind him. It was time to milk Kwagala, and Martin was ecstatic. I said "Oh, mata," which means milk, and that was the extent of our understanding.
But watching Frances milk? Another first.
I realize I am falling in love with the food. Who would've thought? Josephine and John came over for dinner last night (Josephine leaves for the Netherlands for 5 months this Sunday--studying abroad), and we basically had a feast. (The newly-killed chicken being a main factor). I've finally been giving myself regular portions, instead of eating very little. Huntington stood over my plate and said, "It looks like Danielle has finally come to Africa." Granted, this was 11:30 at night. I had a banana for lunch. I was hungry.
Today in class I was looking at a drawing I made in my book last week. A grotesque face, complete with moles and empty eye sockets, eating a whole load of stick people. Flames in the background. On the bottom I wrote: "If matoke had a face." But I'm beginning to think my relationship with matoke is similar to my relationship with cats. One minute I will say, quite firmly, that I hate it, and three minutes later I am petting the thing (or eating it). But I don't eat cats. A.L.F. does.
On a more depressing note, four people died in Mukono yesterday, and Huntington watched it. He told us, "Today was bad. I saw people die." Taxi accident at a nearby gas station. Brake failure had it running into the pumps and one huge metal thing slicing through the van. Goodness.
In that same conversation, I realized that I need to come back here. At least someday. I don't think I can bear never seeing this family again. There was Mom, sitting outside with Huntington, Rebecca, Jospehine, and me, excitedly talking about the football (soccer) game that was going on inside. You could probably hear Aida and Irene's cheers down the street. Mom waved her hands while she talked: "Me? Those are not real goals, those penalties. It is only the goal-keeper. I love it when they kick a goal with everyone running," and then she squealed.
When I said goodnight and goodbye to Josephine, I knew she wasn't coming back from the Netherlands until June. This is only the second time I have seen Josephine; the first was at Mom's birthday party. Yet I had to walk out of the room really quickly so I wouldn't cry when I told her goodbye. I can't imagine what it will be like in April, saying goodbye to this family. I am totally in love.
Jenny wrote me an incredibly encouraging email after my last blog. About our deep gladness not necessarily being easy 24/7. It was so simple, so obvious, yet it really hadn't occurred to me. (And this is why I love my best friend). But our deep gladness should be deep enough to pursue even when it seems to suck; this is essentially what she said.
Emailing Daniel just now, at 3:11 my-side-of-America time, I realized that Mom, when I busted out of you, hah, at 3:11, do you even know what time it was in Africa? 11:11. As if the best number in the number line hadn't already won my heart.
That's deep gladness right there.
It is interesting to see the hands-on results of a short-term missions trip. As in, Rebecca got home late yesterday; she was at the dentist. What I had forgotten was that there is a team from Michigan here this week, providing free dental care to Mukono. First knowing my sister, and then seeing her come back from "the dentist" made it all very real for me. But what sucks:
Sharon and Caroline live with the Reverend of my church. They essentially invited the team to come or something; so the team had dinner at the Reverend's house Monday night. Caroline and Sharon made sloppy joes, to join the rest of the African-style feast they had prepared for "our most honored guests."
Tuesday at school, asking how the sloppyjoes went, we didn't get the expected response. Sharon and Caroline were so torn, so hurt, so offended by the team. Not in the matter of sloppy-joes. But in the matter of, "We were embarassed of them all night." I'm sure we're all guilty of it, going into a culture for only a few weeks, so our motives are different. We don't want to learn so much as we want to help. I guess it's not completely horrible, just naieve. But they said things at dinner that were inappropriate, insensitive, ungrateful. Making faces at the food, but cheering for the sloppyjoes. Asking the family very direct questions, but as if they were babies. Eew. But thanks for the dentistry.
Rebecca and I have a shopping date today. I am on a hunt for chicken broth. Spaetzles (Spechlies) are coming to Africa; Grandma, you'd be proud.
(Last night Rebecca said, "Sunday, we are going to Ohio.")
California Raisins.
This is my official disclaimer, explanation, that I need to cut down on the blogging. That's not a sure statement/promise that I will, but at this point I am going to try.
Having one foot, and a whole heart, in the door of home and America still is preventing me from living fully here. I notice it as I walk to school, bypassing Ugandans and thinking about how I'll get on the internet once I get on campus. Which has me only smiling at the bypassers instead of adding an "Oliotya?" So, well, sorry. Or maybe you're thinking "finally." I have written so much already; now it shall be more sparse.
Not only for sanity's sake, but for GPA's sake.
But what I learned today:
I am so glad I took that class with Ugandans. Susan, Franca, Vicky, and I continue to hang out more. I was afraid I would only have Ugandan interaction with my family. That's why I took the class. And now I am thankful; these girls are beyond wonderful. And quite hilarious.
I am also learning how my life at home doesn't reflect the fact that the world is in need. Desperate need. I am still lamenting over missed Snickers bars and Doritos, excited to get home for that. Luxury is ridiculous, and I think I need to change something about the way I live. It should be fun to find out.
Having one foot, and a whole heart, in the door of home and America still is preventing me from living fully here. I notice it as I walk to school, bypassing Ugandans and thinking about how I'll get on the internet once I get on campus. Which has me only smiling at the bypassers instead of adding an "Oliotya?" So, well, sorry. Or maybe you're thinking "finally." I have written so much already; now it shall be more sparse.
Not only for sanity's sake, but for GPA's sake.
But what I learned today:
I am so glad I took that class with Ugandans. Susan, Franca, Vicky, and I continue to hang out more. I was afraid I would only have Ugandan interaction with my family. That's why I took the class. And now I am thankful; these girls are beyond wonderful. And quite hilarious.
I am also learning how my life at home doesn't reflect the fact that the world is in need. Desperate need. I am still lamenting over missed Snickers bars and Doritos, excited to get home for that. Luxury is ridiculous, and I think I need to change something about the way I live. It should be fun to find out.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
What I forgot.
Rafting/bungee jumping was supposed to be next weekend. But. The circumcision ceremony I mentioned is, well, Saturday. So some people, of whom I am not one of them, are going to that instead.
Today the chalkboard read:
RAFTING CANCELLED ON ACCOUNT OF CIRCUMCISION.
I don't know if you find it as funny as I did, but yes: I took a picture of the blackboard.
Today the chalkboard read:
RAFTING CANCELLED ON ACCOUNT OF CIRCUMCISION.
I don't know if you find it as funny as I did, but yes: I took a picture of the blackboard.
Digging for a Pulse Draws Blood
I am more a part of this family than one would think. Watching the Cup of Nations, poor number 11 (kumi n’emu= eleven) fell. I told my family I love eleven. Nkwagala kumi n’emu. They wanted to know why, and why it was important to me. I explained.
I also mentioned 11/11/2011 and marriage. Mom said, “That is just like Josephine (her newly-married daughter). She was married on July 7, 2007.” I fit with this family; this I know.
I also know that I love walking to school even more, now that school has started back up again for the kiddies. Who knew school uniforms could be so adorable, so Crayola? We’re talking bright pinks and deep purples. Swarms of them. Who doesn’t want to see that when they wake up in the morning?
I never thought I was vain or materialistic. I thought I could live on a campground; and maybe I can. But: I miss my Chuck Taylors, my vans. I miss the feel of my punk jeans. I guess I just miss feeling decent. Walking down the street, half of me wonders if the stares really are because of my skin color. We look like crap on a regular basis, and it doesn’t do much for the self esteem. What surprises me is that I care.
When I got home from school last night, my mom was clapping behind her back and in front of her, alternately. I mimicked her, but my bookbag was in the way. I suddenly knew I wanted to wear my bookbag on my front—so I did. Mom and Rebecca laughed as I walked around the backyard, supporting my back like a pregnant woman. I unzipped one of the compartments, peeked in the bookbag and said, “It’s a boy.” Mom said, “No, no, no. That is boring.” I loved that we were on the same page; I loved that I was in a country that probably rarely even has ultrasounds. Mom then said: “Oh, to walk around for nine months with someone inside, and you don’t know what it is until…” And she made a firework motion with her hands. I told her I couldn’t keep the bookbag on for nine minutes, let alone nine months.
Also as I got home, Rebecca was wearing a bright pink flower in her ear. She cocked her hips and her head and did this weird smile thing with her teeth. She was pretending to be the tramp,
Ashhhh Wednesday. I am stoked; and I don’t have a reason why. But I have really been waiting for this day. Tonight we have a prayer service at church—it’s going all through the night, actually, for those who wish to stay. We’ll be praying against the witchcraft and the witchdoctors, etc. who are apparently gathering also on this day. Dang: sometimes I forget about spiritual warfare. Or, I should say, that is most often.
But, because our God is universal, as is the battle, if anyone would like to pray from 11 AM your time till…whenever, that would be incredible.
I just left to go to class. Waited for a ½ hour for the professor, which is entirely normal. Yet it was a 1 hour class. The wait was amusing, though; I’ll give it that. One of the girls stood up, pretended she was the professor, and read us the parable of the ten virgins. Maybe 2 of us were listening to her, but she kept it up. She finally told Vicky to listen. Vicky said she was a virgin, so she didn’t have to. Hah.
Vicky is by far one of my favorite Ugandans. After class, my American self had her schedule planned; she would return to the room and check her email. But I walked out of class with Vicky and
“At home, if you are passing a friend while walking, do you say hi and keep walking, or do you stop to talk?” I told her it depends, but it is natural to do just that. She said, “Ohhhh. See, here we are concerned about people.” (I was laughing on the inside, spitting on myself). “We want to know how people are, so we stop and talk.” I then recalled last week when I passed her,
We had fish again last night. Eyeballs, fins, I just love to see this on the table. The bones are perfect, though. Very cute. It makes me think of God while I eat. The anatomy of the fish: one of the mysteries most Americans never see/eat. We just had fish for lunch too—it actually didn’t look alive, and it was wonderful.
Back to Vicky. She,
Kapintos. That is the word for wedgie; I mentioned I had forgotten before. But Vicky pointed out someone’s today, and we had another 5 minute conversation about that word. De ja vu at its most honorable point.
Xerox. “Let me Xerox your workbook.” This means copy, as in cheat. Another amusing part of the 30 minutes of waiting for the professor. Everyone says it.
Funny story. Jenny, today it is raining, has been raining. Very chilly here. I let Susan wear my sweater, or should I say your sweater? The clothes we sentimentally traded before I left. (I hope I can build the guts to eventually ask for it back. Don’t worry. I will try). But what is funny about it: I have to pee like nobody’s business (yet I’m now making it everybody’s business). Why does this matter? Because my toilet paper stash is in the pocket of that sweater.
(There is rarely toilet paper in the bathroom. If you gotta go, you better have some on you).
Sure, Susan can use the bathroom now. I can’t.
And now to what I cannot stop thinking about, to what I have been itching all day to finally sit down and get what’s in my head on paper, or screen. I think the typing might be a good stress-reliever. Word processor: yes that’s it.
I read a C.S. Lewis poem last night before going to bed. The last line was enough to greet me again in the morning.
“I talk of love—a scholar’s parrot may talk Greek—
But, self-imprisoned, always end where I begin.”
Missions. How many years have I talked of it, talked of it as if I knew what it meant. How many conversations have I had with my mom, defending this profession I’ve chosen with, “But this is what I was born for.” I would shake my head when people said I would miss my family, miss America, and I would stand firm.
What was I standing firm in? Something I hadn’t tested.
What I had tested, what I knew: I was uncomfortable, discontent, in
I went to
I have been living by two quotes, unconsciously, for awhile.
Quote number one: “Don’t ask yourself what the world needs. Ask yourself what makes you come alive, and go do that, because what the world needs is people who have come alive.” –Gil Bailie.
I don’t agree so much with the first sentence; I think one of the most important questions we must ask, if we are following Jesus, is “World, what do you need?” But the rest: gold.
Quote number two: “The place where God calls you is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” –Frederick Buechner.
Phrases like this, “what makes you come alive,” and “your deep gladness,” have made me assume that Africa, or Somewhere—yes, capitalized—was running through my veins. And once I got there, I would come alive, I would have that deep gladness.
Shot down. I am living in
Yes, this frustrates the crap out of me. When I was eight and lying in bed, telling Jesus yes, I want you to save me, that was after months and months of struggling with both God and my Sunday School teacher. “What do you mean I have to love God more than my mom and dad? Miss Darlene, that’s impossible.” I’d cry and make mean comments to God countless nights, because how could He ask such a thing?
So when I broke through that, when I finally realized I could put God before my family, I thought the battle was won. And here I am, 12 years later, wondering, “Now what am I supposed to do with my life?”
I do blame
I also blame the Spanish soap operas. In “Nunca te dios adios”—sorry, I am not adding the accents—“I will never say goodbye,” Juan Francisco, his wife Fanny, and their daughter moved from
Watching it, I pictured my own returning home after even one year. While these four months are killing me.
I am not saying my deep gladness, the passion that makes me come alive, is no longer “being elsewhere,” living overseas, engaging with a new culture and a new people full throttle. Because it very well still is. But I am now noticing the duality of it all—the fact that I have two deep gladnesses, and they are at odds with each other. So I walk to school in the rain, refusing a ride from Becca and Melody’s host-dad, so I can think. So I can straighten this out. So I can mull it over again and again and again. “A scholar’s parrot may talk Greek.” I am finding I never knew what the Greek meant in the first place. It’s like sitting at the kitchen table, reading the Luganda Bible, and everyone clapping. Yet you have no idea what you just read. You knew the syllables, but not the meaning.
Looking my deep gladness in the face, here in
I have always had trouble finding my pulse. I remember the Monday night Women’s exercise and fellowship my church used to have. I was the only kid who came. And the only one who couldn’t find her pulse in time, in order to count with the rest of the women.
So I’m trying to find my pulse, what makes my blood beat, where my deep gladness meets the world’s deep hunger, what makes me come alive.
Here it is, I’m gonna say it: I officially don’t know what I want to do for the rest of my life.
An hour ago, I would’ve ended the blog there. But I just got out of class. A seminar where we discussed what our telos is. “Purpose, end.” What we’re striving toward. One of the guys in class said that very recently he considered filling a backpack with the necessities and living in the woods for a few woods. “If I can glorify God with anything, why not do it chopping wood, fishing?” My first impulse was to laugh. Yes, I giggled. But I think he knows what he’s talking about.
What did Christ say my purpose is? To love Him with all my heart, soul, mind and strength, and to love my neighbor as myself. Worship and relationship. This is why I am alive. So, right now, do I really need to know what I’m going to do with my life? Yes and no. Yes, in the way that all I need to know and do is the jazz about love for Him and others.
And No, in the way that life doesn’t work that way, having everything spelled out in numbered, green doors to choose from.
In 12 years, I’ll get out of bed and, over coffee, or now, maybe tea—make that milk tea—I will realize, “This is what I am doing with my life.”
Do I know which continent that bed will be in? No. But I can love the Lord and my neighbor in any of the 7, and I suppose that is all I need to know.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Sunday, Bloody Sunday.
I asked my family if I can cook for them soon. This weekend. Mom said Sunday. Now I am committed and completely worried. (Mom, I just might have to call you during a gravy-making crisis, I've decided. Pretend I am Winnie, calling mid-morning, but please be tolerant). :)
This place is full of surprises. I found out recently that Huntington has a daughter (I'd like to know these things, really). I also found out that Irene, our cousin who lives down the hill but spends the evenings with us, is the head of the household. She can't be much older than me, yet she is raising 3 younger sisters, managing a garden, a chicken coup, and a bay of annoying pigs. She also attends UCU with me. Dang.
Now that I think about it, I was touched when she came over a few weeks ago to lament her younger sister's trouble in school. They were probably going to hold her back a year. I noticed she looked for distraught than a sister would, but more like a mother would. And now it makes sense.
This morning I remembered a past conversation that happened during Ally McBeal night. Jackie asked me, "So what is the fuss about being blonde?" It took me some time to understand that she was saying "fuss," but I finally tried to explain.
"Well, a lot of people think blondes are prettier than brunettes and redheads and all other hair colors."
"Is this true?"
"It depends on the person. It's more of an opinion."
"But why are they always shown here (the TV), and in jokes, as (makes an imitation of flipping hair and looking dumb)?"
"As ditzes?"
"Yes."
"It's not like they're stupid. But maybe it's the brunettes and redheads being jealous and taking revenge."
It was an amusing conversation.
Speaking of all things amusing, I was in a Luganda kick last night. Asking how to say milk, sugar, spoon, cup (we were drinking tea). This went on for awhile, until it was time for devotions. And this is what they dictated for me to write:
Rebecca: Leelo. Today.
Me: Leelo. Today.
Rebecca: Ogenda. You are going.
Me: Ogenda. You are going.
Rebecca: To read.
Me: To read.
Rebecca: the Luganda Bible.
Me: the Lugan...(looks up, laughs nervously).
Next thing I know, Rebecca places the Luganda Bible in front of me, I give her my English one, and I am reading Proverbs 21. Somewhere around the time I read that it is better to live alone in a desert or something, than to live with a quarrelsome wife, they busted into applause. Aida yelled, "Wonderful! Wonderful!" and Mom made the normal noise most African women make during church, or when Stella and Peter gave their ceremonial hug at the wedding.
I've never been clapped at in such close proximity. During piano recitals, Mom doesn't sit next to you and clap in your ear. In baseball, cheering Dad is in the bleachers after your triple. The only hands-on applause could be from the third-base coach. And even then, he rarely looks enthused. "Two outs. You know what to do. On contact."
But here, sitting at the kitchen table, looking across at Aida, I don't know: I can't really describe what I felt. Other than, "Dr. Lo is so right."
There is something about learning someone's language that goes deeper than most other things and ways to know another culture, another people. Because they are involved, too, in the process. (Rebecca looked at me sarcastically and asked, "Who taught you?", for she is mainly responsible). :) And their pride isn't just by association. They are personally pleased, honored, as I pronounce their words the way they are supposed to be pronounced. "Better than even some Ugandans pronounce," is what my Mom said.
The most important phrase I learned yesterday? During the African Cup of Nations, Egypt vs. Angola?:
"Lwaki toyagala Egypt?"
"Why don't you like Egypt?"
Rebecca thought it was funny to make me guess. I found it has nothing to do with her not liking the letter E, the song "Walk like an Egyptian," or a possible poisoning of the waterhole. When they score goals, on the field or in life in general, they pray to Allah. Period. Rebecca doesn't like Egypt.
This place is full of surprises. I found out recently that Huntington has a daughter (I'd like to know these things, really). I also found out that Irene, our cousin who lives down the hill but spends the evenings with us, is the head of the household. She can't be much older than me, yet she is raising 3 younger sisters, managing a garden, a chicken coup, and a bay of annoying pigs. She also attends UCU with me. Dang.
Now that I think about it, I was touched when she came over a few weeks ago to lament her younger sister's trouble in school. They were probably going to hold her back a year. I noticed she looked for distraught than a sister would, but more like a mother would. And now it makes sense.
This morning I remembered a past conversation that happened during Ally McBeal night. Jackie asked me, "So what is the fuss about being blonde?" It took me some time to understand that she was saying "fuss," but I finally tried to explain.
"Well, a lot of people think blondes are prettier than brunettes and redheads and all other hair colors."
"Is this true?"
"It depends on the person. It's more of an opinion."
"But why are they always shown here (the TV), and in jokes, as (makes an imitation of flipping hair and looking dumb)?"
"As ditzes?"
"Yes."
"It's not like they're stupid. But maybe it's the brunettes and redheads being jealous and taking revenge."
It was an amusing conversation.
Speaking of all things amusing, I was in a Luganda kick last night. Asking how to say milk, sugar, spoon, cup (we were drinking tea). This went on for awhile, until it was time for devotions. And this is what they dictated for me to write:
Rebecca: Leelo. Today.
Me: Leelo. Today.
Rebecca: Ogenda. You are going.
Me: Ogenda. You are going.
Rebecca: To read.
Me: To read.
Rebecca: the Luganda Bible.
Me: the Lugan...(looks up, laughs nervously).
Next thing I know, Rebecca places the Luganda Bible in front of me, I give her my English one, and I am reading Proverbs 21. Somewhere around the time I read that it is better to live alone in a desert or something, than to live with a quarrelsome wife, they busted into applause. Aida yelled, "Wonderful! Wonderful!" and Mom made the normal noise most African women make during church, or when Stella and Peter gave their ceremonial hug at the wedding.
I've never been clapped at in such close proximity. During piano recitals, Mom doesn't sit next to you and clap in your ear. In baseball, cheering Dad is in the bleachers after your triple. The only hands-on applause could be from the third-base coach. And even then, he rarely looks enthused. "Two outs. You know what to do. On contact."
But here, sitting at the kitchen table, looking across at Aida, I don't know: I can't really describe what I felt. Other than, "Dr. Lo is so right."
There is something about learning someone's language that goes deeper than most other things and ways to know another culture, another people. Because they are involved, too, in the process. (Rebecca looked at me sarcastically and asked, "Who taught you?", for she is mainly responsible). :) And their pride isn't just by association. They are personally pleased, honored, as I pronounce their words the way they are supposed to be pronounced. "Better than even some Ugandans pronounce," is what my Mom said.
The most important phrase I learned yesterday? During the African Cup of Nations, Egypt vs. Angola?:
"Lwaki toyagala Egypt?"
"Why don't you like Egypt?"
Rebecca thought it was funny to make me guess. I found it has nothing to do with her not liking the letter E, the song "Walk like an Egyptian," or a possible poisoning of the waterhole. When they score goals, on the field or in life in general, they pray to Allah. Period. Rebecca doesn't like Egypt.
What Aerosmith means to Africa.
So much to say, so little time: I am writing this baby in shifts.
(I just tried 3 times to post a video from the wedding; no such progress).
There were no forks at lunch today. At least not enough for me and Becca. We laughed with every bite; rice is hard to hold.
Now to this weekend. Twas packed to the full with goodness—all around goodness.
Friday was the play. It was more of an evangelism tactic (Heaven’s Gates and Hell’s Flames) at
What was amazing was the altar call afterward. Whether in
I admit, though, my favorite part of that Friday in
The worst part: taxies. My first time in a taxi—and this a van, a seatbelt-less van, in the night, no streetlights or stoplights and certainly no driving rules or enforcement. Talk about scary. It was funny, though. The taxi-driver didn’t stop where one of the passengers wanted him to stop; so she started going off on him in Luganda. In English she said: “This is why you taxi-drivers and conductors always die. Taxi-drivers and conductors!” Hah—my mouth dropped; she basically told him to drop dead. But I had misunderstood—Rebecca later told me she was talking about status—“This is why you taxi-drivers and conductors always die taxi-drivers and conductors.” It’s all about the punctuation you use: life and death. Prime example.
Saturday’s taxi was the first. I am so safety-driven, I normally wear my seatbelt even when I am only switching cars in the drivers. “Because you just never know.” How helpless and completely paranoid I felt on Saturday—not only in the second-most dangerous country road-wise, but I was in the very front seat, no seatbelt. I wish I could’ve taken my blood pressure. You have no idea how badly I was freaking out on the inside, how many times I pictured my bloody, scarred self in the middle of the road. This really does take a getting used to.
But the wedding made up for it. I will try to post a video later; I have never been to a more beautiful wedding in my life. The ceremony, eh: I can’t deal with Ave Maria and laying flowers at a statue of Mary’s feet. She was just a woman. Yes, a good one. But just a woman, a human.
Also, they didn’t kiss! They were pronounced husband and wife (I assume; it was in Luganda), and they hugged! Can you imagine? (They say “Can you imagine?” all the time here).
Anyway, the reception was out of this world. Outdoors, for goodness sake! Outdoors with 6 massive white tents and lights strung everywhere. The music was incredible, a lovely mix of Kiganda music and James Blunt.
I really can’t get enough of this culture, respect-wise. You would never see a bride kneel, and in the grass, in her gown. Yet she did, as she served her mother and then her mother-in-law cake. You kneel for your elders no matter what your attire.
And anyone could give speeches, not just the best man and maid of honor. As Rebecca puts it, “A man who once drove your taxi to
We were at the wedding/reception from 1:30 until 9:30, and we left early. As we left, the bride and groom had just started dancing—to what? My favorite wedding song. Even in
The food? Fantastic.
I think it was my favorite day in
Once the taxi dropped us off, though, my mom tried getting me to ride a boda-boda. I struggle with politeness; even in
Except when we started looking at the stars. Daniel told me to look for the Southern Cross, so I have been. But to no avail. I kept tripping all over the road, trying to make out the constellations, until she finally had us stop so we could concentrate. She pointed to three stars straight in a line, and called them entunga lugoye. Which means something like “I am sewing.” She said the three stars in a perfect line look like a stitch. Which they do.
So I have washed laundry by hand. All I can say is: when you’re doing dishes the next day, and the charcoal of a pot rubs against your newly clean skirt, you have a much greater appreciation for the toil of laundry. I was pretty sad.
Now for the fun stuff. Awkward, though. Awkward and stalkerish and very uncomfortable, but funny. When I got home from the wedding, Rebecca told me I had a friend visit. A little boy. Remember Raymond? The boy who wanted me to pay his school fees? Well, as Rebecca questioned him, she gathered that yes, I had showed him where I live, yes, I told him to come visit me on the weekend, and yes, he would like to wait for me to come home. Dang: the little kid must have followed me home. We all laughed so hard, though. With Rebecca’s imitation of him, Irene was on the kitchen floor, trying to catch her breath, and I was crying. It was so hilarious. As was last night, when Rebecca grabbed my Luganda notebook and wrote me a whole host of responses to people who are bothering me. So we sat at the kitchen table, yelling Genda! until, again, we couldn’t breathe anymore. Genda really just means go away. But it was funny.
I think Sundays are my favorite day in
The day was so relaxing: a whole lot of reading and sitting in the sun and listening to Shania Twain at least 8 times (the radio station here has about as much variety as the menus. Matoke or rice. Shania or Celine). Every single song was about love, though. It got too much, and I asked Rebecca if it was the love station. She said no, it was country. Makes sense, I thought. Until they played Aerosmith.
Mom and I walked to the hotel last night, to sit outside with Fantas and talk about courtship. That’s when I decided that wind-swaying palm trees are one of my favorite things in the world.
Have I mentioned how little I care about homework? I was just reading an email from Jenny and thought I should mention it. There are days I worry, but only briefly, about losing scholarships. But I think it’s funny to compare the OCD-with-schoolwork high school kid to what
I will reserve my stressful moments for the traveling moments. I can’t believe I am saying that I look forward to returning to a world with policemen and tickets. I just might speed uncontrollably so I can get pulled over, and give him a present. Baked goods should do; I don’t mean that in the mean way.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
It's like Christmas morning.
Rebecca. :) Dancing to Shania Twain.
That's my mom!
left-right: Irene, Mom, Rebecca, Aida
Aida! :)
Irene
Huntington: I wish he would've smiled with his teeth; that is the norm, and the nations are glad for it.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Shrugs not drugs.
At breakfast, I explained Groundhog's Day to Mom and Rebecca. They laughed at us, asked if we get together and celebrate this holiday. That is the moment I decided I will forever have a party on Groundhog's Day. We'll wear skins on our heads.
Tomorrow, laugh at yourselves. Some of our traditions are hilarious.
Sharon and I walked home together (half way) last night. We passed a man and a woman, the man wearing a trench coat, the woman wearing some sort of important uniform. Both were carrying rifles. The best part was Sharon, who was telling a story, and who kept on talking like it was nothing. Like people always carry rifles in the street. When the story was done, she said, "So, rifles. Did you notice that?" So funny. But so...crazy.
I learned how to tell time yesterday, African style. I asked Rebecca why when it was seven o'clock, they used the Luganda word for "one," and eight is "two", and so on. Here, they count their hours in two separate sections--12 hours of day, 12 hours of night. Day starts when the sun rises: 7. Day ends, night begins when the sun sets: 7. So hour one of daytime starts at 7. What we would call midnight, they call the sixth hour of night. It makes sense.
Jackie, one of my adult sisters who has already moved out, brought over her DVD player last night, along with nearly every season of Ally McBeal ever made. It was great to have a clear TV, no static. But Miss Ally McBeal wears ridiculously short skirts, for a person, and especially for a lawyer. I am already conditioned to now shudder and stare, in surprise and pity, when I see kneecaps here. And Ally's skirt was nearly at her underwear line. I was embarrassed for her, and for having to say, "No. Only dumb teenagers," when they asked me if it was okay if I walked around America like that.
They also laughed pretty hard when Ally's coworker John accidentally flushed his trained frog pet down the toilet. John mourned extensively and held a memorial service at the law firm. Jackie called him crazy, said, "That is too much," but then looked at me and asked if that was normal, if we give our pets memorial services when they die. I wanted to say no, but I laughed and told them about my guinea pig's death, and Elizabeth coming over to comfort me and stand with me in my backyard while my mom dug the hole. They laughed.
I told Jackie good night (Sula Bulungi) and that it was nice to see her again. She said, "Do you think I am leaving? At this hour?" It was eleven. She stayed the night, slept in the bunk above me.
Betsy told me a similar story this morning: her sister was getting her hair braided, so the beautician lady and her son came over to do it. It took too long (takes hours), and she still wasn't finished, so what did they do? The woman and her little boy stayed the night. These people are so hospitable, and it comes so naturally. I love it.
I am going to a play (I think) tonight. They called it "a show." It is in Kampala and is called "Heaven's Gate and Hell's Flames." Hah. I'm excited. And the wedding is tomorrow. Doubly excited.
Gloria still runs out to greet me every morning, to yell "Hello, my friend!" and "Safe journey!" This girl is my favorite.
Jenny, I keep seeing kids push around tires, with sticks or their hands, like they did at the Haitian refugee camp. Yesterday, I asked a little boy if I could try. It's as fun as it looks: a lot of fun. (Also Jenny, I am listening to Backstreet Boys right now--"Get Down." The song where AJ says "kind" really nasally. Love it; that's more than a suggestion).
I'll end with the lesson I learned last night. I was making bird? noises with my lips and teeth last night while we were putting the TV away. This is one of my favorite things to do with my mouth when restlessness kicks in. Rebecca laughed more than was due. She asked me where I learned that, if I had heard anyone do it in Uganda. Apparently Luganda runs deeper than words, than an alphabet that doesn't own an X. There are a series of sounds you make with your tongue, teeth, and lips, that have different meanings. One means you are really really annoyed and disgusted with a person that a verbal insult wouldn't suffice; I told her I will use this on my walks home, either when I am about to get hit on by the men or hit, literally, with the matoke trucks. Another meaning indicates boredom (I'll have to be careful not to do it around the house). And if you put more tongue into it, it can be a sympathy sound, used in tragedy. She said it can also mean "Well," or "Alright," like a shrug. That one I don't understand.
Rebecca asked me if it is possible to get addicted to the malaria medicine. But I think it's the tea I'm getting addicted to. This is the one thing I wasn't expecting. Tea time is beautiful.
Tomorrow, laugh at yourselves. Some of our traditions are hilarious.
Sharon and I walked home together (half way) last night. We passed a man and a woman, the man wearing a trench coat, the woman wearing some sort of important uniform. Both were carrying rifles. The best part was Sharon, who was telling a story, and who kept on talking like it was nothing. Like people always carry rifles in the street. When the story was done, she said, "So, rifles. Did you notice that?" So funny. But so...crazy.
I learned how to tell time yesterday, African style. I asked Rebecca why when it was seven o'clock, they used the Luganda word for "one," and eight is "two", and so on. Here, they count their hours in two separate sections--12 hours of day, 12 hours of night. Day starts when the sun rises: 7. Day ends, night begins when the sun sets: 7. So hour one of daytime starts at 7. What we would call midnight, they call the sixth hour of night. It makes sense.
Jackie, one of my adult sisters who has already moved out, brought over her DVD player last night, along with nearly every season of Ally McBeal ever made. It was great to have a clear TV, no static. But Miss Ally McBeal wears ridiculously short skirts, for a person, and especially for a lawyer. I am already conditioned to now shudder and stare, in surprise and pity, when I see kneecaps here. And Ally's skirt was nearly at her underwear line. I was embarrassed for her, and for having to say, "No. Only dumb teenagers," when they asked me if it was okay if I walked around America like that.
They also laughed pretty hard when Ally's coworker John accidentally flushed his trained frog pet down the toilet. John mourned extensively and held a memorial service at the law firm. Jackie called him crazy, said, "That is too much," but then looked at me and asked if that was normal, if we give our pets memorial services when they die. I wanted to say no, but I laughed and told them about my guinea pig's death, and Elizabeth coming over to comfort me and stand with me in my backyard while my mom dug the hole. They laughed.
I told Jackie good night (Sula Bulungi) and that it was nice to see her again. She said, "Do you think I am leaving? At this hour?" It was eleven. She stayed the night, slept in the bunk above me.
Betsy told me a similar story this morning: her sister was getting her hair braided, so the beautician lady and her son came over to do it. It took too long (takes hours), and she still wasn't finished, so what did they do? The woman and her little boy stayed the night. These people are so hospitable, and it comes so naturally. I love it.
I am going to a play (I think) tonight. They called it "a show." It is in Kampala and is called "Heaven's Gate and Hell's Flames." Hah. I'm excited. And the wedding is tomorrow. Doubly excited.
Gloria still runs out to greet me every morning, to yell "Hello, my friend!" and "Safe journey!" This girl is my favorite.
Jenny, I keep seeing kids push around tires, with sticks or their hands, like they did at the Haitian refugee camp. Yesterday, I asked a little boy if I could try. It's as fun as it looks: a lot of fun. (Also Jenny, I am listening to Backstreet Boys right now--"Get Down." The song where AJ says "kind" really nasally. Love it; that's more than a suggestion).
I'll end with the lesson I learned last night. I was making bird? noises with my lips and teeth last night while we were putting the TV away. This is one of my favorite things to do with my mouth when restlessness kicks in. Rebecca laughed more than was due. She asked me where I learned that, if I had heard anyone do it in Uganda. Apparently Luganda runs deeper than words, than an alphabet that doesn't own an X. There are a series of sounds you make with your tongue, teeth, and lips, that have different meanings. One means you are really really annoyed and disgusted with a person that a verbal insult wouldn't suffice; I told her I will use this on my walks home, either when I am about to get hit on by the men or hit, literally, with the matoke trucks. Another meaning indicates boredom (I'll have to be careful not to do it around the house). And if you put more tongue into it, it can be a sympathy sound, used in tragedy. She said it can also mean "Well," or "Alright," like a shrug. That one I don't understand.
Rebecca asked me if it is possible to get addicted to the malaria medicine. But I think it's the tea I'm getting addicted to. This is the one thing I wasn't expecting. Tea time is beautiful.
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