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.