Wait, what did you just say?

I'm used to Ugandans using a variety of words or phrases to catch my attention on the street, particularly if they're selling something or trying to convince me to ride their boda/taxi/bus. Some of these, roughly arranged by frequency, include:

Muzungu! (White person!)

Madame...

My friend...

My sister...

America!

Obama!

Mama...

My wife...

Germany! [I apparently look German?]

Oh, lady...

Today, I took a short walk from our MCC office to a supermarket a couple blocks or so away in order to buy a few necessities: shampoo, conditioner, soap, insect repellant. I spent most of my walk trying to avoid the puddles and mud which are so common during this rainy season, as well as trying to decide if Bukoto Street has more potholes than before (yes!), and there aren't many vendors on this street, so no one called out any of the above to me.

Once I reached the corner where the supermarket is located, a few vendors who were hanging out in the parking lot tried to sell me their wares: fresh peas, sweet bananas, blankets, pineapples. I bought airtime from a booth in the corner of the lot, shocking the woman and the nearby onlookers when I conducted the transaction in Luganda. Then, I walked across the large-ish lot to the supermarket.

As I reached the end of the lot where the supermarket is located, I noticed a white man walking away from that side. He looked to be about my age, wore a white shirt and khaki shorts (side note: the only men I know who wear shorts in Uganda are school boys, prisoners, and white tourists), and carried a backpack.

Now, normal protocol when I meet a white person out on the streets of Kampala is something like this: if we're going to pass anyway, we make eye contact, perhaps smile a bit to acknowledge the fact that we're both white and everyone is noticing us and assuming that we are well acquainted (I love the occasional encounter when Ugandans notice two white people walking somewhere in town and call out to make sure that these two bazungu notice each other!). We don't speak, just as I don't speak with random Ugandans I meet walking down the street in town. We go our separate ways, life continues, no big deal.

Today was different. This young man not only made eye contact with me from a few metres away, he also greeted me, "Hello sister!" It was a hearty greeting, the kind I normally expect from a man who is about to either try to sell me something expensive or ask me for my contact information. But no, this was a young, white, probably American, man, greeting me as if his skin pigmentation was many shades darker than my own. It was bizarre, awkward, out of place.

I think I nodded slightly in acknowledgement of his greeting, then looked away and continued on my way. Perhaps he thinks I'm rude, perhaps he was making a joke about the way Ugandan men often call out to white women, perhaps he is just overly exuberant, or perhaps he really does think I'm his long-lost sibling. I don't know. But it was a strange encounter.

And anyway, I'm back in Kampala now. For a couple days at least.

Leaving on a Jet Plane...

All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go.

I'm standin' here outside your door.

I hate to wake you up to say goodbye.

But the dawn is breakin', it's early morn.

The taxi's waitin', he's blowin' his horn.

Already I'm so lonesome I could die.

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So kiss me and smile for me.

Tell me that you'll wait for me.

Hold me like you'll never let me go.

Cause I'm leavin' on a jet plane.

Don't know when I'll be back again.

Oh baby, I hate to go.

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There's so many times I've let you down,

So many times I've played around.

I tell you now, they don't mean a thing.

Every place I go, I'll think of you.

Every song I sing, I'll sing for you.

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So kiss me and smile for me.

Tell me that you'll wait for me.

Hold me like you'll never let me go.

Cause I'm leavin' on a jet plane.

Don't know when I'll be back again.

Oh babe, I hate to go.

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Now the time has come to leave you.

One more time let me kiss you.

Close your eyes, I'll be on my way.

Dream about the days to come.

When I won't have to leave alone.

About the times I won't have to say...

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So kiss me and smile for me.

Tell me that you'll wait for me.

Hold me like you'll never let me go.

Cause I'm leavin' on a jet plane.

Don't know when I'll be back again.

Oh baby, I hate to go.

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Cause I'm leavin' on a jet plane.

Don't know when I'll be back again.

Oh baby, I hate to go.

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Itinerary

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Depart Dulles (Washington DC): 20:25 28-11-09.

Arrive Heathrow (London): 08:45 29-11-09.

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Depart Heathrow (London): 10:45 29-11-09.

Arrive Entebbe (Uganda): 22:10 29-11-09.

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Immigration.

Baggage Claim.

Customs.

Taxi ride to Kampala.

Reunion with my MCC reps.

Sleep.

Theory of Relativity.

"Thanksgiving looks warm and friendly

with clear skies and highs in the upper 50s."

-Radio Weather Guy-

I am really looking forward to the Ugandan climate.

A Plea, I Think, To Be Understood.

Today, in response to my own desire to look at some old papers, and to amuse my youngest sister, I downloaded files from high school and college from a back up CD onto my mac. It's been interesting looking back through them: I realise that I was a pretty decent writer even in late high school, though my writing style has been refined a great deal over the course of the last few years; indeed, I now feel comfortable writing in multiple styles. Anyway, I thought I'd share some pieces and excerpts that I've found most interesting today, though I realise that some of my readership may not be as intrigued as I. Don't feel obliged to read the work of my younger self.

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First, a poem from January 2004, second semester of my senior year of high school. Not sure what I wrote it for, but it was saved in my "AP English" file.

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Mistakes

I am the intelligent one;

Everybody knows my name.

You say I’m perfect—

I always get such good grades.

You think I’ve got everything going for me—

Life couldn’t get any better.

You never expect me to mess up;

No one thinks I make mistakes!!

And you’re probably right—

You won’t see me make many mistakes.

Not because I’m so perfect—

I have to work for my grades, too.

Not because life is so easy—

Sometimes I wonder if it’s all still worth it.

Yes, I do mess up; I make mistakes.

I’m just afraid to let you see the real me!!

Someday, maybe you’ll figure it out—

I’m not that different.

I live on the same planet as you do,

And surprisingly enough, we deal with the same kind of junk.

Yes, I’m good (okay, sometimes really good) at some things,

But so are you.

Just remember, everyone’s different; everyone’s special—

And everyone makes mistakes. . . .

Yes, everyone!!

Ephebiphobia.

This essay, from December 2003, fall semester of my senior year of high school, was written as a submission for our annual literary magazine. I have no memory as to whether it was published, but I find it amusing. Almost 24, I have yet to realise my teenage fears, and I still love working with teenagers.

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Are YOU an ephebiphobiac??

I found my current favorite word a few years ago in a friend’s high school yearbook. It was contained it a list of phobias, some common and some not so common. This word fits into the latter category; I had never heard of it before and never have since. The word is ephebiphobia. It is defined as “a persistent, abnormal, and unwarranted fear of teenagers.” At first, the word, along with its definition, struck me as funny. I wondered what kind of person would admit to being an ephebiphobiac.

As I thought about it more, and as I grew up and experienced more of life, I started to realize that the vast majority of the adult population either suffers from ephebiphobia, or else just acts as if they do. For many adults, teenagers seem to be representatives from another planet, a planet thought to lack intelligent life forms. True, some teenagers live up to this label, but not all of us do. Also true, not all adults suffer from this common and widely ignored disease, but the theory that teenagers should be avoided and ignored seems to be overtaking many adult minds.

Why then, is this my favorite word? Ephebiphobia--I see it as a challenge to myself. Someday, I will belong to that group of people that the world classifies as adults, but hopefully, I will not catch this strange and deadly disease. My goal is to one day work with kids and teenagers; for some reason, I think becoming an ephebiphobiac would hinder those plans slightly. Maybe when I grow up, I will understand, but until then, I will always wonder how anyone could have an extreme fear and dislike of my generation.

A Scarlet Symbol.

This excerpt is taken from an essay I wrote in May 2003, spring semester of my junior year of high school, for my Honors English class. The assignment (seemingly) was to analyse the use of symbolism in Nathaniel Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter. I'm intrigued by my comprehension of themes, as well as my ability to express them. Also, I love that my seventeen year old self dismissed Hester Prynne's story as meaningless "in and of itself."

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Lastly, the most obvious symbol within this work is the scarlet letter itself. This symbol, originally meant as a token to proclaim Hester’s sin for the entire world to see, is interpreted differently, by different people, throughout the story. As the book progresses though, it becomes obvious that the way in which the people interpret the meaning of the letter has, in fact, nothing to do with the badge itself; rather, the way in which the people view the scarlet letter at any given time is representative of the way in which they view Hester Prynne, the adulteress in their midst, at the very time. At first, the people of the town, particularly the women, believe that Hester’s punishment was not severe enough. They believe that the mark should, at the very least, have been branded on her forehead with a hot iron. As time passes, though, and Hester remains humble and repentant, the meaning of the letter changes, as “many people refused to interpret the scarlet A by its original signification” (Hawthorne 148). Instead of adulteress, the A is now interpreted as meaning able, referring to the time and effort Hester gives to many a sick or impoverished member of the town. Though the townspeople come to re-interpret the letter in this way, Hester, for as long as she chooses to wear it, continues to feel the same sharp pain which it first brought with it. It has such an effect on her that when she put it back on (at Pearl’s demand) in the forest, Hawthorne says “[a]s if there were a withering spell in the sad letter, her beauty, the warmth and richness of her womanhood, departed, like fading sunshine; and a gray shadow seemed to fall across her” (193). This spell, though, was not just attuned to Hester and her sin, for when Hawthorne picked it up years later in the Custom House, he experienced such a sensation that he could not hold onto the letter and let it fall to the floor. But while Hester was of the view that her sin would never be dispelled, and therefore the letter would never lose its stigma and most of the townspeople were of the mind that she had served her penance and should no longer have to wear the token, there were others who interpreted the scarlet letter differently, even from the very beginning. Those outside the boundaries of normal society, the Indians (wild men from the forest) and the servants (on the border of society, but not completely free from its touch), had been of the view, from the very beginning, that the scarlet letter brought with it great honor, and that the one who wore such a token “must needs be a personage of high dignity among her people” (Hawthorne 224). Throughout the story, though, one lady, Mistress Hibbins persists in her view that the scarlet letter was “the Black Man’s mark” (Hawthorne 170). Interestingly enough, she is the one keeps asking Hester to come to the forest with her, to meet the Devil and sign his book, showing that her interpretation of the meaning of the scarlet letter is tied up in her view of Hester Prynne.

Hester Prynne’s story seems to have no great meaning in and of itself. However, when viewed in the context of the time period, it comes to represent Puritan society in general. In truth, Hester’s wanderings along the immoral pathways of her mind are only significant from the journeys taken by the minds of others because hers are the ones Hawthorne recounts. Indeed, Hester’s badge of shame, which she is forced to wear on her chest for all to see, is only different from the tokens that others carry because she cannot keep her sin hidden--everyone knows about it. Hawthorne used the story of Hester Prynne, along with the many symbols scattered throughout his story to give an overview of the very nature of Puritan society.

Unfortunately, I've forgotten some of the context...

I, along with my friend Deena, took AP US History as a high school senior. It wasn't that I wanted to take a class traditionally populated by juniors as a senior. Rather, it was a result of scheduling difficulties the year before: somehow the school had forgotten that some of their intelligent flock were planning to take AP Calculus and AP US History concurrently, and they had scheduled the single section of each class during the same period. So, I took AP Government as a junior with a bunch of seniors, then took AP US History as a senior with a bunch of juniors (and my sophomore sister, who was jumping the gun). I have vague memories of the class: a few naps, a lot of definitions, and many many random inside jokes (okay, I also probably learned some history, I'll give Mr. Lancaster credit for that). At the end of the year, we were required to complete an extensive review outline (the document saved on my computer is 102 pages long). Surely exhausted and more than ready to be done with high school, in the midst of AP exam reviews, I referenced some of our funnier class moments in the title of my final project, copied below.

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RUM PITS, BEN & JERRY’S, and

THE ANNEXATION OF CANADA:

APUSH REVIEW PROJECT

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A bit of context (as best I remember it):

Rum pits refer to an ingenious idea we thought the colonists should have tried during the Revolutionary War: luring and capturing the British soldiers in grass-covered pits full of rum. Don't ask me why...

Ben and Jerry's... I don't recall.

At some point, most likely in the latter days of autumn or the early days of spring, we proposed that Canada be annexed to our own dear state: Virginia, preferably Rockingham County. We supposed this would give us more snow days, as school gets cancelled for the entire county when any section is deemed impassable.

I also made my own graphics...

As a high school senior, I took AP Biology, a class which I still believe my friends and I mostly taught ourselves. We must have done a decent job of it, too: Messiah gave me 6 credits for that AP score. Early in the year, when I was still quite motivated (or had abundant time to procrastinate other forms of studying), my chapter notes are interspersed with numerous colourful graphics that I created with Paint. For your viewing pleasure, here is one such image.

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A Personal Statement.

The following is a personal statement I wrote about six years ago for a college application. Though it shares the introductory paragraphs with the essay I submitted to Messiah, this piece was written for William and Mary College, where I was accepted, but chose not to attend.

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I curl up in a blanket with two nine-year-old girls. As we listen to the rain hit our cabin roof, they ask me questions. “Who created God?” “Why are people mean?” “What is Heaven like?” “Why do my parents fight all the time? What can I do to make them stop?”. . .

Two weeks later, five-year-old George looks up from the jello he is eating. For a moment, he stares at me, his Bible School teacher. Then, all of a sudden, he says, “You’re really tall. You must be old.” Surprised, I pause a minute before asking him, “How old do you think I am?” He thinks for a moment, confidently responds, “Seven,” and goes back to his jello. . .

I spent my summer working as a District Crusader in the Brethren Church. In general, this meant that I spent my time traveling to various churches and camps in four different states to work with kids and adults. The moments described above were typical; there were times when I laughed at my kids and times when I cried with them. I learned many valuable lessons while traveling this summer, lessons that I can apply to life overall.

First, I learned to be responsible for everything I do and say. Spending every moment of every day with kids ranging from three to seventeen years old, I realized early on that I was looked up to as a role model. Little eyes watched me all the time; little ears were always listening. I was cool, I was old, and I was mimicked repeatedly. Just like real life, I could never take back anything that I did or said; therefore, I had to be careful that I never talked badly about anyone or did anything with a negative attitude. Sometimes, it was difficult to be so careful every moment, but I learned to take responsibility for the times when I did slip up.

Second, I learned to be patient, especially when working with younger children. One of my three-year-olds managed to spill his juice at least twice every day at lunch. Although I would have liked to strangle him or forbid him from ever drinking juice again, I chose each time to just clean up the mess and keep my cool. Many times, my kids were just like some adults; stubborn and sure of themselves, they thought they knew everything there was to know about anything. Instead of becoming upset over their refusal to follow my directions, I took the time to explain things to them, learning in the process how important it really is to be patient with people who either do not or cannot understand something.

I certainly never had a dull moment this summer. I made many memories and learned just as many lessons. As young as my kids often were, they taught me many valuable lessons that I will continue to live by even as I grow old and move on.

Dreaming of Peace...

The following is an excerpt from a presentation I've been working on this afternoon for the junior and senior high youth groups at the church I grew up in. Although I will also talk a lot about MCC's work worldwide and specifically what I've done (and will soon be doing) with MCC, their topic this month is peace, so I figured it wouldn't hurt to throw in some of my own thoughts on that. This passage was one that mostly just flowed out of my pen as I tried to express what I mean when I talk about peace and peacemaking.

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When I think of the word, "peace," the first thing that I think of is the Hebrew word, "shalom," or its Arabic cousin, "salaam." Beyond its basic usage as a greeting, this term has many deep and beautiful meanings. The best way I know how to summarise shalom is to think of how the world would be if everything was right and good. No war. No racism. No domestic abuse. No sexual exploitation. Enough food for everyone. Warm clothes on cold days. Access to education and health care. I think of a world where no child goes to bed hungry or scared, where babies don't die of preventable diseases, where women are valued as much as men, where violence is never used to resolve conflict, and where people care for and protect the earth, rather than ravage and despoil her. I believe this is how our world was originally created, and I believe it is what Jesus called his followers to work for.

Whenever I think about peace, a verse from Matthew 5 often comes to mind. Jesus is describing those people who receive God's blessing, that is, those who act according to God's desires. In verse 9, he says, "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God." Simply put, I think Jesus is telling people: God will delight in you when you work to bring about goodness, peace, shalom in the entire created world. So long as our world does not have shalom -- so long as it does not fit the vision I just suggested above -- it is our responsibility as followers of Jesus (and indeed, simply as human beings) to work to bring about such peace.

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Dream with me:

What would a perfect and peaceful -- shalom-full -- world look like?

And what can you and I do

-- today --

to make ours resemble that vision more fully?