made of black yarn and twisted around my hair (see below),
these stayed in for about a week and a half...
i enjoyed the style so much that i'll get it done again as soon as i get a chance :)
14 years ago
29 November 2008
Leavers' Party
last month, cooking food for the p7 leavers' party...
was very excited to be allowed to help...
the rain coat is because it rained quite heavily at one point while we were cooking...
Digging...
from sometime in september or october...
to the left are a cassava plant and a banana plant...
What I'd look like with black hair...
the wig belongs to a friend...
i don't particularly like how hot it is, but my friends are incredibly fond of me wearing it...
A Message from Our P7 Class
a message from our P7 leavers to Uncle Benard at their leavers' party last month
the lines.
"i coloured inside the lines, but lived outside of them, i suppose."
--thera, 28th november 08
Sometimes I can't help but think in verse...
A Midnight Conversation Between Sisters
.
Love, she tells me, I'm not sure what it means.
If I don't know what it is,
how can I do it?
And it's too soon,
how can I know if we're meant
always to be together.
-
I don't know if it's love, she says.
It feels more like "like."
My stomach flips over
and I feel giddy.
I'm not sure if I'm thinking straight.
-
And shouldn't love be more than just feeling?
Shouldn't it be deeper,
longer-lasting,
not just sweet and sugary?
Will it still feel like this ten years from now,
or one,
or even twenty minutes?
-
What if it's all a grand mistake?
What if he's not the one?
Where will it end?
Will I like where it takes me?
-
And what of my heart?
How can I protect it?
Should I?
And do I want to?
But how much must I let him in
simply to give it a fighting chance?
-
Oh my dear, I sigh,
so many questions in your young heart.
I can't offer so many answers--
I'm not sure they exist,
and you must seek them for yourself.
-
But I'm glad, I think,
that you're asking questions,
that you're more than a bit suspicious
of butterflies and romance
and all the nice feelings.
-
I hope you always keep a bit of that uncertainty.
And that you always welcome your head to the conversation
alongside your heart.
-
But don't dismiss it too quickly.
It's not, yet, love, you say,
this attraction
and enjoyment and ease.
I know, you're right.
Love takes time,
and it's often difficult,
and it doesn't always feel so good.
-
Sacrifice, and trust, and perseverance.
Sometimes the strongest decision
is the hardest one to make.
And maybe it will hurt,
and certainly you'll have to fight for it.
-
But that's love,
and you're not there yet.
-
Liking is okay, too.
In fact, I think it's good.
Enjoy these moments--
smile when you think of him,
feel at ease in his presence,
let him compliment you,
and delight in every sweet moment.
-
Set aside the bigger questions,
at least for today.
They'll still be around to ponder next week
--or next year.
Perhaps you'll never find the answers.
Perhaps love doesn't need absolute guarantees.
-
It will all come together in time.
Maybe.
Just remember,
always invite your head to the conversation,
alongside your heart.
.
Love, she tells me, I'm not sure what it means.
If I don't know what it is,
how can I do it?
And it's too soon,
how can I know if we're meant
always to be together.
-
I don't know if it's love, she says.
It feels more like "like."
My stomach flips over
and I feel giddy.
I'm not sure if I'm thinking straight.
-
And shouldn't love be more than just feeling?
Shouldn't it be deeper,
longer-lasting,
not just sweet and sugary?
Will it still feel like this ten years from now,
or one,
or even twenty minutes?
-
What if it's all a grand mistake?
What if he's not the one?
Where will it end?
Will I like where it takes me?
-
And what of my heart?
How can I protect it?
Should I?
And do I want to?
But how much must I let him in
simply to give it a fighting chance?
-
Oh my dear, I sigh,
so many questions in your young heart.
I can't offer so many answers--
I'm not sure they exist,
and you must seek them for yourself.
-
But I'm glad, I think,
that you're asking questions,
that you're more than a bit suspicious
of butterflies and romance
and all the nice feelings.
-
I hope you always keep a bit of that uncertainty.
And that you always welcome your head to the conversation
alongside your heart.
-
But don't dismiss it too quickly.
It's not, yet, love, you say,
this attraction
and enjoyment and ease.
I know, you're right.
Love takes time,
and it's often difficult,
and it doesn't always feel so good.
-
Sacrifice, and trust, and perseverance.
Sometimes the strongest decision
is the hardest one to make.
And maybe it will hurt,
and certainly you'll have to fight for it.
-
But that's love,
and you're not there yet.
-
Liking is okay, too.
In fact, I think it's good.
Enjoy these moments--
smile when you think of him,
feel at ease in his presence,
let him compliment you,
and delight in every sweet moment.
-
Set aside the bigger questions,
at least for today.
They'll still be around to ponder next week
--or next year.
Perhaps you'll never find the answers.
Perhaps love doesn't need absolute guarantees.
-
It will all come together in time.
Maybe.
Just remember,
always invite your head to the conversation,
alongside your heart.
26 November 2008
A few more random comments and thoughts...
Me, to a group of "my boys" during lunch on Monday: "Boys are boys. You're all the same, all over the world." And then I had to explain... and clarify for them, that yes, girls are also the same all over the world.
.
Some boda driver hanging out on one of the street corners of Masaka Town (and this one is altogether common): "Sister, give to me for helmet." Umm, no.
.
Maama, the last time Benard brought me home from Town: "That one is really your driver. Maybe I should ask him to bring a bull, and he can marry you." To which Benard chivalrously replied: "It would have to be a cow at least."
.
Me, to Uncle Robert, who I periodically help to understand the poetry homework he gets for his university course, as we struggled with something written by Tennyson: "I'm afraid I don't understand the structure of this poem either... but I do really like the way it sounds."
.
Rebecca, as we discussed how men are the downfall of African society, and how neither of us could ever be a good wife to a traditional African man: "And that's when I realised I was a feminist."
.
From a commercial on UBC this morning: "We look forward to a time when getting tested for HIV will be a normal part of every person's life... You can be part of an HIV-free generation." While I understand and appreciate greatly this message and the need for getting tested to have less of a social stigma attached, I choose to cling to the (perhaps irrational) hope that we will sometime see an age when HIV is no longer a relevant concern for the vast majority of young people on this continent.
.
In an email from Uncle Benard Yiga, my friend from Bukoto village currently working in Canada with MCC, whom I've only met by email: "I have had from several people that they realy love having you and they enjoy your company. May be you should not plan to come back to America. Afterall it's very cold!" I don't miss the cold, and I don't make lightly my promises to return to Bukoto eventually, but still, I also look forward to the day when I can return to the US and reunite with the other half of my heart that belongs to all of my friends and family there.
.
.
.
the recent petrol shortage is affecting everything from the cost of my boda ride to Town (past numerous stations showing "0000" for the cost of petrol [by which they mean, we don't have any]) to the quality of the beans we buy for our school lunch.
.
i love living in a place where the post office clerks greet me by name, even when we meet on the street.
.
i've decided that i prefer the rainy days to the sunny ones. they're cooler, yes, but it's a whole lot easier to empty a few huge saucepans into our jerry cans than to pump and haul 40-100+ litres of water each day.
.
i try not to think about the illness possibilities inherent when i watch my students smash a few hundred mosquitoes against the wall of their classroom in a single day.
.
at some point in the next couple weeks, my fellow teachers are theoretically organising a "welcome party" for me... i've only been here 3 months and taught a full term, after all.
.
i read the constant gardener this past weekend. it is as thought-provoking and inspiring as the movie, which i first saw on this same continent a couple years ago. if you've never seen or read it, i highly recommend doing so, though be warned: it's not the kind of movie/book to take popcorn with or to joke around with friends immediately after. it's deep and heavy and may inspire you to go out and try to change the world.
.
a couple weekends ago, when i spent the night with rebecca for the first time, we rented and watched the happening. also highly recommended. also not a light or easy movie. a good one to watch with folks willing to engage in discussion afterward. and the ending... well, i think it's a tragic but true take on american society.
.
and to end on a lighter note, though i have no plans to celebrate the holiday here, happy thanksgiving to you all. may you spend the day with friends and family, and perhaps with those who have none. may you count your blessings and find ways to bless others. may you find ways to share with those who have less, but always out of love, and never pity, knowing that they have much to teach you about the world, love, god, suffering, perseverence, and true wealth. and may you join me in hoping and praying for peace and wholeness to become a natural state of life.
.
Some boda driver hanging out on one of the street corners of Masaka Town (and this one is altogether common): "Sister, give to me for helmet." Umm, no.
.
Maama, the last time Benard brought me home from Town: "That one is really your driver. Maybe I should ask him to bring a bull, and he can marry you." To which Benard chivalrously replied: "It would have to be a cow at least."
.
Me, to Uncle Robert, who I periodically help to understand the poetry homework he gets for his university course, as we struggled with something written by Tennyson: "I'm afraid I don't understand the structure of this poem either... but I do really like the way it sounds."
.
Rebecca, as we discussed how men are the downfall of African society, and how neither of us could ever be a good wife to a traditional African man: "And that's when I realised I was a feminist."
.
From a commercial on UBC this morning: "We look forward to a time when getting tested for HIV will be a normal part of every person's life... You can be part of an HIV-free generation." While I understand and appreciate greatly this message and the need for getting tested to have less of a social stigma attached, I choose to cling to the (perhaps irrational) hope that we will sometime see an age when HIV is no longer a relevant concern for the vast majority of young people on this continent.
.
In an email from Uncle Benard Yiga, my friend from Bukoto village currently working in Canada with MCC, whom I've only met by email: "I have had from several people that they realy love having you and they enjoy your company. May be you should not plan to come back to America. Afterall it's very cold!" I don't miss the cold, and I don't make lightly my promises to return to Bukoto eventually, but still, I also look forward to the day when I can return to the US and reunite with the other half of my heart that belongs to all of my friends and family there.
.
.
.
the recent petrol shortage is affecting everything from the cost of my boda ride to Town (past numerous stations showing "0000" for the cost of petrol [by which they mean, we don't have any]) to the quality of the beans we buy for our school lunch.
.
i love living in a place where the post office clerks greet me by name, even when we meet on the street.
.
i've decided that i prefer the rainy days to the sunny ones. they're cooler, yes, but it's a whole lot easier to empty a few huge saucepans into our jerry cans than to pump and haul 40-100+ litres of water each day.
.
i try not to think about the illness possibilities inherent when i watch my students smash a few hundred mosquitoes against the wall of their classroom in a single day.
.
at some point in the next couple weeks, my fellow teachers are theoretically organising a "welcome party" for me... i've only been here 3 months and taught a full term, after all.
.
i read the constant gardener this past weekend. it is as thought-provoking and inspiring as the movie, which i first saw on this same continent a couple years ago. if you've never seen or read it, i highly recommend doing so, though be warned: it's not the kind of movie/book to take popcorn with or to joke around with friends immediately after. it's deep and heavy and may inspire you to go out and try to change the world.
.
a couple weekends ago, when i spent the night with rebecca for the first time, we rented and watched the happening. also highly recommended. also not a light or easy movie. a good one to watch with folks willing to engage in discussion afterward. and the ending... well, i think it's a tragic but true take on american society.
.
and to end on a lighter note, though i have no plans to celebrate the holiday here, happy thanksgiving to you all. may you spend the day with friends and family, and perhaps with those who have none. may you count your blessings and find ways to bless others. may you find ways to share with those who have less, but always out of love, and never pity, knowing that they have much to teach you about the world, love, god, suffering, perseverence, and true wealth. and may you join me in hoping and praying for peace and wholeness to become a natural state of life.
Epilogue to a Birthday
To continue the tale of my Ugandan birthday (which starts somewhere below)...
.
After leaving the internet cafe, I wandered to my friend Rebecca's flat, but since she wasn't home yet, I chatted a bit with Waswa, the day askari (guard) for her building. When Rebecca reached home, we greeted and hugged as if we were sisters who had known each other forever (rather than a week and a half) and as if we hadn't seen each other in months (rather than a week and a half). That's part of what I love so much about Rebecca :)
.
We went to the market to buy our simple supper and to our favourite bakery (well, her favourite, and the only one I know) to buy samosas for tea. To celebrate my birthday, we also bought a gigantic slice of "moist orange cake". I'm not sure I've ever bought my own birthday cake before, and 2000 shillings (approx. $1.25 USD) felt like quite a splurge.
.
Reaching home, we prepared tea and enjoyed our samosas as we discussed the finer points of poverty and feminism within an African context (such conversation inspired by my reading aloud parts of a letter from a mutual friend of ours in the US). We were both excited by the fall leaves which also came tucked into my friend's letter, and Rebecca now keeps one on her pillow.
.
Our discussion about the problems facing African society (Rebecca has many thoughtful opinions about this) was interrupted by my cell ringing. The display showed "0000000", so I held my breath, assuming that it was probably an international call. It was my parents and sister calling to wish me a happy birthday. It was wonderful to talk to them, especially since they passed around the phone and we got to talk for more than the 12-13 minutes of airtime I typically buy for international calls.
.
Apparently, Grottoes, VA, celebrated my birthday with snow showers... while I enjoyed a cold bath to remove the sweat of another sunny day.
.
I fell asleep next to a good friend, and apparently continued teaching my students as I slept. Rebecca says I started spelling "December" at one point, but I was aware enough of the fact that I was talking to stop after the second "E". At 23 years, I wonder if I'll ever grow out of talking in my sleep... at least it often causes much amusement for anyone who gets to listen in.
.
And now, I'm twenty-three (abiri mwe ssatu), looking out on another year that is sure to be full of joy, uncertainty, sorrow, love, loss, disappointment, pride, friendship, peace, heartache, and a great deal of CHANGE. I have my guesses as to where I'll be a year from now, but even those are simply hypotheticals. Will this year change me as much as the past one? Katonda amanye. God only knows.
.
After leaving the internet cafe, I wandered to my friend Rebecca's flat, but since she wasn't home yet, I chatted a bit with Waswa, the day askari (guard) for her building. When Rebecca reached home, we greeted and hugged as if we were sisters who had known each other forever (rather than a week and a half) and as if we hadn't seen each other in months (rather than a week and a half). That's part of what I love so much about Rebecca :)
.
We went to the market to buy our simple supper and to our favourite bakery (well, her favourite, and the only one I know) to buy samosas for tea. To celebrate my birthday, we also bought a gigantic slice of "moist orange cake". I'm not sure I've ever bought my own birthday cake before, and 2000 shillings (approx. $1.25 USD) felt like quite a splurge.
.
Reaching home, we prepared tea and enjoyed our samosas as we discussed the finer points of poverty and feminism within an African context (such conversation inspired by my reading aloud parts of a letter from a mutual friend of ours in the US). We were both excited by the fall leaves which also came tucked into my friend's letter, and Rebecca now keeps one on her pillow.
.
Our discussion about the problems facing African society (Rebecca has many thoughtful opinions about this) was interrupted by my cell ringing. The display showed "0000000", so I held my breath, assuming that it was probably an international call. It was my parents and sister calling to wish me a happy birthday. It was wonderful to talk to them, especially since they passed around the phone and we got to talk for more than the 12-13 minutes of airtime I typically buy for international calls.
.
Apparently, Grottoes, VA, celebrated my birthday with snow showers... while I enjoyed a cold bath to remove the sweat of another sunny day.
.
I fell asleep next to a good friend, and apparently continued teaching my students as I slept. Rebecca says I started spelling "December" at one point, but I was aware enough of the fact that I was talking to stop after the second "E". At 23 years, I wonder if I'll ever grow out of talking in my sleep... at least it often causes much amusement for anyone who gets to listen in.
.
And now, I'm twenty-three (abiri mwe ssatu), looking out on another year that is sure to be full of joy, uncertainty, sorrow, love, loss, disappointment, pride, friendship, peace, heartache, and a great deal of CHANGE. I have my guesses as to where I'll be a year from now, but even those are simply hypotheticals. Will this year change me as much as the past one? Katonda amanye. God only knows.
FYI
Two messages from MCC I thought I'd pass on as you all prepare for Christmas... and as many of the young folks I know are starting to think about post-high school and post-college plans, or simply contemplating the question, "what am I doing with my life?" To those of you who have admired what I'm doing and questioned your own ability to serve in a similiar manner, consider supporting MCC financially and/or applying for a SALT term of your own. Seriously, it's worth being the "weird one" who doesn't go straight to college or grad school or start in the working world simply to have the chance to see life from a perspective so different from the one you're accustomed to.
.
2008 Christmas Giving
As we celebrate the birth of Jesus and the gift of God’s love for us, we invite you to give gifts that touch lives around the world.Through MCC projects, you can provide gifts of food, water and shelter for people around the world, walk alongside communities seeking solutions to poverty and help build peace. Meet needs in often-forgotten places by choosing the "where needed most" category. Follow this link to learn how you can be involved: http://mcc.org/christmas/
.
Please pass the SALT.
Tell friends and family around your Thanksgiving & Christmas tables the 2009-2010 Serving and Learning Together (SALT) application season has begun! Encourage young adults in your life (ages 18-27) to "PASS THE SALT" to all their friends too. You can check daily for Open SALT Assignment Descriptions being posted on the web at: http://domino-18.prominic.com/A5584F/SOLtoWeb.nsf/a331d1c0656f6ef985256aaf0062b04c!OpenView&Start=1&Count=30&Expand=7#7 This list is being updated every day so keep checking back. For more info. about the SALT program go to http://mcc.org/salt.
.
Blessings and peace to all of you this season!
25 November 2008
Overheard in an internet cafe...
A little while ago, there were two guys sitting on either side of me in the internet cafe. I didn't actually speak to them, but was greatly amused by their American accents. Midwest, if I had to guess, though I didn't actually ask them where they were from. They spoke with a bit of a twang, using terms that have long since escaped my vocabulary. And as they checked the weather for Amsterdam and Chicago, they used phrases like "snow showers," "below freezing," and "cold," all of which are foreign to my current experience. I don't even know their names and will probably never see them again, but I felt a bit of instant connection even as I laughed (to myself) at how strange their accents seemed to me.
.
And to all of you American friends and family, just wait, you too will eventually get the chance to laugh equally much about my accent (provided you speak to me within the first couple months after I return to the US, as it's unlikely to last beyond that).
.
And to all of you American friends and family, just wait, you too will eventually get the chance to laugh equally much about my accent (provided you speak to me within the first couple months after I return to the US, as it's unlikely to last beyond that).
Oyina emyaka ameka?
Directly translated, the above reads, "You have how many years?" and the question is as much asked by the tone of voice as by the ending question word. Less literally, it means, "How old are you?"
.
Today marks my 23rd birthday, but I celebrate this birthday with less fanfare than probably any previous. In my community, people don't really seem to celebrate birthdays, except for the very old (to live long enough and healthily enough to have white hair is quite an accomplishment around here). I think some of them would have wanted to make me the exception, but I accidentally (on purpose) didn't really tell them about my birthday until, well, this morning. Not that knowing the date would make much difference. Yesterday, my little brother celebrated his 3rd birthday... I reminded Maama at tea that it was Pito's birthday, so she gave him a 100 shilling piece to buy a piece of candy with. That's the way of things around here.
.
But, I did enjoy reading all of the birthday wishes I found in my email and on facebook. Plus, as is typical for a Tuesday morning, Father Peter brought me mail this morning. I haven't had a chance to open all the notes (and am saving some for the coasta (bus) trip to Kampala tomorrow), but please know that some of your birthday cards did arrive precisely on time. One parcel that I have opened contained a wonderful present... a book of poetry by Mary Oliver, who I have discovered (from flipping through a few pages) writes beautiful and thought-provoking verses. I had somehow forgotten how much I love poetry, how my mind sometimes slips naturally into verse. In the midst of marking exams, preparing reports, and otherwise being busy with the difficult task of teaching English, this book was, and will continue to be, a refreshing breath of cool air in the middle of an unseasonably hot afternoon (it's supposed to be raining right now, but we're in the midst of a week plus drought... bleh.).
.
And tonight, to continue the non-celebratory birthday, I'll be sleeping over in town with my new and wonderful friend Rebecca, who loves to cook experimentally just as I do. And who, as we talked about mutual American friends a couple weeks ago, remarked, "sometimes, the world feels really small." Yes, indeed, it does. Especially at moments when one gets to enjoy the company of and/or the well wishes of people that one love around the world all on the same day. Today, the world is small, and I am blessed for that.
.
Oh, and just so you know, most everyone I know will still tell me I'm lying when I tell them my age. After all, I couldn't possibly be so young ;) [Would I be so amused if people in America regularly told me that I looked at least 30, if not 40? Hmmm...]
.
Today marks my 23rd birthday, but I celebrate this birthday with less fanfare than probably any previous. In my community, people don't really seem to celebrate birthdays, except for the very old (to live long enough and healthily enough to have white hair is quite an accomplishment around here). I think some of them would have wanted to make me the exception, but I accidentally (on purpose) didn't really tell them about my birthday until, well, this morning. Not that knowing the date would make much difference. Yesterday, my little brother celebrated his 3rd birthday... I reminded Maama at tea that it was Pito's birthday, so she gave him a 100 shilling piece to buy a piece of candy with. That's the way of things around here.
.
But, I did enjoy reading all of the birthday wishes I found in my email and on facebook. Plus, as is typical for a Tuesday morning, Father Peter brought me mail this morning. I haven't had a chance to open all the notes (and am saving some for the coasta (bus) trip to Kampala tomorrow), but please know that some of your birthday cards did arrive precisely on time. One parcel that I have opened contained a wonderful present... a book of poetry by Mary Oliver, who I have discovered (from flipping through a few pages) writes beautiful and thought-provoking verses. I had somehow forgotten how much I love poetry, how my mind sometimes slips naturally into verse. In the midst of marking exams, preparing reports, and otherwise being busy with the difficult task of teaching English, this book was, and will continue to be, a refreshing breath of cool air in the middle of an unseasonably hot afternoon (it's supposed to be raining right now, but we're in the midst of a week plus drought... bleh.).
.
And tonight, to continue the non-celebratory birthday, I'll be sleeping over in town with my new and wonderful friend Rebecca, who loves to cook experimentally just as I do. And who, as we talked about mutual American friends a couple weeks ago, remarked, "sometimes, the world feels really small." Yes, indeed, it does. Especially at moments when one gets to enjoy the company of and/or the well wishes of people that one love around the world all on the same day. Today, the world is small, and I am blessed for that.
.
Oh, and just so you know, most everyone I know will still tell me I'm lying when I tell them my age. After all, I couldn't possibly be so young ;) [Would I be so amused if people in America regularly told me that I looked at least 30, if not 40? Hmmm...]
18 November 2008
How do you measure a year in a life?
Note: I don't know the reference for the following verses (which Melissa included in the wonderful book she gave me before I flew across the ocean), but in my head, they're always set to music, so I have a feeling that they're probably from a song. Forgive the lack of credits...
.
A couple weeks ago, during a student debate at school, while I was serving as the "English Doctor," I penned the lines below, inspired by the poem/song above.
.
How do you measure a year in a life?
In sunsets,
in rainstorms,
in laughter,
in tears,
in longings,
in memories,
in fever dreams,
in lessons,
in empty ink pens,
in new clothes,
in power outages,
in tea times,
in hot mugs of sweet milk,
in mistakes,
in happy faces,
in groundnuts shelled,
in prayers,
in debates,
in tan lines,
in dances,
in trips to Town,
in visits to friends,
in journals filled,
in long distance phone calls,
in shooting stars,
in cloudy nights,
in new vocabulary,
in picked accents,
in hugs,
in sweets,
in fried grasshoppers,
in late nights,
in tired mornings,
in glass bottles of soda,
in steps,
in plans,
in burial rites,
in introduction ceremonies,
in progress reports,
in pda statements,
in visa applications,
in taxi rides,
in cooking lessons,
in welcomes,
in departures,
in verse,
in letters,
in exams marked,
in snaps,
in sunny days,
in habits formed,
in laundry washed,
in hair styles,
in callouses formed,
in cobbled shoes,
in utensils cleaned,
in bars of soap,
in litres of water,
in generosity,
in gratitude.
.
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand moments so dear
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?
-
In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights,
in cups of coffee, in inches, in miles,
in laughter, in strife
-
In five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure a year in a life?
-
How about love?
Measure in love
Seasons of love
.A couple weeks ago, during a student debate at school, while I was serving as the "English Doctor," I penned the lines below, inspired by the poem/song above.
.
How do you measure a year in a life?
In sunsets,
in rainstorms,
in laughter,
in tears,
in longings,
in memories,
in fever dreams,
in lessons,
in empty ink pens,
in new clothes,
in power outages,
in tea times,
in hot mugs of sweet milk,
in mistakes,
in happy faces,
in groundnuts shelled,
in prayers,
in debates,
in tan lines,
in dances,
in trips to Town,
in visits to friends,
in journals filled,
in long distance phone calls,
in shooting stars,
in cloudy nights,
in new vocabulary,
in picked accents,
in hugs,
in sweets,
in fried grasshoppers,
in late nights,
in tired mornings,
in glass bottles of soda,
in steps,
in plans,
in burial rites,
in introduction ceremonies,
in progress reports,
in pda statements,
in visa applications,
in taxi rides,
in cooking lessons,
in welcomes,
in departures,
in verse,
in letters,
in exams marked,
in snaps,
in sunny days,
in habits formed,
in laundry washed,
in hair styles,
in callouses formed,
in cobbled shoes,
in utensils cleaned,
in bars of soap,
in litres of water,
in generosity,
in gratitude.
17 November 2008
On Suffering
A quote from Thich Nhat Hanh's True Love: A Practice for Awakening the Heart, which I enjoyed reading last week, and quotes from which now fill multiple pages of my journal.
.
"If a person has never suffered, he or she will never be able to know happiness. If a person does not know what hunger is, he or she will never know the joy of eating everyday. Thus pain and suffering are a necessary condition of our understanding of our happiness. So do not say that you do not want to know anything about pain and suffering, that you only want to know about happiness--that would be an impossible thing. We know well that suffering helps us to understand, that it nurtures our compassion, and that for this reason it is vitally necessary for us. So we must know how to learn from suffering, we must know how to make use of it to gather the energy of compassion, of love, of understanding."
.
yes, I agree, suffering has much to teach us about life. and joy is best understood if one also knows the nature of pain. BUT, how I wish the suffering of the world was distributed more equitably...
.
"If a person has never suffered, he or she will never be able to know happiness. If a person does not know what hunger is, he or she will never know the joy of eating everyday. Thus pain and suffering are a necessary condition of our understanding of our happiness. So do not say that you do not want to know anything about pain and suffering, that you only want to know about happiness--that would be an impossible thing. We know well that suffering helps us to understand, that it nurtures our compassion, and that for this reason it is vitally necessary for us. So we must know how to learn from suffering, we must know how to make use of it to gather the energy of compassion, of love, of understanding."
.
yes, I agree, suffering has much to teach us about life. and joy is best understood if one also knows the nature of pain. BUT, how I wish the suffering of the world was distributed more equitably...
15 November 2008
The Science of Digging
Or, How to Adapt to a New Culture.
.
I wanted to experience village life fully. The rains had started, though just barely, but we were not yet in school. My family was going to dig, and I wanted to help too. At my insistence, Maama let me tag along to "help," much the same way that I sometimes used to allow the "help" of my youngest cousins in Grandma's kitchen. That first day, we were tilling the earth between our banana plants, using hoes to turn the soil. At first, I didn't really know what to do. Maama showed me where to dig, and I watched for a bit to see what she and my sisters were doing. After watching for a bit, I started digging. At first, and for a few days, it was hard work [not that it isn't now, but my muscles have grown more accustomed to working]. I had to pay attention to where and how I was digging. I wasn't yet used to the sun, having only been in Africa for three weeks, so I had to take frequent breaks and drink a lot of water. My arms were reminding me that they were used to working in an office, not a field. And that first day, I forgot that I had work gloves from MCC, and it only took an hour for the blisters to form and break on my hands. The next time, I remembered my gloves, and eventually, the painful blisters began to develop protective callouses [though, since my ventures to the gardens are rare, I still always wear my gloves when using the hoe].
.
Slowly, and after a few days, I developed a rhythm. But even after I started to feel that I had the hang of what I was doing and what was expected of me, my sisters still offered frequent correction and criticism. Why are you digging there? Why aren't you digging deeper? Why are you digging so deep? Why didn't you dig over there? Why are you letting the dirt pile up like that? I quickly realised that such questions really mean, You shouldn't do it like that! At times, I'd feel annoyed and a bit frustrated with their questions--why didn't you tell me that before I started, I sometimes wanted to ask. The answer was simple, though--they hadn't told me because they assumed I already knew, or because it was so natural that they hadn't even thought about it. It was humbling, too, to be (re)learning such tasks under the instruction of a twelve year old.
.
But I bit my tongue and reminded myself to appreciate her lessons. And as I learned more and grew accustomed to the work, I was able to work longer and faster, with fewer critiques. Sometimes when we went to the garden, the work would be different--shallower digging with the hoe, or using our hands to pull weeds among the g nuts (peanuts). Each new task brought new lessons to learn, but I was learning faster now, still taking my cues from my observations of others and the occasional "why?"
-
Digging affords a lot of time to think. Now that school is in session, I can only dig on Saturdays, and even then, my social calendar makes it a somehow rare event. But when I do get to go to the garden, I generally appreciate the change in pace, the chance to stretch my muscles and let my mind wander away from the tasks of teaching classes and tutoring illiterate students. One day a couple months ago, as I was digging, it occured to me that the process of learning to dig is like that of the scientific method, which is itself a good metaphor for acculturation. [And just in case you wondered, this reflection happened spontaneously, which might say quite a bit about the subject matter and metaphor genre my brain prefers.]
.
The scientific method, which children are taught from a young age in US schools, is the process (whether formal or informal) by which scientists transform observations into cohesive theories about the way the world works. All of you use this method every day as you learn new things, though you are rarely aware of it [just as I would say that everyone is a theologian, also, everyone is also a scientist].
.
It begins with an observation: I see my sister digging a certain way. Then a hypothesis, a guess about why or how what I have observed is happening: this must be the correct way to dig. Next I design and implement an experiment based on my hypothesis: I try to dig the same way that she is digging. The experiment yields data, information which can be used to determine the validity of my hypothesis: my sister asks "why" or tells me to do something else. This data is used to adapt my hypothesis and design a new experiment: now I know that those are cassava leaves, so I won't dig so deep around their plants. The process continues--hypothesis, experiment, data. Slowly, I develop a theory about the nature and cause of my initial observation: this is the correct way to dig. But like all good theories, even this one is always open for further refining and clarification when data arises to prove it in need of modification.
-
And just as learning to dig follows the scientific method, however unconsciously, so does the process of adapting to a new culture and learning a new language. The cultural learner, like the scientist, is ever observant, watching and listening to how the native people act and speak, and then trying to do the same. Advice, correction, questions, and amusement help to adapt the new behaviours. And slowly, but surely, the persistent learner begins to speak the language and adapt to the culture. She develops a theory, constantly being refined, of how to live and work as a muganda rather than a muzungu.
-
But like learning to dig, this process of acculturation can at times be tiring, frustrating, and downright painful.
.
In the beginning, everything is new and nothing feels natural. The learner is often (and quickly) tired from all there is to learn. Just as digging leads to sore muscles, so can constant observation and hypothesising (whether conscious or not) lead to mental and physical exhaustion. But even as muscles slowly adapt to their new responsibilities, so does the cultural new-comer slowly lose the need for constant obervation. Life begins to feel natural, to have a rhythm.
.
And just as the continual criticism and challenge of something new can make digging an incredibly frustrating task at times, so can the process of acculturation become a likewise frustrating task. The realisation that one no longer knows the correct way to speak, to eat, to dress, to work, even to sit--such a realisation can be overwhelming and frustrating. Further, it can sometimes be difficult and feel humiliating to learn these lessons so often from children much younger than oneself. But the same attitude of learning, humility, and gratitude which goes a long way toward learning how to dig, also smoothes the path of cultural learning. And if one persists in spite of the frustration, eventually it fades and one comes to consider once foreign behaviours natural and comfortable.
.
Finally, though the bruises and scrapes of acculturation may not bleed and sting as those of physical labor, they can be just as painful. Gender roles, understandings of personal property, cultural differences, confrontations with poverty and suffering, questions of respect, authority, and discipline--all can rub wounds as raw as the blisters of hands unaccustomed to digging. But eventually, with continued exposure and attempts to understand and love, callouses bring protection and the learner remembers to wear gloves. Certain beliefs are held more loosely or, at least, defended less passionately. One learns not to take personally the critiques and different attitudes of others. And as one seeks to love and understand, the injuries come less frequently.
.
I wanted to experience village life fully. The rains had started, though just barely, but we were not yet in school. My family was going to dig, and I wanted to help too. At my insistence, Maama let me tag along to "help," much the same way that I sometimes used to allow the "help" of my youngest cousins in Grandma's kitchen. That first day, we were tilling the earth between our banana plants, using hoes to turn the soil. At first, I didn't really know what to do. Maama showed me where to dig, and I watched for a bit to see what she and my sisters were doing. After watching for a bit, I started digging. At first, and for a few days, it was hard work [not that it isn't now, but my muscles have grown more accustomed to working]. I had to pay attention to where and how I was digging. I wasn't yet used to the sun, having only been in Africa for three weeks, so I had to take frequent breaks and drink a lot of water. My arms were reminding me that they were used to working in an office, not a field. And that first day, I forgot that I had work gloves from MCC, and it only took an hour for the blisters to form and break on my hands. The next time, I remembered my gloves, and eventually, the painful blisters began to develop protective callouses [though, since my ventures to the gardens are rare, I still always wear my gloves when using the hoe].
.
Slowly, and after a few days, I developed a rhythm. But even after I started to feel that I had the hang of what I was doing and what was expected of me, my sisters still offered frequent correction and criticism. Why are you digging there? Why aren't you digging deeper? Why are you digging so deep? Why didn't you dig over there? Why are you letting the dirt pile up like that? I quickly realised that such questions really mean, You shouldn't do it like that! At times, I'd feel annoyed and a bit frustrated with their questions--why didn't you tell me that before I started, I sometimes wanted to ask. The answer was simple, though--they hadn't told me because they assumed I already knew, or because it was so natural that they hadn't even thought about it. It was humbling, too, to be (re)learning such tasks under the instruction of a twelve year old.
.
But I bit my tongue and reminded myself to appreciate her lessons. And as I learned more and grew accustomed to the work, I was able to work longer and faster, with fewer critiques. Sometimes when we went to the garden, the work would be different--shallower digging with the hoe, or using our hands to pull weeds among the g nuts (peanuts). Each new task brought new lessons to learn, but I was learning faster now, still taking my cues from my observations of others and the occasional "why?"
-
Digging affords a lot of time to think. Now that school is in session, I can only dig on Saturdays, and even then, my social calendar makes it a somehow rare event. But when I do get to go to the garden, I generally appreciate the change in pace, the chance to stretch my muscles and let my mind wander away from the tasks of teaching classes and tutoring illiterate students. One day a couple months ago, as I was digging, it occured to me that the process of learning to dig is like that of the scientific method, which is itself a good metaphor for acculturation. [And just in case you wondered, this reflection happened spontaneously, which might say quite a bit about the subject matter and metaphor genre my brain prefers.]
.
The scientific method, which children are taught from a young age in US schools, is the process (whether formal or informal) by which scientists transform observations into cohesive theories about the way the world works. All of you use this method every day as you learn new things, though you are rarely aware of it [just as I would say that everyone is a theologian, also, everyone is also a scientist].
.
It begins with an observation: I see my sister digging a certain way. Then a hypothesis, a guess about why or how what I have observed is happening: this must be the correct way to dig. Next I design and implement an experiment based on my hypothesis: I try to dig the same way that she is digging. The experiment yields data, information which can be used to determine the validity of my hypothesis: my sister asks "why" or tells me to do something else. This data is used to adapt my hypothesis and design a new experiment: now I know that those are cassava leaves, so I won't dig so deep around their plants. The process continues--hypothesis, experiment, data. Slowly, I develop a theory about the nature and cause of my initial observation: this is the correct way to dig. But like all good theories, even this one is always open for further refining and clarification when data arises to prove it in need of modification.
-
And just as learning to dig follows the scientific method, however unconsciously, so does the process of adapting to a new culture and learning a new language. The cultural learner, like the scientist, is ever observant, watching and listening to how the native people act and speak, and then trying to do the same. Advice, correction, questions, and amusement help to adapt the new behaviours. And slowly, but surely, the persistent learner begins to speak the language and adapt to the culture. She develops a theory, constantly being refined, of how to live and work as a muganda rather than a muzungu.
-
But like learning to dig, this process of acculturation can at times be tiring, frustrating, and downright painful.
.
In the beginning, everything is new and nothing feels natural. The learner is often (and quickly) tired from all there is to learn. Just as digging leads to sore muscles, so can constant observation and hypothesising (whether conscious or not) lead to mental and physical exhaustion. But even as muscles slowly adapt to their new responsibilities, so does the cultural new-comer slowly lose the need for constant obervation. Life begins to feel natural, to have a rhythm.
.
And just as the continual criticism and challenge of something new can make digging an incredibly frustrating task at times, so can the process of acculturation become a likewise frustrating task. The realisation that one no longer knows the correct way to speak, to eat, to dress, to work, even to sit--such a realisation can be overwhelming and frustrating. Further, it can sometimes be difficult and feel humiliating to learn these lessons so often from children much younger than oneself. But the same attitude of learning, humility, and gratitude which goes a long way toward learning how to dig, also smoothes the path of cultural learning. And if one persists in spite of the frustration, eventually it fades and one comes to consider once foreign behaviours natural and comfortable.
.
Finally, though the bruises and scrapes of acculturation may not bleed and sting as those of physical labor, they can be just as painful. Gender roles, understandings of personal property, cultural differences, confrontations with poverty and suffering, questions of respect, authority, and discipline--all can rub wounds as raw as the blisters of hands unaccustomed to digging. But eventually, with continued exposure and attempts to understand and love, callouses bring protection and the learner remembers to wear gloves. Certain beliefs are held more loosely or, at least, defended less passionately. One learns not to take personally the critiques and different attitudes of others. And as one seeks to love and understand, the injuries come less frequently.
14 November 2008
4th November 2008
From my journal, 4th Nov, 8:41pm local time.
.
Mwa Amerika, abantu balonda ku presidenti. Mwa Uganda, abaana bamaaze ku p.l.e. Kati, nkoye nnyo nnyo. Kubanga, Uncle Moses nange tubadde tusomesa nnyo nnyo nnyo ku ebibina nya, taano, ne mukaaga. Ne nfumbe keki wa Amerika ku kibina musanvu ne abasomesa. Tugenda kulya emerre, ne ngenda kwebaka nnyo. Enkya, abaana wa kibina musanvu baja kugende ka.
.
Translation: In America, people are voting for the president. In Uganda, children have finished the P.L.E. Now, I am very very tired. Because, Uncle Moses and I have been teaching very very very much in the classes of primary 4, 5, and 6. And I have cooked an American cake for primary seven and the teachers. We are going to eat food, and I will go and sleep very much. Tomorrow, the children of primary 7 will go home.
.
Back to today...
Although I can only write short portions of coherent Luganda, I am consistently pleased with my progress in language learning. Today, as I wandered around the Masaka market, I could understand most of the comments being thrown my direction, from the woman who asked for money to the women (and men) who complimented my braids [pics to come later, but right now, my hair is twisted into 78 long black braids made of yarn :)]. I had multiple conversations with vendors, did most of my bartering in Luganda, and bought a pineapple for the local price (approx. $0.66 USD) rather than the mzungu price ($1.00 USD). School has kept me really (really really) busy lately, as noted in the above excerpt, where I and Moses were the only teachers for 3 classes for 2 days; thus, my language sessions are happening less frequently, but I continue to learn and to use what I am learning to communicate when I get the chance. Most locals that I talk to refuse to believe that I've only been here for less than 3 months [they also refuse to believe that I'm only 22, but that's another topic]; they tell me I speak Luganda better than most bazungu who've been in the area for a few years. I don't so much consider that a compliment, though. It's more of a sad critique on the low importance too many foreigners place on actually learning the language and culture of the people they intend to serve.
.
Before I got side-tracked talking about language, I also meant to include a brief comment about the recent presidential election in the US. I'm still processing how I feel about it, helped along the way by many the thought-provoking post-election blogs of many friends that I read today, so my own thoughts will have to come later.
.
But, all ye Americans, know this: Ugandans as a whole seem to be very very very very very happy with your choice of president. I still receive congratulations from random people at least daily. I have discussed multiple times with my classes (to no clear outcome) the fact that Obama is not actually an African, but people here generally consider him a brother. Prior to the election, I knew two Ugandans who preferred McCain; most liked Obama not only for the colour of his skin and racial ancestry (his father was Kenyan, did you know?), but also because they remember the policies of the Clinton administration [very random thought: I'm glad my hair has finally grown long enough that people no longer compliment me by telling me that I look like Clinton, primarily because it was just weird to be compared to a middle-aged man]. Our eastern neighbour, Kenya, declared a public holiday to celebrate Obama's victory, and most East Africans seem to assume that his administration will be kind (and monetarily generous) to the region in memory of his family background (I also fail when I try to explain that US politics aren't so family/clan/tribe-based as ours here). People expect monumentous things to happen both within the US and around the world as a result of this new appointment. Generally, I would bet that Ugandans were even more excited about the election results than the general population of America.
.
So, America, Obama, Democratic-controlled House and Senate, you have a huge task ahead of you to fulfill the expectations of the greater world. I wish you the best, and I pray that you will live up to the hopes of all my friends and neighbours.
.
Mwa Amerika, abantu balonda ku presidenti. Mwa Uganda, abaana bamaaze ku p.l.e. Kati, nkoye nnyo nnyo. Kubanga, Uncle Moses nange tubadde tusomesa nnyo nnyo nnyo ku ebibina nya, taano, ne mukaaga. Ne nfumbe keki wa Amerika ku kibina musanvu ne abasomesa. Tugenda kulya emerre, ne ngenda kwebaka nnyo. Enkya, abaana wa kibina musanvu baja kugende ka.
.
Translation: In America, people are voting for the president. In Uganda, children have finished the P.L.E. Now, I am very very tired. Because, Uncle Moses and I have been teaching very very very much in the classes of primary 4, 5, and 6. And I have cooked an American cake for primary seven and the teachers. We are going to eat food, and I will go and sleep very much. Tomorrow, the children of primary 7 will go home.
.
Back to today...
Although I can only write short portions of coherent Luganda, I am consistently pleased with my progress in language learning. Today, as I wandered around the Masaka market, I could understand most of the comments being thrown my direction, from the woman who asked for money to the women (and men) who complimented my braids [pics to come later, but right now, my hair is twisted into 78 long black braids made of yarn :)]. I had multiple conversations with vendors, did most of my bartering in Luganda, and bought a pineapple for the local price (approx. $0.66 USD) rather than the mzungu price ($1.00 USD). School has kept me really (really really) busy lately, as noted in the above excerpt, where I and Moses were the only teachers for 3 classes for 2 days; thus, my language sessions are happening less frequently, but I continue to learn and to use what I am learning to communicate when I get the chance. Most locals that I talk to refuse to believe that I've only been here for less than 3 months [they also refuse to believe that I'm only 22, but that's another topic]; they tell me I speak Luganda better than most bazungu who've been in the area for a few years. I don't so much consider that a compliment, though. It's more of a sad critique on the low importance too many foreigners place on actually learning the language and culture of the people they intend to serve.
.
Before I got side-tracked talking about language, I also meant to include a brief comment about the recent presidential election in the US. I'm still processing how I feel about it, helped along the way by many the thought-provoking post-election blogs of many friends that I read today, so my own thoughts will have to come later.
.
But, all ye Americans, know this: Ugandans as a whole seem to be very very very very very happy with your choice of president. I still receive congratulations from random people at least daily. I have discussed multiple times with my classes (to no clear outcome) the fact that Obama is not actually an African, but people here generally consider him a brother. Prior to the election, I knew two Ugandans who preferred McCain; most liked Obama not only for the colour of his skin and racial ancestry (his father was Kenyan, did you know?), but also because they remember the policies of the Clinton administration [very random thought: I'm glad my hair has finally grown long enough that people no longer compliment me by telling me that I look like Clinton, primarily because it was just weird to be compared to a middle-aged man]. Our eastern neighbour, Kenya, declared a public holiday to celebrate Obama's victory, and most East Africans seem to assume that his administration will be kind (and monetarily generous) to the region in memory of his family background (I also fail when I try to explain that US politics aren't so family/clan/tribe-based as ours here). People expect monumentous things to happen both within the US and around the world as a result of this new appointment. Generally, I would bet that Ugandans were even more excited about the election results than the general population of America.
.
So, America, Obama, Democratic-controlled House and Senate, you have a huge task ahead of you to fulfill the expectations of the greater world. I wish you the best, and I pray that you will live up to the hopes of all my friends and neighbours.
But Sometimes Clouds Obscure the Shooting Stars
dirty face,
torn shirt,
stained dress,
tired yawn,
hungry belly,
painful sores,
lonely tears,
bare feet,
school debts,
unkept hair,
grieving eyes
.child, you are so beautiful. but who is there to care for you? where are your parents, i want to scream, why don't they care? but the answer comes in three simple letters, whispered, as if saying them too loud might spread the curse.
.
you buried your father. your mother grows sicker each day. and can an elderly grandmother really care for a child already marked positive? what hope can i offer you? your eyes betray the rapid aging of grief, and the future holds no promise for you. you, who should be playing in the mud and learning to tie your shoes, you pay the painful price for a father's sins (or perhaps, for the violence of an unknown stranger). and what does this world care for you? you will become another statistic, but how few will mourn at your passing. my heart aches for you, innocent one.
.
and as i hold your hand, as i dry your tears, as i give you my food, as i pay your school fees, as i wash your face, as i mend your uniform, may you know that you are loved. may you know that there are some who still care for you. may you know that together we still cling to hope, wishing for the resurrection of your childhood. and every shooting star holds the possibility of a warm bed, a full belly, clean clothes, shoes, hair cuts, ointment, income, and more than all else, a cure.
01 November 2008
Home
Written 26th/10/08
As I write, I am sitting in what is quite possibly my favourite room of our house--the one with bare walls, a cement floor, no ceiling, and mats for furniture. The room where we take our meals, kneeling on mats (as Maama has observed, "Amanyi kutulla bulungi" [You know how to sit correctly]). The room where we visit, where Simanda sometimes hangs out waiting for food, where Maama sorts beans for planting, where we sometimes (often) pass an evening by the light of a kerosene lamp, where my brothers play football with polyetheylene bottles, and where we can throw bones or groundnut husks on the floor because we will sweep them out in the morning. It is a comfortable place, a good place to come home to after a long day at school.
This morning, for some reason, the memory of my first impression of this room occured to me. It was the first night I came to Bukoto, barely 48 hours after arriving in Uganda. It was after the party they made to welcome me--the sitting room full of men. I remember being uncertain for awhile which one was even my host father, and I can barely recall now who exactly was there. The power had gone off just as darkness fell, but came back on shortly later. I had been shown my room and allowed a few minutes to settle. I had eaten food--luwomba, rice, macaroni, matooke, fruit--in the sitting room, and I'm sure there was soda too.
And then, as the party ended, I ventured my way back here for a few minutes. This room seemed so strange and foreign to me, full of women and children who stared at me strangely in the low light of the bare bulb hanging on the dirty wall. I thought: how will I live with these strange people in this strange place, how will I communicate with them, what am I doing here?
But now, I know their names and faces - Maama, Nakalawah, Hafisah, Entisimbe, Brender, Muta, Pito, Jaaja Susan, Susan, Maama Mellan. Context and experience have changed what once felt so foreign and strange into a place of comfort and rest. I feel at home here in this place.
And in so many ways, I think this room stands as a metaphor for the larger aspects of my life in Uganda. The faces, places, tastes, sounds, and practices which once felt so foreign have now come to feel familiar and comfortable. I am home.
As I write, I am sitting in what is quite possibly my favourite room of our house--the one with bare walls, a cement floor, no ceiling, and mats for furniture. The room where we take our meals, kneeling on mats (as Maama has observed, "Amanyi kutulla bulungi" [You know how to sit correctly]). The room where we visit, where Simanda sometimes hangs out waiting for food, where Maama sorts beans for planting, where we sometimes (often) pass an evening by the light of a kerosene lamp, where my brothers play football with polyetheylene bottles, and where we can throw bones or groundnut husks on the floor because we will sweep them out in the morning. It is a comfortable place, a good place to come home to after a long day at school.
This morning, for some reason, the memory of my first impression of this room occured to me. It was the first night I came to Bukoto, barely 48 hours after arriving in Uganda. It was after the party they made to welcome me--the sitting room full of men. I remember being uncertain for awhile which one was even my host father, and I can barely recall now who exactly was there. The power had gone off just as darkness fell, but came back on shortly later. I had been shown my room and allowed a few minutes to settle. I had eaten food--luwomba, rice, macaroni, matooke, fruit--in the sitting room, and I'm sure there was soda too.
And then, as the party ended, I ventured my way back here for a few minutes. This room seemed so strange and foreign to me, full of women and children who stared at me strangely in the low light of the bare bulb hanging on the dirty wall. I thought: how will I live with these strange people in this strange place, how will I communicate with them, what am I doing here?
But now, I know their names and faces - Maama, Nakalawah, Hafisah, Entisimbe, Brender, Muta, Pito, Jaaja Susan, Susan, Maama Mellan. Context and experience have changed what once felt so foreign and strange into a place of comfort and rest. I feel at home here in this place.
And in so many ways, I think this room stands as a metaphor for the larger aspects of my life in Uganda. The faces, places, tastes, sounds, and practices which once felt so foreign have now come to feel familiar and comfortable. I am home.
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